I had been sharing my stories with you and the others for about a month when I "met" Brad. That wasn't his screen name, but when I asked him to edit my work, he wrote back, sharing his name.
I had tried to find an editor of my own gender. I thought I would be more comfortable pouring out my intimate fantasies that way. But one after another, the ones that I tried either didn't write back, or turned out to be men who were posing. There was always something to give them away.
Brad's online profile was casual and funny. I read the few stories that he himself has shared, and they were genuine and rich. And obscenely erotic. He agreed to give it a try, and I sent him my next little piece, a mostly-true story about my husband and me and some light bondage play.
My husband knows that I've been writing these for you. It was odd at first, though, when I discovered that the passages I'd written when he was around seemed forced and dry. I came to realize that I wrote more naturally when I could be naked, almost always touching myself while I let the images come, unbidden and welcome and always surprising.
As often as not when I write, I am not seeking orgasm. I write (and I read) these fantasies because they make my heart soar. Yes, I love my husband and yes, there was a time when giving our bodies to each other made me feel that way. But we were grown up now, partners and comfortable lovers, and I'm glad of that, too.
Sometimes while I'm writing, I do pass the point of no return, and I will orgasm as I sit at the computer, unexpected new fantasies pouring into me as I shiver, and I have to dry off my fingers to type them all out.
I had never told Brad that this was how I wrote.
In two years of reading and tweaking my naughtiest thoughts with me, Brad had always been a gentleman. I have had private (and public) feedback sometimes that is less so. Now, I hesitate to admit it, but, I get a little smile every time a man tells me that one of my fantasies teased him to orgasm. And while I do gasp sometimes opening an email unexpectedly telling me that a reader wants to spray his jizz on my breasts or my face, I like those, too. I know why I write and we read, you and me. I take care with all of them to write my sincere thanks.
Brad wasn't like that with me, though he could be frank in expressing when he found one of my stories especially arousing. He found polite ways. Once, I had asked him what he meant when he wrote that one of my scenes was "full stop erotic." He wrote back "It means I had to stop reading for a little while ;-)." That was the closest he ever came to saying flat out to me that he pleasured himself while editing me.
He never asked to meet me; we never shared where we lived; he was always just business. And I grew to appreciate having his masculine view. "A guy probably wouldn't do it that way" was invaluable to me, because I want to share fantasies that are vivid and real. I know my writing is better because of him.
So we never got personal, but I always felt a warm gratitude for his really thankless work. I once worked up my courage to write, just for him, a fantasy of the two of us meeting. It was different for me, writing a story that had neither happened to me nor sprung into my head from the unknown source of my fantasies. It felt a little bit forced, and I don't much like writing that way.
But I thought it came out ok. I was so anxious when I sent it to him, this little surprise, hoping with more than my usual nagging doubt that it would please him.
It was done just for him initially, but he has urged me to share it with you. Here is what I wrote:
I let myself into the room, using the key you had left at the desk. Through a doorway I saw there were flowers on the bed: yellow roses.
There were closed doors hiding unknown places. A closet, no doubt, and maybe a second bedroom.
I went into the bathroom, closing the door, and quickly showered. I had told you I wanted to be fresh and clean for you. I quickly dried off.
Not covering up, I came out of the bathroom. I moved the yellow roses to the bedside table and stretched out, face down on the bed, with my arms making a halo around my head.
A door opened and closed, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "Are you ready?" It was Brad. The first time ever hearing his voice.
"Yes I am. Come on in."
In contrast to my bareness, he was still wearing grey boxer-briefs and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, as we had agreed in advance. I had told my husband that I was going for a massage -- something that I did at a real spa about once a year or so.
Brad's underwear did nothing to hide his near full arousal. If anything, they enhanced it, drew attention to it. Still, they represented the limits we had set.
I could hear him warming the massage oil and then I felt his warm hands pressing firmly against me. He started with my shoulders and the base of my neck, brushing my long auburn hair out of the way. When he worked his way along my arms to my fingers, the touch there sent little waves of lightning from my fingertips right to my core.
There's a reason why holding hands, in our culture, is a hallmark of lovers; we have so many sensitive nerve endings there.
Eventually he worked his way down my back, rubbing the warm massage oil into my bare skin. His fingers touched and traced the crack of my buttocks without parting them. Moving on to my legs, he gently moved them apart to reach the tops of my thighs, and I felt the cool air, but never his hands, caress my pussy.
Every once in a while, with my head turned to the side, I would open my eyes and take in the shape of him under the grey cotton. His arousal had grown; when he stood up straight the tip of his penis pushed at the waistband. And when the loose shirt moved just so, I could see the curves of his ass.
My own fragrance was filling the room, my arousal no secret. When Brad reached my ankles, he nudged one hand against my buttock and asked me to turn over. I rolled onto my back, and among the things I revealed to him by doing so was a smile that I could not suppress.
"Hi Brad," I breathed.
"Hello, beautiful," he smiled kindly in return, tucking a pillow under my knees.
He started at my feet then, and I could tell he was trying not to spend the whole time stealing glances at my private things. He massaged my legs and the crest of my hips, just barely avoiding my trimmed pubic area. Oh, when he came close there and rubbed the oil into my skin, my clit grew so hungry for touch. I drew deep breaths and closed my eyes.
When he reached my breasts and tenderly smoothed the oil there, going softly over my enlarged nipples, I moved my legs apart and let a hand slide down and gently caress myself. When we had started planning this day in our emails, I had told him I might want to do that, and I asked him if it would be a problem.
"I'd be honored" was what he wrote back.
He finished the long, slow massage, and stood just running my hair through his fingers when at last I let myself come. I let out small sounds and hard breaths as it gripped me. He caressed my forehead as I came back to him, smiling his kind smile and watching my eyes.
Then Brad stepped to the bathroom and brought back a soft white robe that he found there. He spread it over my bare body, and it felt so warm and welcome.
Then he turned off the light, and was gone.
Three days had passed after I sent that to him, and it seldom took that long for him to reply. I began to wonder if I had gone too far. He had never told me whether he was married. I imagined a wife finding a story that used his real name. She would forbid him ever to write me again.
But finally, on a Monday morning as I sipped my coffee, I had an email from Brad.
My heart pounding, I opened it, and read.
"Sorry I took so long," he wrote. "I had to read it over a few times :-). On first read, I thought it might be too short, and that some of your readers might be disappointed that he doesn't have an orgasm. But I've decided it's good just as it is. Very good."
"I caught a few typos, see below."
"You do have a wicked imagination."
"Regards, Brad."
I had tried to find an editor of my own gender. I thought I would be more comfortable pouring out my intimate fantasies that way. But one after another, the ones that I tried either didn't write back, or turned out to be men who were posing. There was always something to give them away.
Brad's online profile was casual and funny. I read the few stories that he himself has shared, and they were genuine and rich. And obscenely erotic. He agreed to give it a try, and I sent him my next little piece, a mostly-true story about my husband and me and some light bondage play.
My husband knows that I've been writing these for you. It was odd at first, though, when I discovered that the passages I'd written when he was around seemed forced and dry. I came to realize that I wrote more naturally when I could be naked, almost always touching myself while I let the images come, unbidden and welcome and always surprising.
As often as not when I write, I am not seeking orgasm. I write (and I read) these fantasies because they make my heart soar. Yes, I love my husband and yes, there was a time when giving our bodies to each other made me feel that way. But we were grown up now, partners and comfortable lovers, and I'm glad of that, too.
Sometimes while I'm writing, I do pass the point of no return, and I will orgasm as I sit at the computer, unexpected new fantasies pouring into me as I shiver, and I have to dry off my fingers to type them all out.
I had never told Brad that this was how I wrote.
In two years of reading and tweaking my naughtiest thoughts with me, Brad had always been a gentleman. I have had private (and public) feedback sometimes that is less so. Now, I hesitate to admit it, but, I get a little smile every time a man tells me that one of my fantasies teased him to orgasm. And while I do gasp sometimes opening an email unexpectedly telling me that a reader wants to spray his jizz on my breasts or my face, I like those, too. I know why I write and we read, you and me. I take care with all of them to write my sincere thanks.
Brad wasn't like that with me, though he could be frank in expressing when he found one of my stories especially arousing. He found polite ways. Once, I had asked him what he meant when he wrote that one of my scenes was "full stop erotic." He wrote back "It means I had to stop reading for a little while ;-)." That was the closest he ever came to saying flat out to me that he pleasured himself while editing me.
He never asked to meet me; we never shared where we lived; he was always just business. And I grew to appreciate having his masculine view. "A guy probably wouldn't do it that way" was invaluable to me, because I want to share fantasies that are vivid and real. I know my writing is better because of him.
So we never got personal, but I always felt a warm gratitude for his really thankless work. I once worked up my courage to write, just for him, a fantasy of the two of us meeting. It was different for me, writing a story that had neither happened to me nor sprung into my head from the unknown source of my fantasies. It felt a little bit forced, and I don't much like writing that way.
But I thought it came out ok. I was so anxious when I sent it to him, this little surprise, hoping with more than my usual nagging doubt that it would please him.
It was done just for him initially, but he has urged me to share it with you. Here is what I wrote:
I let myself into the room, using the key you had left at the desk. Through a doorway I saw there were flowers on the bed: yellow roses.
There were closed doors hiding unknown places. A closet, no doubt, and maybe a second bedroom.
I went into the bathroom, closing the door, and quickly showered. I had told you I wanted to be fresh and clean for you. I quickly dried off.
Not covering up, I came out of the bathroom. I moved the yellow roses to the bedside table and stretched out, face down on the bed, with my arms making a halo around my head.
A door opened and closed, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "Are you ready?" It was Brad. The first time ever hearing his voice.
"Yes I am. Come on in."
In contrast to my bareness, he was still wearing grey boxer-briefs and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, as we had agreed in advance. I had told my husband that I was going for a massage -- something that I did at a real spa about once a year or so.
Brad's underwear did nothing to hide his near full arousal. If anything, they enhanced it, drew attention to it. Still, they represented the limits we had set.
I could hear him warming the massage oil and then I felt his warm hands pressing firmly against me. He started with my shoulders and the base of my neck, brushing my long auburn hair out of the way. When he worked his way along my arms to my fingers, the touch there sent little waves of lightning from my fingertips right to my core.
There's a reason why holding hands, in our culture, is a hallmark of lovers; we have so many sensitive nerve endings there.
Eventually he worked his way down my back, rubbing the warm massage oil into my bare skin. His fingers touched and traced the crack of my buttocks without parting them. Moving on to my legs, he gently moved them apart to reach the tops of my thighs, and I felt the cool air, but never his hands, caress my pussy.
Every once in a while, with my head turned to the side, I would open my eyes and take in the shape of him under the grey cotton. His arousal had grown; when he stood up straight the tip of his penis pushed at the waistband. And when the loose shirt moved just so, I could see the curves of his ass.
My own fragrance was filling the room, my arousal no secret. When Brad reached my ankles, he nudged one hand against my buttock and asked me to turn over. I rolled onto my back, and among the things I revealed to him by doing so was a smile that I could not suppress.
"Hi Brad," I breathed.
"Hello, beautiful," he smiled kindly in return, tucking a pillow under my knees.
He started at my feet then, and I could tell he was trying not to spend the whole time stealing glances at my private things. He massaged my legs and the crest of my hips, just barely avoiding my trimmed pubic area. Oh, when he came close there and rubbed the oil into my skin, my clit grew so hungry for touch. I drew deep breaths and closed my eyes.
When he reached my breasts and tenderly smoothed the oil there, going softly over my enlarged nipples, I moved my legs apart and let a hand slide down and gently caress myself. When we had started planning this day in our emails, I had told him I might want to do that, and I asked him if it would be a problem.
"I'd be honored" was what he wrote back.
He finished the long, slow massage, and stood just running my hair through his fingers when at last I let myself come. I let out small sounds and hard breaths as it gripped me. He caressed my forehead as I came back to him, smiling his kind smile and watching my eyes.
Then Brad stepped to the bathroom and brought back a soft white robe that he found there. He spread it over my bare body, and it felt so warm and welcome.
Then he turned off the light, and was gone.
Three days had passed after I sent that to him, and it seldom took that long for him to reply. I began to wonder if I had gone too far. He had never told me whether he was married. I imagined a wife finding a story that used his real name. She would forbid him ever to write me again.
But finally, on a Monday morning as I sipped my coffee, I had an email from Brad.
My heart pounding, I opened it, and read.
"Sorry I took so long," he wrote. "I had to read it over a few times :-). On first read, I thought it might be too short, and that some of your readers might be disappointed that he doesn't have an orgasm. But I've decided it's good just as it is. Very good."
"I caught a few typos, see below."
"You do have a wicked imagination."
"Regards, Brad."
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