2 comments/ 9030 views/ 1 favorites Facebook Friend By: pennypriddy We met on facebook, but he lives in England, and I in America. We were both fans of the same page and saw each others comments and became virtual friends. We e-mailed each other just about every day, and when he told me to check out a video of Plan B's "Stay Too Long" I found myself imagining we were the couple in that video who were all over each other in the back of the cab. Things progressed from there in the virtual world, and he even sent me a photo of his very impressive cock. I wanted to meet him in the real world, but he said he could not allow me to visit because it was "all too mad for words" and he loves his long-term girlfriend and had "never met anyone like her before." However, a few months later he was feeling down because it was winter, his refrigerator had bust and he had not had the money to replace it, and most recently, he skidded on a patch of black ice, totaling his car. I was feeling quite down too, frustrated, bored and lonely, trapped in a loveless marriage. I was traveling alone to Hawaii for a conference related to work. I had invited him, knowing he could not really come; it is a very long way from England, tickets are expensive, and I wasn't even sure he had a passport. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, he unexpectedly came into a modest inheritance from a childless great-great-auntie or something; no one he was close to and she was quite old, so he was not too depressed about her passing. I arrived in Honolulu, checked into my hotel on Waikiki Beach, then attended my first surfing lesson, as I had arrived a day early for the conference. I stayed out in the water until dusk, riding the waves again and again, already hooked on the natural high. Eventually I had to return the rented surfboard and was getting hungry. I don't like "biker dudes" but I notice motorcycles, because to me they symbolize freedom and excitement, like sex on wheels. I was eying a Vincent Black Lightening outside my hotel, when I noticed the tall, slim man standing next to it. It was that same sensation you have when you see a tv or movie star. You know you recognize them from somewhere. My heart jumped when I realized who he reminded me of, and that it could be Nigel, but I knew logically it couldn't be. I thought this guy must think I am crazy staring at him with such a scrutinizing gaze, but he didn't seem to mind and he even smiled at me. When he said my name, I knew it was indeed him. Even though we knew each other online, we really did not know each other, so I gave him a hello hug like I would anyone, devoid of intimacy at that point, and asked him how he came to be there. He said he would tell me later and right now he was going to take me on a ride. He took my hand to help me onto the bike, and when our hands touched I felt a thrill jolt through my body now that I was beginning to realize it really was him. I looked at his eyes and then his mouth and I was suddenly ravenous for those lips and that mouth. But he said I had to wait, and I did not even get to kiss him. That is what he is like online too, incredibly frustrating, always making you wait! He got on the motorcycle and I put my arms around his waist to hold on. He drove out of town. It was quite dark now, and I looked around to take in the entire scene because I wanted to burn everything indelibly in my memory. It was a breathtaking view, as I felt the warm air on my face, an amazing sky above, and of course, the sea. I leaned into his back just savoring the sensation and put my face right against him and inhaled his scent. I started to feel very excited and started to breathe rapidly. I spread my legs a little more and scooted my pelvis right against him pushing my feet against the foot rests for leverage. I started to rub my breasts against him through our clothes, and as it started to feel good, my nipples becoming erect, I wanted to feel my skin on his skin. I lifted my top and the back of his shirt and rubbed my nipples on his back and wanted him more and more. I put my hands around front and ran my hands all over his chest, just getting drunk on the fact that he was here in the flesh and I was really touching him. I gently pinched his nipples and slowly took my hands down over his belly down, opened his shorts, and down some more to feel the amazingly, beautiful cock I had heretofore only seen in a photograph. I felt him becoming erect in my hands and one hand was not enough because he was so large, so I was using both my hands to rub up and down. I was about ready to cum just rubbing against him. I longed, as I had done for many months, to feel him deep inside of me. I told him how much I wanted him inside of me right now, though with all of the noise I wasn't sure he heard me. Thank god he pulled into a little area next to the beach that was sheltered from being seen from the road by a large boulder. He put his legs on the ground and pulled the bike up on the double sided stand so it was stable. I dismounted the bike, then used his foot rests to turn myself around and get back on, but in his lap, face to face with him. I put my lips on his lips and felt his tongue in my mouth, and he was delicious, just like I knew he would be, and I began to rub rhythmically against him, getting increasingly excited as the act of kissing him made me think of how much I wanted his cock buried up to the hilt inside me. I was very wet by now and I could feel the blood pulsating in my pussy, crying out for him right that second, no later. I was wearing a short skirt with no panties, and I stood again on the foot rests and lowered myself onto his huge, erect cock, savoring every inch as it slid all the way inside of me, and as it did so, an involuntary sound escaped my lips because he was so far in . The backdrop of moonlight on the water was beautiful I have no doubt, but there was nothing in the world at that moment other than the scent of his flesh and feeling his cock all of the way inside of me. I told him how good his cock felt inside of me. Actually I think I said he felt "amazing," which he did! I used the footrests of the bike to lift off and lower myself back onto him, and as I quickly moved closer to climaxing, I told Nigel how I much I loved fucking him and then I couldn't talk any more except to yell his name and tell him I wanted him to fuck me, as I came. I held onto the back rest to pull myself against him as hard as I could, stopping all other motion to savor the most amazing orgasm I think I have ever had. It would have been cool to come together, but I couldn't wait and I wanted to taste his cock and so I pulled him off the bike and led him onto a patch of vegetation next to the beach and he laid down and I got on top of him in the 69 position. He is 10 inches taller than me, so this did not work so well, but that turned out to be fine, because he could concentrate on the sensations in his cock which was only fair since I already came. I licked him, swirling my tongue around the tip of his cock, rubbing the underside of his cock with my tongue, then his balls and the area behind. He became excited and then fucked me in the mouth while I was on top of him. When I could tell he was on the verge I took him all of the way into my throat. I listened to him moan as I felt his hot cum washing down my throat and kept him in my mouth as he became soft. I turned around so our faces were together again and kissed him with vestiges of his own cum still in my mouth, and then I collapsed at his side, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and looking at the stars... Facebook Friend Jane was sure she knew Charlie and that she knew him well. After all, she and he had been friends on Facebook for several months now. Thanks to Mark Zuckerberg's ingenuity and generosity, they'd been able to chat and discourse for hours on end without once having actually met one another. And tonight was the evening when, at long last, Jane would actually meet Charlie in the flesh. Jane was also sure she knew what Charlie looked like. She viewed his profile picture every time she visited Facebook where the privilege of bona fide friendship allowed her to browse through his photos and, indeed, those of his several hundred other Facebook friends. Charlie was a man (of this Jane was sure) about the same age as her with much the same interests, political and religious views, and taste in music and films. He was most often photographed alone or with his dog, Chester, but there were just a few photographs of him with his elderly parents (he was the happy outcome of a late romance) and his somewhat overweight younger sister, Kate. Jane never questioned why the pictures all showed Charlie sat down and only the left side of his face. But if she didn't, what of it? Jane was also careful to post on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or anywhere else she frequented only those photos that showed her to her best advantage. Not that Jane had anything to hide, of course, but she was past that age when most women who'd wanted to settle down had already done so, and, although she wasn't fat exactly, she was no longer as slim as she'd like to be. And Charlie was clearly also someone for whom much of life had somehow passed him by, but not so much that he'd never been to a party, never got drunk or had never got kissed. And just as Jane had her real-life friends, Jacquie and Karen most notably, so Charlie had his, even though he seemed to spend more time with his family than Jane ever did hers. They both avidly followed Game of Thrones and House of Cards, guiltily admitted to watching Strictly Come Dancing and Britain's Got Talent, both bought records by Gregory Porter, Adele and, more surprisingly, James Blake. They both weren't sure who they'd ever vote for in an election, preferred pizzas to pasta, beef to chicken and neither of them much liked Marmite. Surely things could only go well for them. Jane arrived at the Starbucks where she and Charlie had decided to meet: it was one that stayed open late, was neither very crowded nor desolately empty. She knew she'd arrived too early, but it wasn't as if there was anything more important to delay her. And, in any case, given the dreadful traffic congestion, she didn't want to risk being late. She bought her Café Latte Grande from the barista and sat by the window where she could watch people come and go, while nibbling on a chocolate brownie whose calories were doing her absolutely no good at all. But it was while she was distracted when rummaging in her handbag for a tissue to wipe her glasses that she was greeted by Charlie. "Good evening," he said, in a voice that was pitched slightly higher and more hesitantly than she'd imagined. "I think it might be me that you're waiting for." When there was hesitation, he added: "You are Jane, aren't you? Jane Osbourne." "And you must be Charlie," said Jane automatically, proffering a limp hand towards him. "I'm pleased to finally meet you." "Likewise, Jane," said Charlie. "May I sit down?" "Of course," said Jane, who with the pleasantries concluded could now assess Charlie Kingswood in the flesh for the first time. And what a shock and disappointment it was! It wasn't that Charlie dressed badly or was poorly groomed. His hair had been cut recently, his smart casual clothes wouldn't look out of place in a West End theatre, and there were many of those little tell-tale signs to show that Charlie took care of his appearance: his nails were neatly cut, he wore cuff-links and his jacket hung well on his shoulders. Even his shoes—smart brown brogues with a shine on them—indicated to Jane that, despite everything, Charlie knew what it meant to dress well. But none of that could compensate for the fact that Charlie was not only shorter than Jane was expecting—only just five feet tall—but half of his face (the half never displayed in his Facebook photos) was smudged by a huge birthmark. No way could Jane look at Charlie without being uncomfortably aware of the purplish, brownish excrescence that spread from his chin over his cheek, around his eye and across his brow where it tried to hide under his otherwise neat and tidy hair. This wasn't what Jane had been hoping for. Nor was she expert in hiding what she really thought. "Would you like another coffee, Jane?" Charlie asked. This was an occasion when Jane could have made her excuses and left. It wouldn't be a kind thing to do, of course. In fact, after all those months of Facebook friendship, it would be downright rude and would forever burden Jane's conscience. But it was still perhaps the best thing to do. "Er, yes," said Jane. "Perhaps not a coffee, though. Too much caffeine, you know..." "I remember what you said you liked," said Charlie considerately. "It's on your Facebook page. A White Cranberry juice." "Ermm... Yes, that's it. That's exactly what I'd like." And as Charlie walked off to the counter, to wait in queue behind a hassled mother and her unruly child, Jane deliberated the options open to her. She couldn't just walk off while Charlie was buying her a drink and then block him from her Facebook page. There were many girls who'd probably do that, but Jane wasn't one of them. But diplomacy and tact were not skills that Jane had acquired to the extent that this was a situation she could easily wriggle out of. How do you tell someone that, well, what you wanted in a man was someone, you know, a bit taller and, let's be frank, not so horribly disfigured? But then, Jane reminded herself, Charlie was a Facebook friend. It wasn't as if they'd met through a Dating website (especially not one of those that promised innumerable available men, but provided instead only those interested in the tiny minority of signed-up women who were under twenty-five). It was friendship that Facebook promised. Nothing more (although that had always seemed a possibility). Couldn't Jane be satisfied with just that? But, at the moment, her aversion to Charlie's regrettable disfigurement made even that rather unlikely. Charlie returned with a Grande Filter Coffee (Fairtrade, of course) for himself and a glass and a plastic bottle of White Cranberry juice for Jane. He sat down opposite Jane and gingerly sipped from his still-too-hot cup of coffee while regarding her with evident apprehension. How should their conversation proceed? After all their long Facebook chats would it make sense just to make the kind of embarrassing small talk that had blighted the few dates Jane had arranged online? But, thankfully, Charlie circumvented a bland conversation about the weather or the traffic or the quality of Starbucks' coffee by launching into a subject of much more interest to Jane. "Did you see that idiot on The Apprentice last night? What do you think he was on?" "Which one?" asked Jane, who tried hard to address the unblemished half of Charlie's face and ignore his small stature. "The Greek guy with the MBA or the woman with the prominent chest?" "Both, I suppose," said Charlie. "But especially the Greek guy. What was he on? Did he have no idea what a pillock he was making of himself?" As they chatted with one another, Jane's thoughts moved away from her original intention to make a polite farewell after just one drink with a vague excuse and an unfulfilled promise to stay in touch towards a more complete engagement with the lives of reality television personalities and minor celebrities whose lives she followed (despite herself) and about which she paid more attention in the newspapers and magazines than she ever did to economic statistics and politics. Charlie and she shared the same passion in following the lives of other people and the more ordinary and fallible the better. And if these were actors who'd appeared in Game of Thrones or Coronation Street then so much more satisfying: to know the personalities not only as they pretended to be but as they really were (even if so many soap stars were uncovered as paedophiles, adulterers and alcoholics). In fact, Jane's conversation was going so well that she'd finished her White Cranberry juice and Charlie his Fairtrade coffee and continued nattering about the ins and outs of the minor celebrities on not just The Apprentice, but also The Voice, Poldark and even Wolf Hall. "I watched a couple of episodes but I couldn't get into it," confessed Charlie. "I couldn't tell who were the good guys and who were the bad guys," admitted Jane. "You just like your historical heroes to be handsome and brooding like Ross Poldark," Charlie teased her. This was true but the comment served to remind Jane that the man sitting opposite was anything but handsome or brooding. This was a man who if he'd appeared in a period drama, would be more likely to play Joseph Merrick or Richard Harrow. Now the thought was in her mind, Jane didn't know how to dismiss it especially as the two of them were staring at empty cups in a now mostly empty Starbucks with the streets outside lit only by car headlights and eco-friendly street lamps. "I know a nice little pub just round the corner," said Charlie, who must have sensed that Jane's thoughts were elsewhere. "It's usually crowded at lunch-time, but it should be fairly empty by now. Would you like a drink? I know you like a sweet white wine." This was another opportunity for Jane. There was a bus to catch. She didn't want to be out late. She was recovering from a bad cold. There were so many excuses: she just had to think of the best one to employ. Instead, she said: "Oh, alright then. But just the one. I don't want a headache in the morning." "Me, neither. I'm not much of a drinker. I like the odd pint of beer, but I don't know a lager from a bitter. Or a Schnapps from a Pils." "I hope they sell crisps as well. Or nuts." "I'm sure they do. In fact, I think the New Inn does a very nice pie and chips, though I don't know what they do at this time of night." However, neither pie and chips nor quiche and green salad were on Jane's mind by the time they'd crossed a few roads and entered the warmth of a pub clearly designed to accommodate many times the number of people now sitting in it, with James Blunt on the loudspeakers competing for attention with Hillary Clinton on the television screens. However, Jane didn't have to wait for long while watching the garbled subtitles below Hillary Clinton's chin until Charlie came back over to her inexpertly balancing a pint of lager, a glass of white wine and a selection of organic crisps. It was just long enough for Jane to register the reaction of other people in the pub as they watched Charlie stand (almost on tiptoe) at the bar. Most of them, like Jane, were alternately fascinated and horrified by Charlie's disfigurement. And also—although she should have noticed it when they had been walking from the coffee shop to the pub—along with his stature and facial disfigurement, Charlie had something of a limp that made it even more difficult for him to carry the drinks and snacks. Were there any other nasty surprises? But curiously the mixed reactions from the other pub-goers somehow made Jane that much more appreciative of Charlie. She was siding with those who took note of Charlie and expressed with a slightly uncomfortable grimace or even a nod to their partners their sympathy for Charlie's plight. And she very much sided against those whose faces and even leering expressions betrayed that Charlie was, to them, someone who deserved only to be mocked. Fortunately for Charlie, the barman was definitely in the first camp and was, if anything, perhaps a little too solicitous in his attention. Jane now saw in Charlie not just a man who also thought David Tennant was the better Dr Who and that Chris Evans was now a better disc jockey than when he'd been as a younger man, but also that there was something heroic, even noble, about him. And it was with this generous thought that Jane took the glass of wine from Charlie and dipped her fingers into one of the packets of exotically flavoured crisps that Charlie ripped open onto the table. "Have you been to this pub often?" Jane asked. "Just a couple of times," said Charlie suddenly quite sheepishly. "With Bob and Sam."—Charlie's friends that he so often namechecked on Facebook—"Sam works near here. He's a cashier at the Santander Bank on the high street." "And you, Charlie?" asked Jane, as she sipped from her glass. "Where do you work?" "Erm," he said. "I'm a back room kind of guy. I work in accounts. I'm a clerk for a small accounting firm. Bradshaw & Wilkins. You won't have heard of them." "Back room...?" "Yes," said Charlie, who avoided Jane's eyes. "I'm not what you would call a customer-facing kind of guy..." This was the first time that either of them had alluded to the very obvious aspect of Charlie that was so difficult to discuss and which must have been at least as uppermost in Charlie's mind as it was in Jane's. Nevertheless, Jane's currently generous, even magnanimous, nature dominated over her more selfish, reflexive revulsion. So what if Charlie wasn't perfect! Who was? Few of her male colleagues at the office would pass muster as a television heart-throb and she'd never been bothered by that before. And Jane wasn't so young and beautiful herself these days: more's the pity. In any case, she was enjoying herself in the New Inn with Charlie as they discussed whether Holby was better than ER, whether She's Got Mail was a better film than Sleepless in Seattle, and whether Heart or Magic FM were better than BBC Radio 2 despite the adverts. "I used to listen to Radio One when I was a teenager," Jane admitted as she sipped the last of her white wine. "I couldn't listen to it now. What do teenagers think when they hear, what's his name, Dizzee Rascal? And how can anyone dance to that so-called electronic dance music? It's just like a quarrel between a pair of road-drills..." "...Or like a motor-bike revving up," said Charlie who had finished the last dregs of his lager several minutes earlier; not that he was a fast drinker. In fact, neither of them consumed their drinks with any enthusiasm, but it had loosened their tongues and made the evening that much more convivial. "If we were younger, we'd probably be heading off to a night club now," remarked Jane. "Perhaps if we took whatever it is that young people take we'd enjoy that sort of music more..." "I don't think so," admitted Charlie. "Even when I was younger, I preferred a good song with a good tune and a good singer; not this techno or hip hop stuff. Besides I never could dance that well..." "Neither could I," returned Jane, thereby neutralising the confessional aspect of Charlie's admission. "It's quite late now," said Charlie sadly. "I suppose we ought to be getting home." "We should," said Jane. "Unless you want another drink?" "One's enough for me." And so it was that Charlie and Jane parted on good terms that evening. He escorted her to the bus stop and waited until she'd got on the bus. And after the bus had driven off, he sent her a private Facebook message to tell her how much he'd enjoyed their evening together. And that's what probably did it for her. Unlike the fanciful romance fiction that Jane sometimes read, it wasn't love at first sight for her. Nor even, in truth, second, third or fourth sight. But she and Charlie continued to see one another, which added more than a little spice to their Facebook friendship. It was several months later that the ultimate Facebook announcement came: perhaps the most significant of all. And this, of course, was the mutual amendment of their relationship status on the left hand side of the Facebook page. This was proof that Charlie and Jane were now rather more than just Facebook friends. But for this to be so, Jane had to find out for sure how much more than a friend Charlie could be. She was undoubtedly nervous and not only because she was anxious whether Charlie had more surprises hidden beneath his clothes. Perhaps a disfiguring scar. Maybe a skin ailment. Perhaps (and this really worried her) a defect of the most important physical organ of all. Jane was also worried about what Charlie would make of her. The bosom that was no longer so perky. The waistline that flopped over her belt. The large mole on her inner thigh. The scruffiness of her crotch. Not to mention the actual physical effort and the long anticipated pleasure. But she needn't have worried. All went well on the night. Charlie was an appreciative and considerate lover. His thrusts were varied and lasted for longer than they needed to. While Jane soon forgot about her lover's shortness (so irrelevant in a horizontal position), about the side of his face that she preferred never to spend much time thinking about, or about any of the other aspects of Charlie that might poison the affections of a lesser woman. And the final orgasm came with a shuddering jolt that almost shocked Jane and certainly startled Charlie, who, most considerately, did not withdraw too soon. And as Charlie collapsed on top of Jane, his birthmark on her bosom and his legs tangled in hers, Jane reflected that although Charlie was definitely no Ross Poldark, he was more than enough of a man for her. Charlie was now no longer just her Facebook Friend. He was Jane's Facebook Boyfriend. Facebook Friends "Liz Baker has added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm that you know Liz in order for you to be friends on Facebook." Tom glanced at this subject line, halfway down a long list of unread emails that had accumulated on his laptop over the long weekend. He smiled. It had been almost thirteen years since he had met Liz at Duke. They had been in the same all-freshman coed dorm. Friendships born in that impressionable first college year seemed to him to be unlike those before or after. Though Tom and Liz had occupied rooms on opposite ends of the long straight hall spanning the second floor of the dorm, they had become good friends by the end of their first week at school. They bonded over the shared experiences of living on their own for the first time, of drinking too much for the first time, of staying up all night in the common room for the first time, and of rushing sororities and fraternities for the first and (thankfully, as Tom remembered it) last time. For a brief time, they had been even more than good friends. Their relationship gradually cooled after Liz won a berth at her pledged sorority, whereas Tom abandoned his pledged fraternity to join a more bohemian crowd. Now married and living in Washington DC, Tom earned his living as a professor of Physics at Georgetown University. He was on the professorial fast track, recruited vigorously by competing universities while quietly promised an eventual Chairman's position at Georgetown in exchange for shunning such come-ons. His wife Jane, also a Duke alum, worked as a junior executive at a prominent DC advertising firm. They lived in an upscale Georgetown town house, and life was good. Tom had ruminated about Liz occasionally over the years. Her cheerful outlook had profoundly affected him in that impressionable year of their friendship. OK, that _and_ she was drop-dead gorgeous. And taught him most of what he ever learned about sex. They had had no contact since graduation. So this Facebook invitation was truly out of the blue. Tom had only recently signed up for a Facebook page, after reading in the New Yorker that 69% of Facebook users were under the age of 30. Tom felt anxious about having recently passed out of that demographic, and thought that signing up might yield a slice of youth. In the weeks since enrolling, he had Friended only one person, his former Duke freshman roommate James, who had since become a rising star in a nationally syndicated daytime soap opera. Tom abandoned the work he had planned to do during his morning train commute, and opened the email from Facebook. In it he found an attached note from Liz explaining that she had found him through mutual Facebook friendship with James. Tom felt a pang of guilt about Friending her. His wife knew that Tom and Liz had had a fling. Even though it was before they met, he knew she would be less than pleased to see Liz on his short list of friends. Tom rationalized to himself that it was merely protocol to accept a Facebook friend offer. So he did. He avoided adding text to his Friend acceptance, hoping that she would take the lead if they were to get reacquainted (More guilt). He did not have to wait long for a reply. Ten minutes later, a posting came to his wall from Liz: "Long time, no see. I'm in NY. Law Associate at Franklin & Jordan. You look great in your picture. Still that warm smile I remember. I saw your website at Georgetown. Very professional! You married? Kids?" Tom was deeply flattered, but knew that continuing this conversation had all the makings of a bad idea. And she had posted it on his wall! He still wasn't quite sure how to get such things off his Facebook wall, and did not want that flirty message hanging around for others to see. But, first things first, he went to her page to reply in a private message. He was surprised to find that she had no Friends listed at all on her page, not even James. Her personal photo was a head shot from the law firm. "Liz, great to hear from you. And glad to hear you're doing well. I am married now (to Jane Warren, did you know her at Duke?) and living in Georgetown. No kids. You too look like quite the professional gal. What?s your status? Married? Kids? I'm a bit new to this Facebook thing, and so I hope this goes to your private inbox and not on your wall." Tom pressed send. He was pleased with himself for finding a diplomatic way to offer her a hint about not posting publicly to his wall. He then found the pop-up delete button to erase her wall message. Then he looked around her page to see what he could find, and Googled her law firm. Sure enough, the same head shot appeared on the firm's web directory. Later that morning, at his desk in the newly refurbished Physical Sciences building, Tom stared out the window while daydreaming about Liz. His thoughts were interrupted by a new email alert from his laptop. His inbox showed a message from LizBkr241@gmail.com with subject heading "Hey Blue Boy, nice to get reacquainted!" --- Tom squirmed. "Blue Boy" was a reference to one of the last memories he shared with Liz, and it was not one he especially wanted to revisit with her. Tom and Liz had both pledged to Greek organizations midway through their freshman year. Both were selected as pledges by their favorite houses, and both had endured some fairly intense hazing in the latter days of what was known affectionately as hell week. During hell week, a pledge was at the mercy of the upperclassmen of the house. The pledge class was forced to endure repeated humiliation and to perform silly, embarrassing, and even reckless tasks that were meant somehow to demonstrate loyalty. It was a ritual that each of the upper clansmen had endured, and that each was more than happy to continue from the side of power. Often, people thought that fraternities were more severe in their hazing than sororities, but Tom and Liz came to know that there was little difference. They had, in fact compared notes during the week despite a strict prohibition against discussing pledge activities. The only difference, as far as they could tell, was that the girls were more discreet. Tom had relayed to Liz, early in hell week, that the fraternity pledges had been forced to do an "elephant walk" in which they were forced to march naked throughout he frat house, each bent over the next in a long line. Each was required to use his "trunk" (arm) to grasp the "tail" (cock) of the pledge in front of him. While Tom considered himself far from homophobic he found this ritual unsettling. Liz replied with her own tale of a sorority "history quiz" where each pledge contestant was allowed to wear only a 35 gallon plastic garbage bag, with nothing on underneath. The bags were too short to provide even a hint of modesty. Worse, wrong answers earned a trip to a sawhorse, where the offending girl was asked to "assume the position" by bending over and lifting up the bag. Liz explained how she had been asked an impossible question early in the game, and was the first to take the punishment. She described, in vivid language that Tom would remember verbatim for years to come, the humiliation of putting her bare ass on display over the sawhorse and taking three swats with a paddle from a sophomore girl to the cheers of the entire house. That sophomore, Debbie, was the one who had recruited Liz to the sorority in the first place. Blue Boy. That moniker came to Tom via the last night of hell week. Tom was awakened in the fraternity common room at 3AM by a throng of fraternity brothers in ski masks, who roughly tore him from his bed and demanded that he strip naked and stand at attention. Against his better judgment and exhausted from the week's activities, he complied. A brother put a blindfold on him, and another bound his hands in front of him using three plastic zip ties: one on each wrist and one connecting the pair. A third similarly bound his ankles. The leader of the group, a Junior named Steve, told Tom that this would be his last pledge task. The brothers wrapped him in a blanket and lifted him up, carrying him down the hall and, to his horror, outside. Tom was now fully awake, and dreading what would come next. The brothers kept up a brisk pace and after several hundred feet, entered the door of a building. They descended some stairs and entered a room, closing the door behind them. Tom was completely disoriented. The brothers stripped off the blanket and stood Tom up, lifting his bound arms up and securing the tie straps to an eye-hook that was conveniently embedded in a beam spanning the room's low ceiling. Its height was such that Tom could just barely keep his feet flat on the ground, with his arms stretched high above. Steven said, "Your final task as a pledge is simple. Bring us a picture of you in this room, hanging from this beam. Since you are not in a position to take the picture yourself, you will have to ask someone to take it for you. In the picture, you've got to have at least one naked woman. Bonus points if she's touching you amorously. Oh, and your cock has to be painted Duke blue in the picture. We're headed home. Come join us when you can." Tom was humiliated, and knew he was in a hopeless situation. He was completely exposed and at the mercy of his brothers. Yet as much as he loathed them, he was desperate for them not to leave. He was going to have to rely on _someone_ to help him and if not them, who?. He was naked, helpless, and strung up on display, who knew where, still unable to even see his surroundings. "Are you going to take off the blindfold?" He asked, anticipating the response. "Nope." "Can you at least tell me where the fuck am I?" he pleaded. The brothers all laughed. Steve said, "Sure. You're in the basement workout room for our sister sorority. When we get home, we'll give them a call to come and check on you. Good luck!" Tom heard them leave, pulling the door closed behind them. Tom became certain right about that moment that all he wanted was to get out of this mess and be rid fraternity life for good! Tom could manage a very slight view through the bottom of the blindfold if he tilted his head as far back as he could. It was dim, but an exit sign light the room adequately for him to see that it was, in fact, a workout room. He was discouraged to see that one wall was entirely covered with mirrors. The shock of seeing himself nude, dangling and on display filled him with keen embarrassment. He imagined the girls that would find him here sooner or later, and hoped that it wouldn't be anyone he knew. But then it occurred to him that this was Liz's pledged sorority. Liz's sorority! And she, he knew, was spending the night at the sorority house to complete pledge week. The mix of humiliation, anticipation, and thoughts of Liz seeing him this way sent an involuntary tingle to his groin. It surprised him, but he was getting a boner. He turned away from the mirror to survey the rest of the room. It had some exercise equipment, some soft mats for aerobics, and two treadmills. The room had a single door opposite the mirror wall. It only took a few minutes before he heard raucous giggling and then the footsteps of what sounded like more than a couple of people descending the stairs. It got briefly quiet, then he heard an explosion of laughter outside the door. He twisted himself around to face away from the door, then smirked at himself for this futile attempt at preserving his modesty. In the first place, he could hardly cover anything up. In the second place, the mirrors ensured that every inch of him was on display from anywhere in the room. He was still sporting a half-mast hard-on when the door burst open. The lights flickered on, and a gang of girls barreled into the room. Tom managed a weak smile, and shook his head. "I'm sorry about this. I am so sorry." "No need to be sorry, we're happy to see you," called out a cheery voice. Tom recognized it as Debbie, the sophomore who had tormented his friend Liz. "And it looks like you're happy to see us too! she added, noting his horizontal cock. "Does this turn you on? You bad boy." She turned her attention to her mates. "Well girls, we have a visitor." "Can you cut me down?" Tom asked, contritely. Debbie patted his ass cheek. "Well sure we can, sugar. But first we have to read this note on the ground. And, we have to get a good look at you!" The mental image of an unknown number of girls gazing at his completely exposed naked body while he was blindfolded and helpless sent a shudder through Tom. Though wished he could prevent it, his cock continued to quiver toward full erection. Even that was out of his control. Debbie's picked up the note and began reading. "This is Tom. He is a pledge of Beta Theta Pi fraternity. Tom loves to show off, as you can see! We've asked him to bring back a picture capturing his current predicament, with two added features. He needs to have a naked coed in the picture, and Tom's dangling bits need to have a coat of blue paint. We feel certain that Tom will agree to repay you for this kindness as you see fit, and appreciate the help of our Tri-Delt sisters! P.S. No hurry." As Debbie read the note aloud, the collection of girls giggled and gasped. Tom guessed that there were four or five girls in the room. He could barely manage the odd dual sensation of excitement and shame. "Well girls," Debbie declared, "we need to help Tom here." To Tom's surprise, her voice was right in front of him, and it sounded like she was facing him from about foot away. A moment later she pulled off the blindfold, and Tom blinked rapidly as his eyes became accustomed to the light. In front of him was Debbie, an attractive blonde with shoulder length straight hair and an incessantly cheerful face. "Hi Tom." she said. "Hi Debbie," he replied, cautiously. Tom glanced into the mirror in front of him, and saw that there were in fact six girls in the room. All were in sweatpants or sleeping gowns, and all were grinning from ear to ear. He recognized one other girl besides Debbie. Katherine, who was in his Sociology course. When he made eye contact with her in the mirror, she waved. "Hi Tom. Nice ass you got there." "Really?" Debbie replied, looking over at Katherine. "His ass? I think his best feature is up front." "Here turn around, Tom, and show Katherine the goods," Debbie said. With that, Debbie wrapped his cock in her hand. She pulled it firmly sideways, while gently rotating him at the hips. Given Tom's suspended position and rigid cock, there was little he could do other than to follow her lead. He shuffled his feet to keep up with Debbie's persistent tug until he was turned 180 degrees. "There you go. Thanks Tom," she said, matter-of-factly, placing her free palm warmly on the side of his cheek. His hard-on was rock solid now, and his face turned crimson. Again the ensemble of girls giggled madly. "See Katherine," Debbie said, pointing wtoward his cock. "This has _got_ to be his most outstanding feature." Katherine cupped her hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh, and nodded her head silently in agreement. "Well Tom, I think we can help you out. The note says you'll be happy to repay us. Is that right? " "Listen, I just want to be let down. You can forget the rest of it. Just cut me down and let me go home" Tom implored. "Well, Tom, its not quite that simple. Your fraternity has its pledge rituals, and we have ours. The painting of the blue boy is a time honored-tradition here at Tri Delt, and we just can't pass it up." "It figures," Tom sighed. "You guys _knew_ this was coming." Debbie grasped his cock again and gave it a right-left-right sequence of gentle tugs to punctuate her words: "Just. Like. Christmas! And you're our present. You should be honored though. Only one Beta gets picked for this. And I have to say that last year the young gentleman required a little help to get the mast upright, if you know what I mean. But you. You are a real studmuffin." She put her hand under his chin, drawing his eyes to hers. "So, Tom. We're going to get this picture, okay? And you will repay us by being a good little blue boy." She paused, and look of seriousness came to her face. "Right, Tom?" Tom saw that the only way to get though this was on her terms, and that she was in charge. Even though he had no intention of ever visiting the Beta's again, he figured this photo shoot was inevitable. "Right," he whispered back. "Great!" She replied, cheerily. OK girls, lets do this thing. Cynthia, get the tripod. Mattie, go fetch Liz." Liz! Tom was dumbstruck. So far the only upside of he could claim from this misadventure was that at least he had avoided seeing (or more precisely, being seen by) Liz. Now that shred of upside was slipping away. "Liz?" he asked feebly, looking at Debbie with a hint of desperation. "Liz!" she replied, happily. "Is it a problem for you if your friend gets to see you exposed like this?" "I can't imagine it matters, but yes, I'd prefer if she didn't," Tom said. Debbie took the tripod from Cynthia and began setting it up across the room. "You're right, Tom, it doesn't matter. Of course she gets to see you! All the of our sisters and and pledges will. We're just the advance team! You don't think we could deny our sisters this treat, do you?" "Arghh," Tom moaned, shaking his head. Things were headed from bad to worse. "Buck up, blue boy. We'll be done soon." The flash of the camera took Tom by surprise. Debbie took several more, framing the shot to her liking. "Smile Tom," she said. Struck by his compounding misfortune, Tom actually did smile, albeit while shaking his head in disbelief. Tom heard jingling outside the room, coming down the stairs. "That will be Liz now," Debbie declared, grinning at Tom. Just then Mattie entered the room, holding a leash. Liz, naked, crawled in just behind her on the other end of the leash. She wore a dog collar and two blue ankle bracelets studded with jingle bells. Her face was painted white and brown like a basset hound, with floppy furry ears to match, attached on a headband. She wriggled in on all fours until she was in front of Mattie, and then looked up. When she saw Tom hanging naked from the middle of the room, her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped. "Oh for fuck's sake," she said, "Its good to see you Tom. Just when a girl thinks that she's hit rock bottom, ass in the air and crawling around like a dog, you show up looking like you've found an even more embarrassing situation." All of the sorority sisters laughed. Debbie explained the situation to both of them. "Liz, as the blue bell girl you'll be painting blue boy's thingey for the picture. Then, the two of you will pose for the shot. And its tradition that the blue boy picture shows a lad who is, how should I say this... excited. So you will do what is necessary to keep him that way until we're done. Understand?" Liz nodded. She stood up and brushed off her red knees. "OK," Debbie concluded, "I'll leave you with this finger paint and go get the rest of the girls!" Liz took the top off of the blue paint jar and approached Tom. "OK Tom, lets get that thingey blue." "You _knew_ about this?" Tom asked. "I heard stories about blue boy night, but I didn't know the details or the cast of characters. Who knew we'd be playing the lead?" They both smiled. Liz slathered some paint on her fingers and, without breaking eye contact with Tom, reached down to grasp his cock. She worked the paint all around, and he was fully erect in seconds in her slippery hand. Tom groaned and muttered, "Easy there, Liz. I don't want to, you know..." She pecked him on the lips, smearing a bit of her black nose paint on his nose. Wiping it off with her free hand she said, "Gotcha. Keep breathing, blue boy." Facebook Friends The sorority sisters soon filed in, some twenty or so in all, and they lined the room and cheered loudly as Tom and Liz posed and Debbie snapped pictures. Well, mostly Liz posed, and Tom just hung. Many of the shots involved Liz continuing to fondle Tom's now blue cock with her blue hand. Some had Liz on her knees, hands up in the classic dog begging pose. After five minutes of this, Debbie stepped out from behind the camera and ordered Mattie to cut Tom down. She did, and he shook his arms to get the circulation going again, then instinctively placed his hands across his groin. "Its a little late for modesty," Katherine called out. Debbie pulled the data storage card from the camera and asked Tom, "You want to pick the print to take with you?" "No thanks," Tom replied. "I really am through with the Beta's. And I don''t think I'll need pictures to remember tonight. I wouldn't mind some pants, though." In what was Tom's next-to-last surprise of the evening, Debbie grabbed the elastic of her waistband and pulled down her baggy pink Tri-Delt sweatpants. Stepping out of them, she handed them to Tom. Kissing him on the cheek, she said "You're a good sport, Tom, I'll send you some shots by email just in case." Her plump round ass jiggled marvelously in her Tri-Delt thong as she turned and left the room. Tom put on the sweatpants. Mattie picked up the end of Liz's leash and handed it to Tom. "Tradition demands that the blue boy's blue balls are relieved by the blue bell girl. She's yours for the night!" she declared. Turning to Liz, she said "Down girl." The sorority sisters cheered yet again as Liz dropped obediently to her hands and knees and Tom led her, still naked, out into the hallway on her leash. Liz stood up after Tom closed the door. Tom and Liz had been intimate on several occasions already by that time, but he was unsure whether or not Liz was game for this and was not inclined to take advantage of her (though he _did_ have blue balls!). "I'll tell them you did the job," Tom promised, pausing to take in the sight of Liz, her well-shaped breasts, slightly rounded belly, and hairless pussy. "Incidentally, Last time I saw you, didn't you have pubic hair?" Liz laughed. "More initiation rituals. We're _all_ bare down there! And yes, I know you would tell them I did my job." She grinned, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "You don't want to make a liar out of me, do you?" I've got a room here for the night. Lets put it to some good use." They kissed. ------ That had been their last tryst, but it was a worthy ending. Now Tom focused on the message from LizBkr241@gmail.com with subject heading "Hey Blue Boy, nice to get reacquainted!" He worried vaguely about what he would find when he opened the email. It was a short message: "I saw you took my message off of your Facebook wall, Tom. You ashamed of me? LOL. Yes, I know Jane. We actually took a class together in our senior year. (By then you were too cool to talk to me!) Jane is top shelf. I'm recently divorced, no kids. And feeling a bit randy. The reason I contacted you was that my sorority sister Debbie was cleaning out her attic when she came across an old computer, from College. You'll never guess what she found. Oh that's just silly. Of course you'll guess! Just go to my Facebook page to see! Love Liz" He navigated back to he Facebook page. On her Facebook wall was a post: "Hi Tom, check out my photo library! Love Liz. P.S. Just you and me on this page, hon. Unless I make more friends!" Clicking on her "photo" link brought Tom to exactly what he dreaded he'd find: Three digital photographs of him from that last night in the Tri Delt basement. In the first he appeared naked and in profile, with four giggling sorority girls out of focus in the background. He was clearly sporting a hard-on that was just north of horizontal. Sadly, he noted, his face looked almost exactly the same then as it did today. Tom had aged well, and it was unmistakably him. In the second picture, Liz was standing at his side with doggy ears and face paint, one hand enveloping his cock. Their eyes were locked together, and both wore giddy smiles. The third picture was one in which he and Liz stood side by side, facing the camera, with his blue cock proudly erect and Liz's arm and blue hand wrapped about his waist. In the background, more than a dozen sorority girls could be seen cheering and pointing and laughing. Fuck! He thought. This is crazy. If these get out... Tom's mind raced. Other people seeing these pictures could be awful for him now. He was, of course, not surprised by the pictures themselves, only their public display. In fact, true to her word, Debbie _had_ sent him copies of all of the photos in his sophomore year. Tom had copies of these same pictures, and lots more, on his own hard drive. On one drunk night early in their relationship, he had even shared them with Jane. He had entertained her with the story of that fateful night, and once she knew there were pictures, she was relentless until he showed them to her. She teased him a lot about that night, in a good-natured way. But if these pictures got to his colleagues, his friends, his students... that would be unbearable. It could also cost him his job. Why would Liz put them on a public website? Then Tom remembered that Liz was also in the pictures. She couldn't expose him without risking exposure herself, could she? Wasn't she also in a buttoned down profession, with lots to lose? Tom looked back at the pictures and saw the answer. While his identity (and then some) was easy to get from these snapshots, Liz's was not. With the make-up and dog ears and different hairstyle, it would be impossible to identify Liz from these photos. Tom sent Liz an email, playing it as cool as he could: "Dear Liz, Wow, those pictures bring me back! What a hell week it was for both of us. I hope you will take them off the web before someone else sees them. As you can imagine, that might be embarrassing for me!! Tom" Within minutes, he received not a Facebook message or an email message but a text message, on his iPhone. "Told u i wuz randy! searching new FB friends as we speak. You know Max Berber? Does Jane have a Facebook page? Attached to the text message was another photo of Tom, from behind, his heart-shaped ass on prominent display. Max Berber was the Chair of Tom's Department, a stiff Brahman type from old money. He was the last person in the world Tom would want to see these pictures. At least now he knew her game. This was not just reacquaintance. Liz was toying with him. Or worse. He tried to reply to the text, but the return number was blocked and listed as "unpublished". He went back to email. "Liz, Seriously, I'm asking you not to fuck around with my career like that. Why would you do that?" He did not hear back from her all that day, or the next. He was worried about what she might do, but decided not to tell anyone else (especially Jane) just yet. On Wednesday, at noon, he closed his office door, opened his laptop, and logged into his Skype account. He placed a Skype call to her, and the connection sprang to life. Liz's audio was muted, but she wrote in the text panel: "Hi Tom, thanks for calling! Sorry I couldn't spend more time catching up on Monday. Busy, busy, busy. My microphone isn't working, but I can hear you." "Hi Liz," Tom said. He added, with evident doubt, "Your microphone isn't working?" "Tom, you're still a perceptive guy. My microphone is working fine. I just like it this way! :) Do you have a webcam?" "Yes, its built right into the laptop," Tom replied. "Turn it on," Liz instructed. "Look, Liz, I think we should talk first about what's going on," Tom said. "Turn it on, now, Tom." Tom hesitated, then said, "Liz, this is just a little strange, you know I..." The Skype application indicated that LizB241 had hung up. Tom tried to reconnect, to no avail. Ten minutes later, Jane called. "Hi Tom!," she said "Hi Jane, What's up?," Tom asked. She laughed nervously. "I _hope_ it was you who just sent me that picture of your raging hard on in the Tri-Delt basement. It came from a caller-ID blocked phone." Tom was confused for just a moment, then realized that Jane must have gotten a photo message from Liz, and thought it was from him. He struggled to regain his composure. "I'm just trying to keep you thinking about me," he replied. She chuckled. "Well I'm glad it was you. I love that picture. It still makes me giggle to see you hanging naked in the Tri Delt basement. But how did you know I wouldn't be with a friend or a client when I got it on my phone? And how did you mask the caller ID function? Pretty risky, babe." "Feel free to respond in kind, kiddo," Tom said, his composure regained. "Don't hold your breath, Tom. My office is all glass!" Jane shot back. "I'm sure the guys wouldn't mind," Tom replied. "Anyway, I'll try to be more discreet." "Not on my account! I know you love to show off," she laughed. "I guess I do, Jane. I guess I do," Tom acknowledged. "OK, I gotta go. But thanks for my picture. Love you, bye," Jane said warmly. "Bye." Tom hung up. Liz had sent his wife the photo. She was not fooling around. He tried to Skype her again, without answer. Throughout the day, Tom nervously checked email, Facebook, Skype, and iPhone. Finally, near quitting time, he got another text message from Liz: "Hey Blue Boy! Didn't you learn in college not to mess with Tri Delts? I'm calling the shots! Webcam Skype tomorrow, noon. U B naked! Then we can talk and I will give up the pix, promise. Else Berber et al get them!! Should B an easy call 4 U. Just a little fun. Nothing to worry about. love Liz" Attached to this was a picture of Liz on all fours, with Mattie holding her leash. She was laughing (it was taken just after she first saw Tom's hell night predicament). Tom had this picture too in the files Debbie sent. It was his favorite porn. Liz's great laughing face juxtaposed with her humiliating pose, dangling breasts, and silly make up were the image Tom used to remember Liz by (often while masturbating). Tom knew that this situation was spiraling out of control, and racked his brain to figure out a plan. He could not afford to risk these photos getting into the hands of Berber (or et al for that matter). He had been lucky that Jane already knew about the photos, but Liz couldn't have known that when she sent one to Jane. Liz was simply a loose cannon. He couldn't tell Jane now about this problem without admitting to a lie. And he really had no control over when and how he communicated with Liz. All in all, it was a risky situation for Tom. Tom Googled "private detective Washington DC." He would play along tomorrow, but he would prepare to protect himself in the long run. At noon the next day, Tom closed his door again, locking it from the inside. He was shaking with nerves, more over the prospect of Berber getting hold of those pictures than of the crazy thing he was about to do. He stripped off his sports coat, shirt and tie, and pants. He briefly considered keeping his underwear on while making the call, but decided not to risk it. His office on street level had a floor-to-ceiling window on one wall, but the window was well-tinted. No one could see in (without cupping their hands against the glass) but he could plainly see people walking on the sidewalk. There were vertical blinds, but they had been stuck in a retracted position since well before Tom got the office. It was rare that anyone tried to peer in, but common for passers by to use the reflective glass to primp, comb their hair, or generally arrange themselves. It had always amused Tom to be the man behind the two-way mirror. During one summer the same woman stopped in front of his window every afternoon at the same time and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. Tom had enjoyed the voyeuristic pleasure of watching her in this intimate act, and once got to within a couple of feet of the window while she was performing her ritual. Now, he would have to depend on the reflectivity of that outside glass! Tom stepped out of his underwear. He was naked, again, at the mercy of a Tri Delt. He sat in his Aeron chair and launched the webcam, to see what Skype would see. It made him laugh in resignation. Here he was, bare assed and about to call a crazy woman from his university office. The camera framed his torso and head. six feet behind, the glass wall could be seen as a background. He launched Skype and called Liz. The computers connected. Liz's text box immediately came to life. "Hi Tom! Web cam on?" the text scrolled up. "Yes, Liz, it is coming on now. I hope you're still a woman of your word," Tom said, launching the video feed. When he knew her in College, Liz had been unusually inclined to keep her word. She was not beyond lying or cheating, but if she made a promise, she worked especially hard to keep it. The video feed linked up. Tom saw a small inset image of what now was filling Liz's screen. He smiled, despite himself. "Can you see me?" Liz wrote back, "YES! Very handsome. You haven't aged a bit, Tom. Great to see your face!" "Thanks Liz. Hey, this is a bit awkward, you know. I can't see you or hear you. Don't you want to hook up your end too?" "Not yet, Tom. Maybe later. But I will pipe you in some music. Within seconds, Tom's computer began playing music piped in from Liz's Skype connection. The song was an old favorite of their College days: "Turning Japanese" by the Vapors. "OK Blue Boy, I need you to stand up and give me the full view!" Liz wrote. Tom sighed, knowing this had been coming. He stood up, and backed away from the camera. When he could see that the frame was filled with his naked body from head to toe, he held out his arms and twirled around. Then he came back to the screen. "Yay! Thanks. One more thing, then you'll be safe from me. Here it comes..." The music faded, and the Macarena came on, loudly. "Oh Christ, you've got to be kidding me!" Tom said, mostly to himself. "Dance the MACARENA!" came the text reply. Tom, humiliated once again, stood up and began to dance the silly Macarena dance. The song went on for two minutes, and he faithfully crossed his arms, held them out, put them on his head, wiggled his ass, and did a quarter turn hop six or seven times before the music cam to an end. He could not watch the monitor for fear he would catch a glimpse of himself in this ridiculous dance and bouncing cock against a background of passers-by strolling along the sidewalk a few feet away. He was nevertheless amused at the incongruity of his situation, which kept a smile on his face. At last the song ended, and Tom came back to the monitor, red from a mix of embarrassment and exertion. A voice came over the speaker. "Bravo, Tom. Well Done." He heard clapping, too. The voice was familiar...but not Liz. The video connection from the other side flickered on, and Tom was shocked and befuddled to see the face of his wife filling the window! "Jane!" he exclaimed. "Hi Tom," Jane smiled. "Not Liz, just me." "But, but..." Tom stuttered. "Its been all me Tom, all along. I made the phony Facebook page. Me. I hope you don't mind that I borrowed those files from your computer. Happy April Fools! Love you babe." She grinned. Tom looked at the calendar. It was April 1. When he looked back, still absorbing this stunning turn of events, Jane had turned on the Macarena again. She pushed her chair back a bit from the desk. Tom recognized their basement office in the background. He also noticed, as she slid her chair back from the camera, that his mischievous Jane was not wearing a stitch of clothes. She jumped up from the chair, and began to dance, laughing while sining to the camera: "A la tuhuelpa legria macarena Que tuhuelce paralla legria cosabuena A la tuhuelpa legria macarena Eeeh, macarena..." The End