1 comments/ 8423 views/ 4 favorites Post-Modern Love: 01 By: TonyZee To: TonyZee From: A.M. Subject: Literotica Feedback Dear TonyZee, I'm sure you thought there was only a slight chance that you would hear from me again someday. "Slight" is sometimes enough. I have to believe, however, that you never expected to hear from me via this venue, an erotic story Web site, nor that I would somehow stumble across this little trio of stories about us: "Meta-Head," "Talk to Me," and "Listen." I do hope, however, that on the wildly remote chance I DID stumble across them, that you did not think that I'd fail to recognize myself, our sexual affair, or the sentiments and psychologies at lusty play therein. Of course, I never thought that there would be a time when we didn't hear from one another. Life takes us in strange directions, no? You were always so meticulous at drawing from life, you sweet selfish motherfucker. No, not just drawing from life: the broad strokes in these stories are scrupulously altered. No one else in our circle of acquaintances from that time, familiar with the general framework of our lives, would spot "you" or "me." You've elided those clues nicely. No, it's the seemingly throwaway details that tip your hand and reveal your muse: the naked, striding woman briefly reflected in the mirror; her idle speculation, after she's enjoyed yet another intimate mouthful of his cum, about the quantity she's swallowed over the years of their affair. You recalled that I just didn't think that thought, but rather mentioned it to you in bed one afternoon. You claimed to find it an odd thing to wonder about. But you seemed suitably turned on when I gave you a rough estimate of my calculations to date. (Just for your information, regarding the final tally: counting the times I either sucked you off, or jacked you off into my mouth, or just asked you to shoot your cum there after a good, meaty fuck, I swallowed the ejaculations of 471 of your orgasms, luv. I kept a coded journal, you see, tabulating All Things Us. I could never get enough of All Things Us. Your loads were impressive, darling, especially in those first years when we were all so much younger, but as I'm sure you vividly recall, I sometimes took in two or even three money shots a lovemaking session, each of subsequently diminished volume. Still, it's safe to say—and my pussy is throbbing just from saying it—that I drank down about one and a quarter gallons of your hot, salty cream.) Oh, there are plenty of other little revealing trills and grace notes to your steamy tales. And I must admit, it does give them the shimmer of naturalism, the throb of authenticity. You son of a bitch. And I couldn't help but be amused by "your" character. I take some pleasure in knowing that you thought those things about me, about us... I only wished you had expressed them as willingly and lovingly as your fictional stand-in managed to. Did you really find me beautiful? Did you really lust after me in that way, and so constantly? Well, I'm sure there are plenty of things and ways I felt about you that I never managed to communicate properly, though after reading your stories, I have the reassuring sense that perhaps you intuited much of it anyway. Or perhaps that's just you wielding art in an attempt to perfect life. With the exception of the first tale in the triptych ("Meta-Head"? Darling, really. I know your quaint taste for post-modernism, but surely you could have come up with a less gruesome title), the titles "Talk to Me" and "Listen" indeed seem to be a fervent, two-pronged request? A plea? A melancholy wish? Had we done those things, or done them a bit more—talked and listened to one another—I'd most likely be mouthing that lovely, generous cock of yours right this minute, rather than penning a pale e-mail. But maybe that was the point of airing this laundry. xx, A Muse Amused *** To: A.M. From: TonyZee Subject: Re: Literotica Feedback Dear A.M., Thank you for the kind feedback. Your letter was wonderfully articulate and beautifully written—so much so that I almost wish I was indeed whoever it is you think I am. That I managed to capture or characterize something in such a way that leads you to believe that I'm drawing on your (or someone's) actual experience is a compliment of sorts, and I appreciate it. But I assure you, all of my stories on this Web site, including this little triptych, are the products of my imagination. Fiction. Make-believe. Fantasy. The work of idle hands, someone trying to spell the tedium of the workday. Sorry, but thanks for your note anyway. TonyZee P.S. I agree with you about the title of the first story, but at the time I had no idea I was going to write any more stories about anything, let alone those two characters. z. *** To: TonyZee From: A.M. Subject: Your charade Dear lowercase zee, I suppose I should at least find some solace, if not take some pleasure, in your compliments regarding my prose style. But after reading your stories and then so recently seeing your reply hit my inbox, I guess was hoping for recollections and fondnesses more carnal in utterance if not scope. The appearance of the e-mail aroused that familiar rush of heat to my cheeks and sudden lush, tropical feeling in my loins; I was looking at least for more clues or interpretable euphemisms on my laptop screen to read and read again as I worked fingers over clitoris and cunt. Do I need to ask you to forgive my frank talk? No, that was our language, as we used to say; that was our principle form of communication. Sex, and its hard, consonantal cries: fuck, suck, cum, cunt, cock, jack, spurt. We learned to talk like that together. I never knew I liked it until I heard it, and then never knew I needed to hear it until I heard it from my own mouth. Some might find that just coarse or (and here's a word I simply hate) raunchy. And in any other setting, I would wholeheartedly agree. After Us, they were never again natural utterances for any other situation or partner (now don't be shocked by that; I couldn't go chastely cold turkey after being fucked stupid by you for seven years. I had to at least try to find another cock to whisper those words to. But it was never the same, neither the words nor the cock). But you and I, darling, had stripped away all the layers of identities in the bedroom when we hit our stride. You said it yourself: we'd achieved the most intimate, unvarnished, fundamental level of mutual desire. Maybe a professional headshrinker would say that we'd simply fetishized each other. Maybe a professional headshrinker should go fuck himself. Trust me, zee, you are precisely whoever it is I think you are. I appreciate the politeness and dignity of your authorial disclaimer. But I know you, or the you I think is you, and only the literate, married gentleman who fucked my greedy, cum-famished mouth in the Evergreen Borough Library late one sunny winter morning would make sure he noted, almost as an aside, where we were in the stacks: the gloriously profane detail of that public cocksucking taking place in "the 200s," as you wrote—"Religion," according to the Dewey decimal system. And only that same gentleman could not resist all the other little coded bits: the name of the woman's husband, "Ray," for my Sonny; the use of phrase "marital bed"—I remember noting to you how quaint I thought it when you used it during the actual afternoon of fucking when we reminisced about that torrid evening of fucking, so carefully described in "Listen." There is the odd, solitary detail in your profile of your "location." Your nom de plume, and the very clever little inversion and play on your real name. And of course, the whole story-within-a-story aspect of your trilogy connects the dots. You could never resist the storytelling, or storytold, nature of our lives. I know your response to my first e-mail was merely caution on your part. But I hope that the details I've provided demonstrate that not only are you who you say you're not, but that I am also who you say I can't be. The virtual tide has brought your message in a bottle to my ragged little shore. (And it is like a shore; I inhabit something like an island these days, T. Right now I'm cross-legged on the very same big "marital" bed where you fucked me so often, so thoroughly, so nastily. Shot your cum on me. Soaked the sheets with our sweat and the copious fluids from my ready cunt. Whispered drowsy obscenities to me while you pounded my pussy. The kids are nearly grown and mostly gone, immersed in their own first, moist fantasies. Sonny travels constantly on business and has more or less given up on our congress. I sit here, the candlelight warm, the vodka cold, my books and magazines like breakers around me, and this laptop now like my lookout tower onto the wide world.) I wish you would do me the courtesy of finishing this story for me. I know how it ended, I still don't know exactly why. xx, A.M. *** To: A.M. From: TonyZee Subject: My Charade Dear A.M., I felt that the best way to convince about who I am, or who I am NOT, would be simply to not respond at all to your last message. But that seemed to me unkind. Here is the truth of the matter. I am not the male protagonist of the stories. I am not even a male. I'm afraid I bear more similarities to you, if what you've been writing about yourself is genuine, than I do to your former paramour. I'm a 47-year-old woman. I've been married for 25 years to the same man. By next October I should be a grandmother. I've never had sex outside of my marriage, however much over these last ten years I would have liked to. I'm not even "located" in "Western PA" as my profile states, but rather Bath, Maine. And it's beautiful here, by the way. After my third child was born, 20 years ago, I thought that I'd lost all need for, not to mention interest in, in sex. After ten years, however, I realized that I hadn't lost all interest in sex, just all interest in sex with my husband. I've never done anything about it. I mean, I've never done anything that would qualify as infidelity. I've been pretty effective sublimating my need for sex by writing about it. As for love, well... I feel an abundance of love for my children, for books, for writing, for sailing, for Maine's rocky shore, for playing tennis, for cooking... This is boring. Not the kind of thing I'd expect someone writing to someone else on an erotic literature Web site would care to hear. I'm sorry to disappoint you, and I'm sure now that when you read any subsequent stories I manage to publish, you just won't find them stimulating at all, knowing the truth about me. But I couldn't let you labor any longer under the wrong impression, let alone a patently wrong belief. I'm also sorry that you still seem desirous of this particular person that you mistook me for, but who apparently left you without some proper conclusion or explanation. There is such a thing as erotic pain, and it sounds to me that, in each our own unique ways, we have both suffered. Best, "TonyZee" **** To: TonyZee From: Zack Stiles Subject: Literotica Feedback TonyZee, I don't usually write to Literotica authors, and I have never written to a male author. Mostly because I think that if I were a heterosexual male author (I am a male, but not an author, just a reader), I wouldn't be much interested in hearing from another male. These stories are meant to be aphrodisiacs of sorts, right? Ways to start an exchange, perhaps a titillating one, with a woman? Well, anyway, maybe I'm way off base about that, but I can't claim to knowing much of anything where the whole "cyber" thing is concerned. I'm not of the right generation. In fact, when I see people write in their profile that they don't "cyber," I have no idea what they're talking about. But seeing as how it's something that some people feel they must warn that they DON'T do, I have to believe it probably has something to do with sex. But I'll get right to the point. Since I've already stated that I don't write to male authors, and yet here I am. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not after any kind of... anything. I've been reading your stories, first with great interest and admiration (you plainly have some skill and experience with writing—one can just tell), but that very quickly developed into confusion, disorientation, and anxiety. You see, I don't mean to sound like a lunatic, but I feel as if you've stolen my past. Or that you've somehow networked into my psyche. Because these stories that you've written... they're about me. I'm the man in them. Even in that first long tale, "Initial Public Offering," about the writing teacher. It was exactly that way, sans a few minor features and details, and as you would expect, it's gotten me mighty agitated. Like I said, maybe you've somehow channeled—is that what it's called?—my memory and my experiences. I don't believe much in that kind of thing, I have to say. Puzzling over it all, however, it seems more plausible to me that you know these stories of a particular love affair of mine because you know my lover. That she has told you about us. About what we did, and how we did it. About what I've done. This is not a jealous-spurned-lover-threatening-letter type of thing, because I wasn't spurned, I was the spurner. I didn't really spurn her; I just had to end it and move on. That's a whole other story. And I'm not jealous. Well, maybe a little. More, I feel a little bit exposed that Aimee (do I have your attention now?) told you about our activities in such detail. I don't suppose that's unusual between lovers, really. But that you chose to use them as fodder for your fuck stories... sir, that just strikes me as ungallant. And I'll wager that she doesn't even know about your appropriation of her personal life. Though I have to believe that, like me, you're no longer with her. I can't imagine how any man involved in a full-scale cuntal assault on Aimee would have the need, let alone the inclination, to write stroke stories. Of course, and I don't mean this as a jab, maybe your relationship with her wasn't quite like mine. I know that I have tried to rekindle that special brand of thunder and blazes with other women. Older ones, younger ones, ones I've met through personal ads who claimed they talked dirty and fucked even dirtier, and it's never been the same. I think I've come to understand that sometimes it's just a particular person, and maybe even the particular time and place, the circumstances of your life at a given moment, and that trying to recreate it is just folly. Whatever your name is, friend, I can't stop you from writing these stories stolen from my and Aimee's history. I'm not a confrontational or threatening type, at least not where something like this is concerned. And I also know that no one else in the world knows about all this, so it's not like I'm being compromised or exposed. But it's just hurtful to me in a way. It's a stinging reminder of my foolishness and selfishness, as well. Write about some of your other affairs. I'm sure you've had them, we all have. You seemed to be skilled enough in this department to make them as evocative as you would like them to be for this outlet. It's not the details of the sex between us that I mind so much as the attempt to capture and convey the psychological aspects of the two of us, or at least of me as told by her and filtered through you. It's a violation. I feel as if there is something of a social contract being breached. A trust betrayed. Can you appreciate that? Sincerely, Zack Stiles ***** To: TonyZee From: A.M. Subject: Erotic Pain Dear T., I'm having a difficult time grasping all of this. Can it really be true? You're really, truly not HIM? How can this be? How can you have written these stories and not be him? I think I find it harder to comprehend that you have such a filthy, evocative imagination (and writing style), than that you're not my Zack, with whose filth and powers of evocation I am intimately acquainted. So you just made all this up, you dirty bitch? You've never, EVER, been fucked like this? Well, let me tell you, as off as you may have gotten yourself, the tale is still in the tale. The telling pales next to a good, wet, carnivorous fuck. Not that the telling in and of itself was pale. I'll give credit where credit is due. You write a mean fuck story. They have depth. They have the kind of context and nuance that make the eventual climaxes vibrate and quaver like a harp in my cunt. But all that you imagine, luv, is twelvefold less potent than the great unbridled rut. Here, let me help you. Feel free to put this in your own words. I got pregnant shortly after we'd begun our affair, but not by him. We'd already had the "Night of the Triple," as you artfully labeled it in your story and that we had coincidentally (how can this be?!) and equally artfully had called it ourselves. I was a ripe eight months gone, and just returning from visiting my sister Daisy in West Egg. Sonny was to fetch me from the airport, but as typical for that time in our lives, was tied up drafting a legal brief and called instructing me to take a cab. From the Pittsburgh airport to our little town was easily a $30 cab ride, and while at any other juncture in our married life I would have told him to get his ass out to the airport to pick up his pregnant wife, or the only activity his prick would enjoy was a long, slow shriveling from extended disuse, I realized that this was an opportunity for me to see my Zack, however briefly. We were neighbors, you see, and his wife and I were "friends" of a sort in the local circle, youngish educated couples all starting families, still on our first spouses, surrounded by that slightly fetid John Updike-ish suburbanite air of marriages growing inexorably tepid. As far as I knew then, however, only Zack and I had crossed over to the dark-red bliss realm of extramarital intrigue within that crowd. (Zack, of course, only beknownst to me after he'd laid me good and made me come out of my bloody fucking mind enough times that the knowledge of his other infidelities lost their overall import, had a rap sheet of forbidden cunt.) I called Zack and Lynn's house. Oh, I feel terrible, I hate to ask. Sonny can't come, I guess I could get a cab but... No, no, don't you worry. Sweetie, you're eight months pregnant! For heaven's sake. Just sit tight. Twenty minutes, enough time for me to claim my bag and waddle out to the curb, and my Zack pulls up in his Acura. Five o'clock shadow. Hair tousled. Gray t-shirt and jeans packing that available cock. I couldn't have planned it, only wished for it, and even that would have been a vain and wild wish. He seemed sheepish. Maybe it was nerves. He kissed me like a spouse, had been tentative around me since I'd entered the latter stages of my condition—Zack and Lynn had no children just yet and both treated me as if I was brittle, as if I was turning to crystal rather than bulking with flesh and blood—swung my bag and carryon into the trunk, helped me to the passenger side, and ferried me home. My hormones had been raging throughout my trip. I needed sex, I needed cock. At times then, it almost felt like any cock would do. I did ponder the what-ifs of sucking of the middle-ager next to me in business class on my flight home, especially if it would have gotten him to stop snoring. When we exited the freeway, left, right, left, and embarked on the long, dark two-lane that squinnied us down to our little hamlet, I turned to him and said, "Can I touch you?" "Of course," he said. I first put my fingers to his cheek, leaned across the console and kissed it, and then smoothed my hand down over his chest, down down to the thick cynosure between his legs. "Can I touch you," I said again, coquettishly, softly. I think he gulped. He thought I'd meant only his cheek, the naïf. Post-Modern Love: 01 First I undid his seatbelt. "Drive very safely," I whispered, unbuckling his belt, and then twisting and wrenching his trouser button until it passed begrudgingly through its attendant slit. That was tricky, even though he obligingly sucked in his gut. The zipper, however, parted its teeth with delicious ease despite the outward-pressing bulge. The inside of the car smelled like leather, paper, rubber, and pine cones. I molded my hand over the hardened cock in his undershorts. Gloriously hard cock. O yes, I do believe he liked me. "Mmm," I hummed. "I love... your cock." But I said it slowly, hungrily, as if I'd just popped a bon-bon or a truffle into my mouth, and it came out more like "caulk," like Julie Christie in "Shampoo"—if I hadn't been squeezing said rod, he might have thought I was talking about his watertight silicone sealant. Slowly, I pulled away the elastic of his shorts and drew out his erection, a dim greeny-gray mushroom-headed pole in the dashboard glow. Beautiful. Bone-stiff. I bent to it. It smelled dark and leaf-moldy and with the faintest trace of mostly gone moisturizer—my Zack had unusually dry skin, and lotioned himself up head to toe every day to battle it. I hadn't really planned on this, madame. I'd never sucked a cock in a car, let alone a moving one. What was most pleasing, and only learned later, was that no one had ever done this to Zack before. I was shocked by that, him being such veteran adulterer by that time. What a coup for me! To have gained a first against so many! But that wasn't on my mind at the time. I had started this whole thing with the intention of only teasing him, blue-balling him... I know that sounds cruel, and I don't know why I thought to do that. Really, I think it was mostly a matter of not believing that I could do, or that he would allow, much more than just a manual bit of flirtation. But I was greedy, yes, like I said, and in great need of physicality. Thinking of it, I had to touch it, and touching it, I had to see it, and seeing it, I had to suck it, and sucking it... well, I couldn't possibly stop short of making him give up his load. Choke me with his cum. Empty his balls down my throat, as I was fond of saying to him in my filthier throes. And I was feeling particularly evil, as well, I'm ashamed but not above admitting. My "friend" Lynn so kindly gave up the company of her husband of any evening to rescue a preggo in distress, and I was going to repay her by sucking him off, by licking and sucking his hard cock until spurt after spurt of his married-man cum filled my mouth, until his jizz jetted over my hot, greedy tongue. Don't you think, though, that when a woman is profoundly pregnant, she is also at perhaps her most narcissistic? One feels like a world of sorts, a kind of universe, completely unto oneself and wholly apart from all others. It's all about me, about me and my stupendous, miraculous body, about procreation, making life, propafuckingating the species—how fundamental! One has moments when one almost feels deified. (Cut all this stuff out, luv. Literotica readers will go cold over it, I expect.) His cock. It tasted a faintish amalgam of urine, wax, sweat, and hair. Altogether, though, this was the taste Zack's cock. Add saliva, and you have the taste of Zack's cock when it's been in my mouth. (Add copper penny and salt, and you have the taste of Zack's cock after it's been in my pussy.) I savored its cylindrical, hard-yet-soft full feel in my mouth for a bit, and bobbed it gently, thinking "this is me pretending to be a cunt, a cunt getting its fuck..." I had to stop and catch my breath. "Don't stop," he breathed. "I love fucking your cock with my mouth, Zack," I said, licking at the head, plunging my mouth down over as much of it as I could take, then pumping it with my fist. I must say that I was mostly oblivious to where we were, what was going on, had no more sense of being in a moving car. At that moment, I felt more consumed by his cock than consuming it. "I love..." bobbing, up for air, "your cock..." ditto, "in my fucking mouth..." And then back at it, laving it stem to stern with my tongue, sucking the head, pulling off and pumping it and looking at it squarely in the dimness, sucking it some more. Looking at it some more. God, I wanted to see the white cum spasm out of it, but I also wanted to feel it, feel that unique belly-flop experience of a man ejaculating in my mouth... Even when you know he's coming, even once you learn all the physiological nuances of a man so that you can detect the precise moment when he's going to shoot, there's still a thrilling beauty to it all. The same way you can never tire of a good rollercoaster; you see all the twists and turns, you see the long climb, you know you're at the crest, you remember the sudden wild fear of the free fall, and yet... here we go, baby. Here we go. Give it to me... He was shifting, thrusting... I felt the car gradually slow, slow... and then lurch back up to speed. (I thought about recommending cruise control, but felt it might break the mood.) He was close, and I loved that closeness, that feeling of being on the verge of no-control, both of us. I stopped bobbing and sucking, kept gently fisting... "What do you want me to do with your cock, baby?" I said. "Should we save this big, hot load for Lynn? Or do you want to fill my mouth? Hmm? Do you want to shoot your hot cum in my mouth, Zack? Zack? Do you want me to swallow your cum, baby? Because I'll eat it all. I'll eat all your cum. I haven't been able to think of anything but you shooting your hot cum down my throat since the last time you fucked my mouth, baby..." He just panted, glanced down at me hastily, then looked back to the road, thrusting his hips up at me. But I wasn't going to take just that. "You have to say what you want," I said. "Suck me off," he croaked. "Eat my cum, baby." "Are you sure," I teased—I was scum, I know. But believe me, this made it all the more... authentic. Acknowledging what we were doing. Being genuine about what we were doing. Don't pretend. "Are you sure you want to shoot your load in another woman's mouth?" "Take it. Or I'll shoot it all over your pretty face. I know you'd like that." "Oh, yeah... that's my boy." I slid my lips slowly and snugly down his hard shaft, like I was stretching a Trojan over that pole, and then began twisting my fist up and down the length of him while I sucked on his cockhead, joggling my tongue at the underside of his head... all this, I knew, was the crest of the hill, the end of the long climb... He came in my mouth. He gushed his semen over my tongue, and I sucked at his spasming cock, swallowing, sucking, swallowing... It was warm, salty yet sweetly edged like fresh clams, muscular. It was fucking beautiful, delicious in its purely biological, intimate way, controlled and yet chaotic, dirty and yet pure, coldly administered and yet desperately hot because of that. I could say I ate his cum, and this went intimately beyond all other common knowledge. Oh, I've cleaned up after him, and I've washed and ironed his shirts, and I've tended him through sickness, and I've listened to his deepest fears, and I've tendered his dreams, and I've wiped his tears... Yes, well, very nice, but have you eaten his cum? Has he come in your mouth? Has he transmitted his hot, beautiful, slippery fucking load down your throat, groaning and thrusting and holding your head in place, his essence manifest through your entire system, your digestive track, your bloodstream, the molecules from his semen making their way to your brain? Have you eaten his cum? The beautiful child in my stomach kicked, and then barrel-rolled. In anticipation, I imagined, from the elixir still to come. I looked up at him from my place in his lap. "You're divine," I said, meaning it. God. xx, A.M. [to be continued...] Post-Modern Love: 02 To: A.M. From: "TonyZee" Subject: Re: Re: Literotica Feedback Dear A.M., I am not in the habit, because I have not had a great deal of interest, in corresponding with Literotica readers who write me—good, bad, or indifferent—about the meager stories I've contributed to the site. My intent has never been to "meet" someone through my stories—hence me pseudonym and paltry, tricked-up profile. Maybe a thank-you e-mail, or in your case, something a bit more substantive to allay misconceptions that may run on inappropriately. This represents my third e-mail to you, and that's certainly a record for me where a "stranger" is concerned. But your last e-mail to me was so vividly written, so insightful at least as far as lust is concerned, so heartfelt, rich, and earnest, that I could not let it lay unacknowledged. I expect that you expected as much. But I'm going to have to ask you to stop writing, please, because if your last message and the story it contained has not contaminated my imagination, then any subsequent recollections of yours are bound to. In other words, you've slightly tainted my fantasy life. My imaginary forays into infidelity are all I have. I live in Bath, Maine, for goodness' sake! I'm not going to have sex with a corrosion control technician from the Navy shipyard or a briny lobsterman. And even if I did, it would not be like having sex with someone like your "Zack," or anyone more sophisticated and interested in the finer points of lust and desire. No, I'm not going to betray my husband, as indifferent as we both may be to intimacy at this stage in our lives. When you've remained faithful as long as I have, against the current of conditions that have prevailed for so long, going off even half-cocked, let alone fully cocked, makes little sense. I'm trying to set a record for suffering and neglect. I can't blow it now. So, as I said, my fantasy world is my most cherished possession. The seductions that occur therein are my most valuable (however modest) perks. My fictional men make love to me long and hard, and can't get enough. I, unquenchable, receive their physical devotions like a consort. Fluids are exchanged. Filthy words are uttered. God, in his heaven, is shocked to his infinite core. And then I retire chastely to the marital bed, unbarbed by even the merest glyph of real sin. I envy you, what you've had, and how you've had it, your persistent memory of it, of your desire, and the quality of your erotic pain. But that's yours, the signposts along your path. And you're plainly more than capable of writing stories of your own; that's what I recommend. That's what the rest of us do. Idealists. Lonelyhearts. Romantics. Best of luck, tz ******* To: TonyZee From: Aimee Paper Subject: Getting fucked in the ass on Christmas Eve, among other things Dear Fearful Cunt, You recommend that I write "stories of my own?" Gee, let me see, oh yeah... I don't remember asking you for your frumpy hausfrau advice. Twat. My subject line was going to be "You're so right, thank you thank you!"—fearing that the more authentic line that I ultimately chose might cause you to simply delete this mail unread. But then I had a moment of clarity. I'm on to you. You're not what you say or seem, methinks. I'm also itchily suspicious that you're not even a woman. You might even be Zack, or one of his golf buddies, though I'd be hard-pressed to give any of his golf buddies credit for a delightful prose style. And unlike some of your other correspondents (I also don't believe that you do not lead others along with some phony tale or other—how many do you write to telling them how uncharacteristic it is of you to be writing to them?), I'm not so easily gulled. Your last e-mail was plainly full of subtle encouragements for me to do exactly the opposite of what you request: your claims of innocence and chastity; your choice of loaded words and phrases ("fully cocked..." "don't want to blow it..." et al.). The conceit that I'm deflowering your imagination, compromising your creative virtue, performing a seduction of sorts. And of course the abbreviation for your pseudonym: tz. Tease. Really. Is that extent of your cunning? Or maybe that's the only level of cunning to which you've needed rise. Maybe no one has bothered challenging this multi-level charade. Maybe they have, but you persist in it anyway. I guess there's no reason why you shouldn't. You're in a perfect blind. The Intenet. E-mail. Cyber-cuntery. Your imagination be damned. What you need, lady, is a young and ardent lover. Oh, sure, maybe your erotic writing days would come to an end, but who do your stories really serve anyway but you? Becoming an object of desire would be a far more satisfying outlet. Believe me. I sit here cross-legged on my bed, presumably the best erotic years and episodes of my life behind me, reading porn and writing to you, and I think, "Well, really, this is no fun at all." I'll tell you what was fun. Getting fucked by that man whose only ambition, for several years, was to fuck the living shit out of me. To indulge in as many carnal experiences as we could engineer. To do it under the noses of friends and family. To return to a table full of dinner party guests, having excused myself to put the children to bed, with a load of Zack's cum seeping into my panties, or the taste of his semen still steaming on my palate (he, having excused himself to use the bathroom, and waylaying me in the upstairs hallway of my own house, children still thrashing about in their Barney sheets just on the other side of the door, my husband and his wife downstairs at the dinner table along with one or two other neighborhood couples, yakking half-drunkenly about the Bushes [and later, the Clintons], while I knelt on the hallway carpet and replaced the taste of Cointreau with the taste of cock, Zack's cock, unzipping his Slates and wrestling out that hardon, throating it, licking it, pumping it with my fist, desperate to get that load on my tongue, the thrill of that taste and smell of semen swarming through my head—the measure of his desire, his lust. Him with his fingers in my hair, face-fucking me, fucking my lipsticked mouth while my husband sat downstairs enjoying his audience, me sucking hard on the end of his cock and stopping only long enough to beg for it—oh, he liked that, to hear me ask for that cream, to ask for it in my mouth, and then he would pump a gloriously large load over my tongue and down my throat, grunting out "fuck" and "eat it"). What is the underside of life? How does existence feel? A cock in your mouth that is not your husband's, but one that is nevertheless so fantastically yours to suck? Beautifully velvety and turgid. Purplish-red and ready to spasm. This was my subtext, the current running beneath all else. We were respected members of our community. Good parents. Responsible wage earners. Involved members of the church. Civic minded. Ethical. We loved our children and each others children and provided lovingly for our families. Cared for our parents. Voted and prayed. Exercised. Cooked healthy meals. Read The New Yorker and Bon Appetit and Atlantic Monthly and Metropolitan Home. Baked for the bake sales and associated with the local associations. Continued to learn and develop our minds. Yet underneath it all, or in addition to it all, we fucked each other like fucking each other was the only thing that mattered, like fucking each other was the logical end to everything else. Wrote my check to Amnesty International with the same hand I imagined jacking his hard cock; offered my upturned face to receive his spurting, creamy load with the same refreshing expectation I turned it to the soothing shower head in the morning. This, this made us feel alive somehow in a way that none of those other activities managed. In fact, those other activities only managed to take on their greatest meaning and import because of how well and meaningfully we fucked. They were all addendum, grace notes in the lush, lusty symphony of our carnality, our booming infidelity. Fuck me, Zachery, and make me whole, I thought. Fuck my holes. Christmas Eve, 1997. I'm wearing a pink sweater, pearls, and tan slacks. Sonny is going straight from work to his parent's house for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, and I'm packing up hors d'oeuvres, stocking-stuffers. The girls are watching a "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" video in the family room, and the doorbell rings. It's Zack, making a neighborly drive-by of Christmas cheer, dropping off a bottle of Belvedere for me and a bottle of Glenfiddich for Sonny. Except Sonny's not here. I yank him inside. "I can't stay," he says. "Really, I was just dropping some holiday cheer." "I need some cheer," I say. "I could use a stiff one." "The girls?" he says. "Hypnotized by the magic of television," I say. "Come here. I want you to try one of my hors d'oeuvres." I pull him into the kitchen. Fragrant candles still burning on the counter. The room smells like puff pastry, cinnamon stick, and burnt matches. He takes me in his arms and kisses me, and I kiss him back, smoothing a hand unambiguously down the front of his trousers. I can feel him stirring already, and this alacrity, this almost immediate response turns me on more than I can possibly explain. To feel a man harden so quickly at your touch, in anticipation of your touch... it's like suddenly discovering you can read minds, or levitate, or breathe under water. I crouch, unzip him quickly, extract his cock, and take it in my mouth. It's musky and delicious and goes from pussy worthy stiff to assfuck hard in nanoseconds—a diamond in that ripe pubic ruff. I linger there, bobbing on it. "Fuck," he whispers. "Oh baby, I want to fuck you in the worst way." Oh, I'm going to take him up on this, to be sure. Crouched there in my own kitchen, his cock in my mouth, his hips thrusting that hardon between my lips, I unhook my slacks and yank down the zipper. I'm up, my pants are down, and I turn around the grab the sink. "Quick," I say. "Fuck me." Then it's in me, the engorged head, the smooth shaft, sliding up into my slickened cunt. I can feel all of him, the ridge of his cockhead and the thick vein, this beautiful impromptu pas de deux. I can't believe how intensely primal I feel, how basic. "Fuck. My. Pussy. Hard." I say, in time with this thrusts, but he's already doing it, already pounding me, I'm just narrating, his body slamming so hard against me he's parting the cheeks of my ass, I can feel the skin of his abdomen kissing my asshole. I'm so wet, so excited, I can barely feel his cock thrusting up into my pussy. "Jesus, you're so wet," he says. "Did you just get fucked?" The notion, upon utterance, seems to turn him on, and he pounds me even harder, which I didn't think possible. "Fuck me up the ass," I manage to gasp. "Here?" he slows. "No, not here," I hiss. "Up the ass, you motherfucker. Put your cock in my tight asshole. Now!" Sweet man, he doesn't miss a beat, but redirects his cuntslick cock to my willing starburst and pushes. Twinkle lights spray my brain. My eyes fill with tinsel. It's the most wonderful time of the year. The nerve endings in my anus light up and scream Yes! His cock is in my ass one quarter, then one half. I reach back and spread my ass cheeks with my hands and he pushes all the way into my dark and spasming hole. Jesus, I feel like I have to shit but I know I don't. I reach below and begin stroking my clit double-time. "You're going to make me come," I breathe. "You're going to make me come. Fuck. You're going to make me fucking come... Keep fucking my ass... Keep. Fucking. My. Ass-sss... That's it... that's it..." I start bucking wildly on the end of his cock, clawing at my clitoris, my other hand reflexively grabbing the sink faucet and yanking on the water. I'm mental at this point, coming out of my fucking mind, wild and palsied, so fucking unbelievably fucking Jesus fucking ass fucking yeah boy fuckit... "I'm going to come," he says. "I have to come." "Shoot it on my back," I gasp. "I want to feel your load on my skin, shoot it on my back." His cock comes out with a pop, as they say on Literotica. I yelp, and suddenly feel his hot, creamy load of cum jet over the small of my back, then a second spurt hit my asshole, and a third. If there was more, I couldn't tell. Tears are running down my cheeks. My strand of pearls are thwacking against the edge of the sink, I'm sweating madly in my pink sweater, trying to catch my breath, and he's spitting out whispery "fuck," "Jesus," "fucking," "crazy," "fucking," "bitch," "damn." In all the years we were together, in all the times we fucked, Zack only fucked my ass 12 times. I used to think that I wish he'd fucked my ass more, but I realize that if he had, those 12 times wouldn't have nearly been as potent in my memory as they are. You can't have it both ways. No pun intended. He leans across me and rips off a paper towel from the roll, and I say, "What are you doing? Don't wipe off that wonderful cum with a paper towel." "What do you want me to do," he says, still panting. I reach into the drawer next to me and take out a teaspoon, hand it to him. "Scoop all of it." He does. At which point I turn around. In my pink sweater and pearls, pants down around my ankles. He smoothes a hand appreciatively over my bare hip, sweet man. I looked really good then. Smooth and trim. I'm still no slouch, but back then... I open my mouth and he feeds me the spoonful of his cum. I lick that spoon clean as you might expect I would, like a child. Until then, I'd never eaten his cum any other way than directly from his spurting cock. It tasted different. Cooler, and more bitter than what I was accustomed to. But I didn't care about the taste. He'd just fucked my ass, and I'd eaten his cum from a spoon. That's all I kept thinking. I do believe that if he'd put his hand between my legs at that moment I would have erupted into a knee-buckling orgasm. "Thank you for that holiday cheer," I say. "Santa Claus comes tonight, too. You're in good company." Later, at mys, I sat at their holiday dinner table. The food was delicious, everything smelled and tasted divine, the house was warm and Christmassy, the children were sweet, it was all so warm and rich and dear, and rife with everything I'd grown to love about my adult life: family, the comfort of tradition, the love and acceptance of the clan, the self-awareness, the sense of the present. And all the time there, flashing through my mind, was the thought, "... and my lover just fucked me up the ass and fed me his cum from a spoon... fucked my tight little hole with his hard, hard cock... oh yeah..." This is what you think. You think, she's trying to legitimize her moral degeneracy. You think, she's trying to normalize herself in the face of her depravity. YOU think, what a lost, empty, wandering cunt, what a homewrecker, what a selfish hedonistic bitch, what a narcissist. Lamentable wife. Unfit mother. These might be valid appraisals. Well, my chaste judgmental darling, I often think the same things about myself, you may or may not be satisfied to know. Often, I wish it were otherwise. I wish I understood why I feel the way I feel, why I felt and did the things I felt and did. I often wish my life were a magazine cover, a Calvin Klein ad, an SUV commercial. Some folks may tell you that it was indeed all those things, but for the carnal subtext... You write stories, fantasizing about the intimacies that you think will... what? Complete you? Complement you? Round you out? Or maybe you don't think any of those things. Maybe you just enjoy the illicit thrill of fuck stories, the safety and distance of them. Maybe you're just trying to understand your sexual nature, what it means and how it affects you. Maybe you're just trying to understand what it means to have a sexual nature, why people have it, why you don't. I only know that I wish that I understood this all a bit better. Because, you know, or I'm sure you suspected, that this... inclination (the devastated Sonny called it a "pathology") deprived me of the many wonderful things in my life that I cherished. That Christmas Eve dinner table. That warmth. That family. Oh, I can light candles and bake cookies and roast endless turkeys, but of course it's not the same. But his cock in my ass? Well, there aren't many things quite like that, either. In fact, there's NOTHING else quite like that. Make no mistake. After all, it IS a hard cock in one's ass. Find an analogy. I dare you. Peevishly, A.M.P.