1 comments/ 10096 views/ 2 favorites Life of Pits By: tarkatony Chapter 1 Note: the first of the 3 chapters was posted some time ago. Two additional chapters have been added to make up this complete 3 chapter novella. ––––––––––– "I am skinny, no tits, none, shy, no self-confidence/esteem, never really had a date, work in a meaningless job in large corp, unhappy, no prospects, no hobbies, sexually ignorant, maybe even sexless." Peachpit356 had sent me an email a few weeks ago questioning a character in a story I had written for Literotica. I like feedback, it's the only reason I post my stories: to find out what in my story works for readers and what doesn't. I want to become a better writer. Alas, I don't get much meaningful feedback. Usually readers comment that my stuff either sucks or is good, both equally unhelpful when what I really want to know is why something works or doesn't work. And that's what I had written back to Peachpit356: don't tell me you didn't like my character, tell me why you didn't like him, why you didn't find him credible. And she did: 'a lonely and lost guy would never approach a stranger,' she had written, and she added that she ought to know because she 'is a female version of my character.' A few days later she sent me a much long email, taking the time to give me a really thorough critique of my story. Clearly, Peachpit356 is intelligent, thoughtful, literate and observant — all her comments were helpful. And she was very complimentary. She said she liked my stuff because my storylines were always about sexual discovery and character growth. She said my stories helped her learn a little about herself, but mostly, my stories offered her hope that her life could be transformed, just like the lives of my characters were transformed. There was a sadness in her writing that affected me and I wrote her back, trying to be positive, optimistic. That's when I got the return message sited above: "I am skinny, no tits, none, shy, no self-confidence/esteem, never really had a date, work in a meaningless job in large corp, unhappy, no prospects, no hobbies, sexually ignorant, maybe even sexless." "But you go to Literotica," I wrote back. "I don't know about the rest of your description but you couldn't be sexless: we all go to Literotica to be sexually stimulated." "Not me," she responded. "I go to learn; to find out about what I'm missing." "So you're never stimulated by the stories? You don't find my stories erotic?" It took her two days to write back, it was as if she needed time to organize her thoughts. "My imagination isn't strong enough to put myself in your characters' arms, and anyway, I wouldn't know what to do if I ever got there." I wrote back immediately, wondering if she was, indeed, sexually dead. "Would you like to know what to do?" I had her answer within a minute. "Some things are beyond my imagination." I was going to argue with her, challenge her, encourage her, but I could feel the hopelessness in all her emails and I knew my words would sound empty, banal so I didn't write her back, not immediately, instead I mulled over an idea I had been toying with since early on in our email exchange. Why not write a story about her? But more than that, why not get her to actively participate in the story, a story about my favourite subject, sexual awakening. In the story she would play herself and would pick her own love interest, the kind of man who appealed to her. I would use my imagination together with her own ideas to write a story that would prove to her that she is as sexual as the rest of us, at least in the world of fantasy. And that's what I wrote. "ARE YOU NUTS?" I wrote back immediately. "Look Peachpit356, you go to Literotica, I think you want to be sexually awakened but you can't quite seem to pull that off yourself: why don't I put you in one of my stories! Together, we can create a realistic fiction based specifically on you, your personality, your likes and dislikes — and we can try to make you come alive? Think about it, Pits! I'd be doing most of the work, you would just be feeding me your ideas. It could work! But if the story is going to help you with a sexual awakening it obviously must be based on you and your ideas. What have you got to lose? You'd be entirely anonymous and with a little collaboration you might discover something about yourself. "I can hear you asking, Pits: 'What's in it for you?' Well, I've never collaborated with anyone before; I've always been forced to speculated about what's running through a woman's mind. This would be a great chance for me to learn, first hand, how a woman thinks, how she reacts to specific situations. I'd love to try this. But really, if it's going to have any real value to you, you must be the main character in the story and it must be YOU, not someone you wish you were, and I mean you, with your clothes off, with your warts and blemishes showing, psychological as well as physical. And you have to give me a detailed outline of the man in the story, too, and he also must be real, not some Hollywood cut-out; he has to be as flawed as you but someone you could realistically care for." "Why do you call me Pits?" "Because Peachpit356 is a little too cryptic and Peaches is a little too familiar. Do you want me to stop?" It took her two days to respond to my proposal. "I've put a lot of thought into your idea. You're right, what have I got to lose? And you're right, I could actually gain something. I'll do it but ONLY on two condition: 1. That we only post the story if I agree to, otherwise we delete it. 2. YOU are the man in the story, YOU will be as naked on the page as I am — the real you, not some hollywood version of you; you with 'all your warts and blemishes, psychological as well as physical.'" I quickly wrote back because clearly she didn't understand me. "I said you have to care about the guy, Pits, otherwise, the story won't have any real meaning to you. Pick some guy you could realistically see yourself with, a kind of idealized guy." She responded immediately. "I've read every one of your stories, 18 of the them, all of them many times. I feel I know you. To me, you are sensitive, compassionate and caring. This might sound really pathetic, Bucko329, but it's honest: if I'm going to have a sexual awakening, I want it to be with someone like you, and because you're the only one like you I know, I choose you." I wrote back in protest, "But you don't really know me. Those are just stories." "I know how your mind works, Bucko. You are compassionate, interested and I think even loving. You're right, I don't know you, don't have a clue what you look like and your empty Literotica bio is no help. But you're the kind of guy I would want. So, you're all I've got, Bucko. It's you or nothing." Her response startled me, it was the furthest thing from my mind. Did I want to write about myself? I've never even considered it, quite the contrary, I've hidden behind phony names and phony identities ever since I first entered the cyberworld. Did I want to come out? It was scary. But I knew I didn't want to continue existing in my fictional world, either; I was becoming lost; it was becoming increasingly difficult to know who I am. I log-on at work like a drone; I shop on-line as a number; I write on Literotica with a pseudonym; I pass-word myself into any number of sites; I pay for everything with a plasticized number. I am anonymous. I have no identity. Maybe joining Pits in a fictional/factual story could help me take back my identity, my own reality. By writing a story of fiction maybe I could reacquire the fact of my life. I laughed when I thought about it. Writing about myself would be ridiculous, I'm the most uninteresting person I know. — but it might be liberating. When I started to think seriously about it I realized that if I included myself in the fiction, I might have as much to gain from the story as Pits did, maybe more. "I'm in," I wrote, with more enthusiasm than I felt. "Great," she responded immediately, "but one more thing before I agree. Honesty. If this story is to be about me coming out of my sexual cocoon it will only help me if I am totally honest about myself and I can only be totally honest about myself IF I think you're being totally honest about yourself. Do you understand? This might mean you have to admit you have a wife and eight kids, I know that, but honesty has to be a part of both sides of the story or it won't work for me. Understand? Deal? And oh, BTW, I have a really well developed bull-shit detector. Lie to me and I'll know it." Honesty about herself had been my point from the beginning. I was less enamored with the idea of honesty about myself, but she was right. "You're not going to like everything you find out about me." "Ditto." "OK," I wrote. "Deal." "Deal!" She wrote back, "So how do we begin?" "I've thought about that. Basically, we use all the emails we've already written as the set-up to the story. The storyline is that you like my stories, I like your critiques, we connect, we both see something in each other, we're both a little desperate, I suggest you come and visit me — it will be one of those internet-inspired romances. The real story will begin, essentially, when you step off the plane or bus. What do you think?" "Why don't you come and visit me?" "We're supposed to be living a fiction as close to the truth as possible, right? I can't get away, right now; I have to work — long hours, often weekends." "But you're asking me to get on a bus to visit a man I've never met. You're asking me to show a hell of a lot more nerve than I've got." "Look Pits, you're lonely, sexless, lacking in self-esteem — all the things you've already pointed out. You come to the conclusion that you have nothing to lose so why not go and visit a man you think of as caring and loving." "Is he?" "Damned if I know! But a warning, Pits: you seemed to be a little sold on my soul. You'll have a lot harder time with how my soul is packaged. I'm a bit of a geek-type: think Bill Gates then strip him of his sex appeal." "Really?" "I'm not ugly, or anything. I'm just not very visible: I'm a John, single, I write computer code all day, talk code with other geeks, then I go home and write stories about people with passions." "Maybe you have an ulterior motive for writing my story. Sounds like you need a sexual identity about as badly as I do." "It's true. I recently came to that very conclusion." "Don't take this personally, John, but how much fire can we get from rubbing two limp sticks together?" "Let's find out. Still, want to try? We don't have to publish the story, that will be a joint decision. If you want to pursue this, I suggest we move from emails to chat." "Nothing ventured ... where do you want to meet?" I tell her and in a few minutes I ask, "Are you there? "Ya, I'm getting out of a bus at the bus station in your city." "What are you wearing, Pits?" "What city are you in?" "Seattle." "Really? I'm Portland. So I guess if I'm getting out of a bus in Seattle I should be wearing a yellow slicker and rubber boots ..." "Very funny. Let's make it's summer, Pits, we have beautiful summers here. It's hot and muggy and you don't have a whole lot on." "I'm in shorts and a tank top ..." "Bra?" "Got to wear the bra." "Why? You haven't any breasts?" "No, but I have inches of nipple and that can be really embarrassing. What happens if when I see you, I like you. The whole fucking bus station will know, hell, the people in the Space Needle will know." "Stuff the bra," I say. "It's the new you." "It's already stuffed." "I mean get rid of it." "I know what you meant but I can't, I've got to be true to my persona, right? The bra stays, I'll show a little navel. Is that you with the flowers?" "No flowers, this isn't a true romance; you're coming sort of ... in a way, to talk to me about my stories." "Ya. Right. I'm coming tarted up and you're ... "Waiting for you with flowers, a bunch of ... flowers." "You don't know a hydrangea from a delphinium do you?" "Not at the moment because I'm a little speechless, you're a lot cuter than you led me to believe." "I'm scare shitless, John. I think it's you with the flowers and you look OK but what the fuck am I doing in Seattle with a few pairs of underwear and a toothbrush in my backpack?" "Hi Amy, I'm John." "Amy? Why Amy?" "Don't know your real name. Change it if you don't like it." "Hi John. I'm nervous." "I like Amy better. Tsk. I give you the flowers, take your backpack and we walk down the street a half block to the parking lot. I'm making the usual awkward conversation: good trip? Nice weather! Hasn't rained in a week. Hope you enjoy your stay. You don't want dinner so we stop for a drink, get to my apartment by 10:30 PM, I put your backpack on the bed in the spare bedroom and point out the towels. So what do you do?" "I don't know, I've never been alone in a guy's apartment. Maybe I pray?" "This is Literotica.com we're writing for, Pits." "I came to Seattle because I thought you are compassionate and caring. I can now add gentlemanly and thoughtful: there are flowers in my bedroom and scented soaps on the towel. Nice touch, John. When I wash my face I smile. I feel a little daring, a little naughty. For the first time in my life I'm going to be sleeping in the same home as a guy and I'm surprised that it's making me a little horny. I take off my tank top and my bra and those nipple I've told you about are standing out from my flat chest so stiff they hurt. I trust you. I feel comfortable with you. I want to send you a message. I put the tank top on and throw the bra on my bed before I join you in the living room." "Would you do that, Pits? You said it wasn't in your persona." "Nor is being in the apartment with a guy I don't know, but I am and I feel safe, John and you make me feel a little sexy, I can't explain why, nothing you said, you just sort of seem to care about me. As I said, I want to send you a message — I wouldn't have a clue how to do that with words. The bra thing is all I can think of and anyway, they don't always stand out and probably aren't very much now because I'm a little nervous and self-conscious." "No, they're standing out, Pits, believe me I'm noticing, but I don't pick up that you've tossed the bra. I hand you a glass of wine. You sit on the couch and I sit in a chair across from you. There's a long silence ... "I can see you're really nervous, John, really uncomfortable, so I ask you the one question that's been on my mind since the moment I met you: where do you get the ideas for your stories? "I wait a moment, as if processing the question, then I answer with a snicker: experience." We explode with laugher at the same time, "With your mother?" "And my sister, my aunt, the wife of the CEO ..." "... a lesbian stevedore, your best friend's mother and sister?" We laugh for a few minutes. Clearly the notion of me writing from experience is beyond ridiculous. I try to explain, "I don't know where my ideas come from, I just start and the story comes out. Maybe they come from another life. Maybe I sleep walk." "You have a great laugh, John, I really like your laugh." "I've needed it. Would you like some more wine?" "With all the laughing I'm obviously tipsy now but I want you to know that I wasn't laughing AT you, John." "Ya, Pits, you were and so was I. I look like the last person on earth to write torrid erotica. As I said I sort of look like Gates, slight, blond, glasses — the pocket protector type. I write my stories as therapy, a vicarious thrill. It's harmless and it's fun." "Well, as I've said, you write well and with compassion. So we're sitting here, the geek and the twig, what happens next?" "My stories develop slowly, as you know. I think you'd get up, come over and kiss me on the cheek and say something like, I've had a wonderful night, John and I'm already looking forward to tomorrow." "That's good, I'd do that. And it's a good time to break. I need to think. See you tomorrow?" "7 PM?" "Goodnight, John." "See ya, Pits." ---- "Hi, Pits." "You didn't tell me how much fun this can be. God, this story is consuming, isn't it. I thought about it all night, all day. What will I do when I leave you and go to bed? What do I want you to do? If something happens, how will I react; how will you react? And what should happen? It's all I've thought about." "The sex?" "Well, the sex, ya, but there's something a whole lot bigger: I'm in an apartment, alone with a guy who I think I like. This is new to me, John, my emotions are getting a bit frayed." "Me, too, for the same reasons. I like you, I like your personality, I like your body, I like that you seem to want to be with me, I like that a lot." "It's hot, isn't it? What are you feeling?" "After you kissed me on the cheek and went to bed, all I could think of is that there's a really attractive woman lying in the room next door. That's a first for me. Not surprisingly, I have what is generally referred to as a raging hard-on." "Did you masturbate?" "No, well, not at first. I did take it in my hand but I felt like a cheater, I felt really dishonest. I had invited you into my home and, well, it just didn't seem right to flog, it sort of felt like I was in some way abusing you. But I didn't let my cock go, either. I thought about our story a little more and I saw us getting closer and closer together, emotionally and physically, like we really understood each other, liked we wanted, you know, to be together. The moment I imagined you leaning into me, well, it seemed OK then. I only needed a stroke." "Whoa, that's sweet, John, I really like that. I didn't masturbate. I slept in my panties. I didn't at first, I usually don't but without them, nude, I felt way too exposed in your house so I put them on. But I played with myself a little and I definitely would have masturbated if I was at home. Definitely, and I almost never do. But I couldn't there, a room away from you, that would have been way to weird for me. But I brushed my fingers up and down my panties for awhile thinking about you. I liked that you're a gentleman, John, I like that you seem to respect me, be interest in me. And I like that I was getting really, really wet thinking about you. That hasn't really ever happened before. I like this, John. Like, I really, really like this." "Weren't you frustrated? I mean, could you get to sleep? The moment I got off I rolled over and blissfully drifted off." "I was really into the story, I didn't want to sleep, I wanted to find out what was going to happen to me." "And?" "I tried a bunch of different story lines. I knocked on your door, my nipples were like tent pegs and my panties were wet and bunched in my bum — but I could never do that so I crept back to my room and pulled the covers over my head. Then I tried the panty thing, I washed them and hung them in the bathroom to send you a signal, but I'd never do that, either, so I gave up on that, too. I tried something else. I brought a really light blouse with me and I had that on the next morning without my bra, but I couldn't get that to work either. Nothing seemed to work for me, probably for two reasons: I've already told you I have a lousy imagination but the biggest reason is that I can't be the aggressor, John, I'm just not like that." "You went bra-less the night before." "Ya, that really shocked me, but I did it, and I would have done it, too. I'm kind of proud of that." "So you're waiting for me to make the first move?" "Afraid so, sorry." "So am I." "Do you?" "In a retarded kind of way. I get up pretty early the next morning and make coffee. I'd bought some croissants. I'm nervous as hell. But it's different now. Before I was apprehensive and socially awkward but you've made me feel really comfortable. I like being with you, Pits, I really like being with you and that has changed everything. I've got a hard-on when I'm making the coffee and the fucking thing won't go away. And I don't really want it to, I want to feel the way I do, it's the first time in my life I've felt like this, not horny, I've felt like that a lot, but horny for someone in particular, horny for you, Pits." Life of Pits "I'm loving this, John, I'm feeling the same way as you. I heard you get up, heard you go to the bathroom, heard you in the kitchen. I've been touching myself since I woke up. I'm wet, John. I'm going to get up, but I don't want you to see me all fresh and perky from a shower. I want you to see me right out of bed, with sleep wrinkles on my face and maybe a little smelly. I'm turned on, John, really turned on so I put on the minimum, a long tee shirt over my panties. I know my nipples are poking out but I don't care. No I do care, I want you to notice. I've never felt like this before. If you took me by the hand and pulled me into your bedroom I'd go and I'd beat you onto the bed. This is all new to me and I'm just thrilled I'm getting into it. Like thrilled doesn't quite tell the story." "Well, I wish when you came into the kitchen you'd said something. You didn't, all you said was 'hi,' and I almost exploded at the word. I had to turn away or you'd notice the bulge in my pants." "I didn't notice, John. Did you notice my nipples?" "Before I turned away, yes, but I noticed the sparkle in your eyes, too and the crumpled, I-just-got-out-of-bed look and ..." "What did you do?" "Nothing. I pointed out the coffee and croissants then I went and had a shower, a cold one, a long cold shower. I didn't turn the water off until I'd lost my fucking hard-on." "So that's it? I'm dressed in wet panties and a tee shirt and I'm drinking coffee, alone?" "It's worse than that, Pits. I tell you to hurry up, we've got to be going — I yell it from my bedroom because I'm afraid to come out: I want you to have a shower and get some clothes on. I am fucked, Pits. You've turned me into a nervous fucking wreck. I haven't a clue how I'm going to get through the day. I'm thinking of taking you to the bus station." "Ya, well, can you imagine how I feel? For the first time in my life I'm in some guys apartment, no bra, wet panties and a tee shirt — I'm out there, John, way out there and you don't seem to give a shit. Can you image how that makes me feel? I've read all your stories, fixed on this really romanticized vision of you, then I meet you, like your looks, like that you're a gentleman and then I'm standing in your kitchen with next to nothing on and you yell at me to get ready! You want to take me to the bus station? Fine, let's go." "We're cowering in the corners of the elevator going down. You have on what you were wearing last night. So do I, more or less. Neither of us has said anything since I hollered from my bedroom. I'm counting the floors. I'm determined to say something by the 4th floor but it goes by and so does the 3rd and 2nd. And then the elevator stops and the doors open and you step forward to exit. That's when I put my hand around your waist. I get skin, I didn't mean to, I was about to apologize ..." "I jumped into your arms didn't I?" "Yes." "Did I punch in the 14th floor?" "No, I did." "Liar, I did. We were trapped in there and the only place I wanted to go was up — to your apartment." "Pits?" "Ya?" "You felt wonderful. You had your arms around my neck, your feet weren't on the floor, you were wiggling in my arms like an eel, my hands were on the hot, soft skin of your back. I could feel your breath on my cheek, I could smell you, Pits, your hair, your breath and I saw the reflection of your ass in the copper plating of the elevator." "I've got a good ass, don't I." "Spectacular." "What floor are we on?" "We just passed the 9th." "What are we going to do, John? Do you know?" "Are you kidding? Do you think I can actually think? I just don't want to let you go but the door is opening now and I have to. You drop to your feet and I follow you out of the elevator and down the hall. I'm fumbling for my keys." "Can I take it from here, John?" "I want to stop, Pits. I want some time on this. Can we break until tomorrow?" "... Pits?" "... Pits?" "You don't need me any more, do you?" "What does that mean?" "It means that I've brought you to your bedroom door, now you don't need me. It's like all your stories: you can now go into your bedroom and do whatever you want to; you can get off any way you want to because you don't have to deal with a real person or the consequences; you can just manipulate the woman; twist her into the person you want her to be. How do you want me, John? Do you want me to keep my panties on? How wet do you want them? Do I go down on you? Take your big, long, veiny cock in my mouth and bring you to a place you've never been before? Well, here's what I want, John, I want to take my panties off, kneel on the bed, bend over and say, 'Kiss my ass.' Bye." My first reaction was anger but I was too hurt for that. It wasn't true, I didn't need to think about my motives, I didn't need to search my soul, I didn't need to come to a deep truth about myself. It just wasn't true, there wasn't a scintilla of truth in her accusation. I wanted a break from our writing because I was in emotional overload. Just holding her, feeling her against me, feeling her wiggle in my arms — feel that she actually wanted to BE in my arms was a sensation I'd never felt before — I wanted it to last, I didn't want anything to intrude on a feeling that was so real to me I actually sniffed at my shoulder to see if her scent was there. That's what I emailed her ... and while I waited in the chat room the next night I finally understood the word 'fate'. Something was in charge of my destiny and it wasn't me. It may not even be her. Maybe some people are just so socially fucked they can never connect, no matter how hard they try; it just isn't in the stars. "You there, John?" "Ya." "Sorry." "Did you really think that, Pits, that I wanted to dump you for my own imagination?" "I've told you I have no self-esteem." "It isn't me, Pits, I would never do that. How can you describe me as sensitive and caring one day and the next accuse me of being manipulative and diabolical?" "Look, John, can we drop it? I was wrong. Sorry. Can we just get back in the elevator? Please? Look, I've got my arms around your neck, I can feel your hands on my back. OK? That's where I want to be. That's where I was all night, well, the part of the night when I wasn't crying." "Shouldn't we be dealing with this, Pits? I mean we just got to a point in the story when something is going to happen and bam: I don't want to go into the bedroom until I've thought it through, and you think I don't want you, don't need you, that I'd rather dump you and go in there and fuck with my own imagination. I mean, we're writing this story to learn something about ourselves, aren't we? Doesn't this tell us something? Don't you want to discuss it, Pits, to learn from it? I do." "The more you feel, the greater the fall." "Is that it, Pits? You don't want to go into the bedroom because you're going to give yourself and if it doesn't work out you're going to crash and burn. Is that it?" "Ya, flame out. I'm too fragile right now to flame out. I might never recover." "In a way that's how I feel, too. I've had all my characters go into bedrooms like this and they always pull it off, they always get the girl. I guess I wanted to think it through so I could come up with a kind of fool-proof, fail-safe strategy so I'd be just like my characters, I'd go into that bedroom and find the one girl of my dreams and be blissfully happy for the rest of my life." "So, last night in your bed when you were thinking of the story, did we ever make it in the bedroom?" "No. Like I said, Pits, I wanted to hold you, I didn't want to let you go. But I also wanted some time to think about what we were going to do when we got on the bed. I didn't want to screw it up. And I can tell you, Pits, as nice as it is, I certainly didn't want to kiss your ass." "That's the last word on the subject, OK?" "Still. It did look ..." "OK, John. Please? I'm sorry." "OK. We leave the elevator, enter my apartment and head for my bedroom ... Jesus, Pits, I haven't thought it through. Let's leave it here. Let's log off until tomorrow? What do you say?" "I say, take my hand, John, I don't want to think this through, I want to go in there with you and see what happens — and I want to come out a different girl." "Are you sure, Pits? We've got a lot riding on this." "Ya, I'm sure, I've never been so excited, the door is in front of us, I hesitate, I reach out for your hand ..." "Are you really sure, Pits, Jesus, it's scary." "I reach out my hand ..." "I've got your hand, Pits, and we go into the room but I'm so nervous I won't let you on the bed, that's too final, too threatening. I turn you around and take you into my arms again, feeling the skin on your back, pressing my hard-on into you." "I feel it, John, I get my arms around your neck again and hoist myself up, pressing my face into your neck ..." "You're wiggling against me as you did before, squirming, my hand drops down and I feel the ass you asked me to kiss ..." "Careful, John, we're in a really delicate situation here ... I kiss you, not very well, but I kiss you on the lips, I want you to know ... no, I want to encourage you, I'm afraid you're going to somehow back out — feel that you're taking advantage of me, somehow corrupting me. I want to show you I want this, I want this badly." "Do you?" "Jesus, John, how can you have any doubt? You should see me now: my nipple are almost poking the screen, my panties are soaked and otherwise I'm sitting in front of a computer nude. You put me here, John, you're the only reason I'm here, it's not my imagination, I don't have an imagination. You put me here." "No I didn't, Pits, I didn't drag you into the room. We went in together, hand in hand. You wanted to go into that bedroom as badly as I did, and you're just as scared about failing." "I'm not going to fail, I'm going to give this everything I've got. I'm climbing down from you now, John, feeling your penis against my leg and I'm pulling you to the bed: come on, John, I want to lie down with you, beside you, I want to touch you, I want you to touch me, I want to feel your fingers on me, John, will you come with me?" "You're beautiful Pits, you're so thin and lithe, you move like a panther, you're kneeling on the bed, waiting for me, your nipples are almost poking through your tank top, but the real desire is in your eyes ..." "Don't, John, don't describe me, get on the bed, touch me, let me take your clothes off, I want to take your clothes off, to feel you, I want to feel my skin against yours, please, John, get on the bed and take my clothes off. Please ..." "I'm on the bed beside you, Pits ..." "Yes, put your hands on me. Take my top off, John." "I put my hands on your tiny waist and feel the heat ..." "...the top, John ..." "When I take the hem of your top you lift your arms high and I peal it off you and my eyes are on you when I let the top drop to the bed. Your nipples are fantastic, Pits, really ..." "Don't describe me, John, take me." "I push you down, but I'm still looking at your nipples. I've never seen nipples before, never imagined them to be so erotic ..." "They're too big, impossibly big." "They're yours Pits, they're beautiful. I bend down and lick one, then suck on it like I would a popsicle, but it's burning hot and salty and stiff and hard." "I'm pushing at my shorts now, I can't wait, I'm pushing at my shorts and underwear, I want them off." "I help you, I pull them away and when I do, I sit up and look at you." "Don't John, please, don't look at me, just get on me." "I push you down. The readers have to see you Pits, they have to see you like I'm seeing you. You are the story. You're lying on the bed with one leg straight and the other bent, like you've been caught in mid-squirm. You're slight, with a very narrow rib cage and tiny waist and you're white, really white making the sparse brown broken triangle at your crotch and your deep brown aureoles appear fantastically three-dimensional. And you're looking at me, with eyes as brown and riveting as your nipples. Your mouth is set, determined, impatient ..." "I guess I'm impatient, get on me, John." "I bend down and put my lips on the tiny roundness of your belly and I kiss you, down to your pubic hair, then up to your nipples. You are squirming now ..." "Squirming? I'll show you squirming ... I push you off me and get to my knees and pull at your clothes, I'm frantically pulling at your clothes and you help me and in a moment you're standing beside the bed, naked, with a terrific hard-on only inches from my face. But I don't want that, not now, I want you on me, I want to feel you against me, I want my arms around you so I pull you onto the bed and onto me ... John?" "Ya?" "I'm done. I can't take any more. I want to hold you, I want to hold this. I want to stop for tonight, OK?" "Me, too." "But John?" "Ya?" "I want to have sex with you tonight, in my bed, I want you to want to get in my bed with me and I want it all, John, I want all the things you've written about. I want your lips on me, in my pussy, in my ass, I want you inside me and I want all of you, I want to devour you. Will you let me? Will you come into my bed with me tonight?" "Take me, Pits, it's your imagination, can I stop you?" "Easily, yes, you can tell me you don't want to be with me. That would stop me, John, that would stop me in my tracks." "I want it, too, Pits, everything." "You do?" "Everything. Every bit of you." "Take every bit of me, John, make me do wonderful things for you, I'll do anything, everything." "Pits?" "Yes?" "You're really something. Whatever happens, I want you to know that you're the most interesting, passionate, sexy woman I've ever imagined. Don't you dare shrink from any of this, Pits. If it fails, it will be me, not you who has failed. Remember that, OK?" "We're not going to fail, John. Neither of us." ---------- "It's Pits." "Hi." "Do you know what I did last night, John? I wrote the story, the entire fucking story from the beginning to the end." "You did?" "I did and I did it the way you suggested. I pieced all our emails together and all our chats. It's a good story, John, well, I think it's good and so does Alice." "Alice?" "She's a friend, a good friend. She loved it. She's the one who told me our story is over." "It's over?" "The story was always about my sexual awakening, right? Well, last night I awoke – big time. I found more passion in me than ... well, than I could ever have imagined, ever have hoped for. It worked, John, your idea really worked. I really am sexually alive. It's amazing. Thanks." "I'm glad." "But there's something else. Alice pointed it out. We were never telling a story, John, we were building a relationship — sure it might have been a virtual relationship, but it was a relationship. You started off calling me, Amy, remember? But you dropped the Amy, my fictitious name, almost from the beginning. Your story was always about Pits, John, always about Peachpit356, wasn't it? It was always about me, the person that wrote all those pathetic emails to you." "The skinny girl with no tits and no self-esteem. Ya, for me it was about her right from the start." "So, do you want to know how it ended? Do you want to know how our story ended?" "Ya, of course I do." "When I lay down on that bed with my legs open and my arms out to you, I became Jennifer Barker from Portland and you, when you lay down beside me, stabbing my leg with your hard-on, pressing your hot skin into mine, you are ..." "... Pete Kimmel ..." "You're Pete Kimmel of Seattle. We're really us, not the people we made up, not Pits and John." "The story is that we make the fiction fact?" "Exactly. What do you think? I can take a bus." "I'd fuck it up, Pits, I know I'd fuck it up. I'd be scared shitless." "Me, too, if I got out of that bus tomorrow I'd be a quivering twig, I know that, but I've got a solution Pete, and it'll work." "What?" "I get out of the bus with my backpack in my hand and you're standing there with the flowers in your hand but we both have something else in our hands, too. Do you know what, Pete?" "No." "This script. We play the parts we've already imagined, already played. That's our commitment. We are the characters in our own play so at the very least we end up in your bedroom, on your bed, nude. Who knows from there. Maybe we put our clothes back on and shake hands. But I don't think so, Pete. But first things first. Do you want me to get a bus ticket?" "Pits?" "Ya?" "I have the script memorized. I've read it 30 times." "Me too. So?" "Hydrangeas or delphiniums?" "This is going to be great, Pete." "Pits?" "Ya?" "Can you take a plane?" "It's gotta be a bus, Pete. Neither of us is strong enough. We've got to follow the script. We've got to hit our marks." "The bus station it is. See you tomorrow ... Jennifer." "It's Pits, Pete, I always want to be Pits to you. I found out last night that Pits is one sexy, sexy babe. I love her and I hope you will, too." Chapter 2 A 35 year old standing at a bus station should never feel as nervous as I do. I'm a wreck, the flowers in my one hand and the script in the other look like they're rustling in a breeze. It's my nerves, I'm shaking like a leaf. I'm here to meet Pits, who described herself this way: "I am skinny, no tits, none, shy, no self-confidence/esteem, never really had a date, work in a meaningless job in large corp, unhappy, no prospects, no hobbies, sexually ignorant, maybe even sexless." I don't know if that's accurate but I do know she'll be wearing a tank top and shorts when she gets off the bus, and she'll be carrying a backpack and a script, just like the one I'm holding. I'm a wreck because of the pressure I've put on myself. I've never had a relationship with a woman, except for Pits, and our relationship has only been through emails and chats. Sight unseen, I like her, I like her a lot. Every since we began our correspondence almost two weeks ago, I've been thinking about her, constantly, and I thought about her last night, every second of it, almost always with an erection. I've convinced myself that she's the woman I've always dreamed of; she's the one woman who will prove that I'm not the socially fucked asshole I've always thought myself to be, that I'm capable of a real relationship. Shaking like a leaf, I can feel it: Pits is going to get off the bus in a minute and I won't want her to leave; I'll want her to stay in my life forever. I see the backpack first, then the script, but they don't register, not for a moment — because they're in the hands ... of a child, a child who's eyes quickly survey the station and now rest on me. There is a beaming smile on the child's face, like she's been given a magnificent gift, and she's running towards me. "You're just a kid!" I couldn't have been more shocked. She stops in front of me, her smile vanishes, "What are you talking about? I'm not a kid! I'm almost 22." "But I'm 35." "So?" "I thought you'd be much older. My age." "You don't look 35. But so what?" "So what? So you're young enough to be my daughter!" "Bullshit!" She waves the script at me, ignoring the people beside me. "Look, dump me if you want, but you can't do it until we end up nude together on your fucking bed, that was our deal." She turns away. "Where's your car?" As we walk to the car I try to take her backpack and give her the flowers but she fends me off. And she ignores me in the car, too until we've gone a few miles, "Why did you ask me to come all the way to Seattle if you're just going to find the first fucking excuse to send me away?" Life of Pits "It isn't an excuse, Pits, you're just so young. I was standing there with some flowers for ... a little girl! I felt like a perv." "I'm not a little girl, I'm a woman. Treat me like one. And I'm a hungry woman. I know this isn't in the script but can we get something to eat?" At the restaurant she was asked for ID, that didn't surprise me, but it did surprise me when she folds the menu and says, "I can't eat here, this place will take every dime I have. Let's find a fast food." I pull her back to the table, "I'm paying, Pits, and I'm paying for your bus ticket, too." "Half is all I want from you," she says, sitting down, reluctantly. "I'll pay the other half." Then she quickly adds, "But you're paying to get me here, I can pay to get me home." She looks as awful as I feel. "Look, Pits, I'm sorry about this. It's my fault. I should have asked about your age. It just never occurred to me you'd be so young, I don't know why, it just didn't." Angry defiance flashes in her eyes, "Maybe it never occurred to you because I'm mature and responsible and I've acted like it. Did you ever think of that?" I nod, "You are, yes, sure, but look, this just can't work, you're way too young for me ..." She sits back and scrutinizes me cynically, "What's the real issue here, Pete? Am I too skinny, too unattractive ..." I shake my head, "No, it's nothing like that, you're just too young. I'm 35 for chrissake." She snickers contemptuously, "Ya, so you've said. Like that matters." "Of course it matters." Her fiery defiance reappears, "It only matters if you want it to matter." Then it is gone and she relaxes into her chair. "But that's the last of it, Pete, I'm not going to talk about it again. Your age doesn't matter to me, it doesn't matter one little bit to me. If you want to get hung up on it, or use it as some kind of excuse, that's your business, but don't look to me for any agreement." She's getting a little louder now, a little angrier, "and don't think for a second that it's going to let you out of your commitment to act out our script. That's why I insisted we write it all down, so you couldn't run from me the moment I showed up. We're going to play our roles, Pete, we're going to hit every one of our fucking marks and don't think we aren't." It wasn't much of a dinner. I couldn't help it, her age seemed like a deal-breaker. And it didn't get any better when we get to my apartment, I still can't shake the feeling that I'm a dirty old man, a predator. She had been looking around my place, wide-eyed, since we walked through the door, "You're rich." "Ya." "So, why do you live in such a big place?" "It's an investment." She looks at me as if I was nuts. "You live alone in an investment?" I shrug, not wanting to explain, "I have to live somewhere." "So, why do you write porn?" She asks the question the moment she sits down, as if she can't wait to get my answer. The rapidity of her questions are making me uncomfortable, "It's a way of thinking through relationship." "You're good at it. Have you learned anything?" "I think I have, yes." "Sons and mothers ..." "All kinds of relationship, the lonely, the fat, the frustrated." She's looking me straight in the eye. "Ever write a story about a young woman and an older man, Pete?" "I may have, yes." I can see where she's going with this. "How did it turn out?" "All my stories turn out well." She's looking at me with an intensity that startles me, "This morning I only bought a one-way ticket. Did you know that? When I left home this morning I never intended to return. I intended to stay here, with you. What do you think of that, Pete?" "Pits, please, ..." "What did you think, I mean before you saw the little girl get off the bus? Did you think I was going to come here, hit all my marks, get fucked and go home?" "No." "So what then?" "I didn't see you going home, either." She gets up, walks over to me, kisses me on the cheek and on the way to the bedroom I had shown her she turns back, "Oh, Pete, make sure you write this story, too. That's our deal, right? You write a story for Literotica.com about my sexual awakening." ----- I'm following the script when I make coffee in the morning, but I'm really nervous: I know she's going to get up pretty soon, and I know she's going to be wearing a tee shirt and panties. I'm not ready for it, and I'm not ready for the train of events it will set in motion. The moment the coffee is ready I pour myself a cup and escape to a dark corner of the living room. But I'm not alone for long. "Do you remember this part, Pete?" She had just walked into the room with a cup of coffee in her hand. "I do, yes." "This is when we talk about our night, the first night either of us has ever spent in a home with a member of the opposite sex. Yes?" "Yes." "I can't remember who goes first. Was it you, or me?" "I don't know. I can't remember." "Did you masturbate last night?" "No." "Let me tell you about my night, Pete. Just like in the script I took off all my clothes and got into bed, like I do at home, but I felt too naked in this place for that so I got up and put my panties on. Do you remember the script?" "Yes." "And in the script I ran my fingers up and down my panties while I thought of what I might do to entice you. I was going to knock on your door, or wash and hang up my panties in the bathroom so you'd see them or come out this morning with a sheer top on and no bra. Do you remember?" "Yes." "But none of that happened. Do you know why?" "No." "Because I masturbated, Pete, twice, once just a few minutes ago." When she takes a sip of her coffee I notice there isn't a hint that she's nervous, quite the contrary, she seems entirely composed and confident. "This age thing. It's just such a crock. I want to be here. More than anything in life I want to be here, I want to be here with you. And do you know what I think? I think you want me here, too — and you want me here as badly as I want to be here." She hesitates for a moment, but I don't say anything. "So, Pete, do I have to wait for us to get on the elevator? Do we have to get into the elevator before you hold me?" She is standing in front of me in a tee shirt that stops a few inches above her knees, her nipples making two little tents in it. Her eyes bore into mine with the intensity of a poker player. She is calling my bluff. She is telling me to get over my adolescent hang-up and deal with her. She puts her coffee mug on the table beside mine and stands with her hands on her hips waiting for my decision. "I didn't lie to you, Pits, I didn't masturbate last night, but I should have, I might have got some sleep. But I didn't, I just thought of our script, I thought about you. Our ages. It's a real problem for me ... but I tried to imagine you getting back on that bus, Pits and I can't." She doesn't say anything, she just leans down and takes my hand, pulls me to my feet and walks me, not to my bedroom as I thought she would, but to hers and she pulls me into her crumpled sheets, still warm from her body and she lies on top of me, with her head on my chest. "I want this Pete, I want this so much. I've never doubted it's going to work, I've never doubted we're going to be together, even with your stupid age thing ..." "It isn't stupid, it's ..." "It's just plain stupid. We're not going to be together because there's a few years between us? Get serious. So, the way I've got it figured we're going to have a whole lot of sex and then we're going to start planning our life together. Are you up for that?" "Pits ..." "Are you up for that, Pete, or are you going to send me back on that bus?" "We have to be sure ..." "Some women want careers, Pete. Not me. I've never wanted a career, I've always wanted to find a guy and just look after him. That's you. I want to do your washing, your ironing, I want to do you shopping, your cooking, your cleaning. And I want to have your children." "How can you know that, Pits?" "Look at me. Do you have any doubts?" "But how can you be so sure?" "I've always known what I want." "But is it enough? I mean to look after someone. Is that enough?" "Enough for me. It'll be 24/7." "Don't you want to work?" "Do I have to?" "No." "Then I won't. I want to take classes, to learn how to be a mother, to learn about all the domestic stuff — cooking, decorating, gardening, budgeting, I want to learn to run a household and I've got a lot to learn. What do you say?" "Are you sure of this, Pits, I mean, are you even old enough to know what you want?" "Don't talk to be like I'm a child, Pete. I've known how I want to live my life since I was 10, I just needed to find the right guy, I just needed to find you. OK? "You're sure?" "Totally." "OK." "Do you mean that?" "I couldn't let you get back on that bus, Pits. I tried all night to find a way, but I couldn't. I don't want you to go, but I'm scared as hell, too." "So, I'm staying, right? Staying, like forever?" "Yes, that's what I want if that's what you want." "That's what I want, Pete. So it's sex now, right? Are you ready for it? "I'm a little scared of that, too." "I'm not. I want to do all the things you've written about, everything. Like I really want to get into it with you, Pete, try everything, even the pissing. Do you remember that story?" "Yes." "When I read it I thought it was gross, but you made it sound so loving so when I thought about it, I knew I wanted to do it with you." "I don't know, Pits ..." "And the anal stuff. That grossed me out, too but I can't wait to try it." "Maybe we should start off slowly, Pits, just the basics. I wrote about incest and homosexuality and all that other stuff because I was intrigued, wanted to think them through. It doesn't mean I actually want to do them all." "I do, all of it, well, almost all of it, but we don't have to do it all today, I'm probably going to be sore enough anyway. I thought of breaking myself before I came here so it wouldn't slow me down, you know, in case you wanted a lot. Allie talked me out of it. She said you might want it. That it might be important to you. Is it?" "You are important to me, Pits, everything about you is important to me." "Particularly my age." "Maybe I can get you some clothes that will make you look a little older." "Do you know what I'd like you to buy me? Panties and bras, lots of sexy panties and bras. I was going to get a nice set last night before the mall closed. I made it there in time but the stuff is just so expensive I couldn't afford it." "I'll get you whatever you want, Pits." "But you have to want me to have them, Pete, I mean, don't get them if you don't want me to have them. I would only get them for you." "Can I take your shirt off?" "God, Pete, sure, you don't have to ask. Just take stuff off me and put stuff on me whenever you want. That's what this is about." She lifts her arms over her head. "I hope you like me, Pete. I'm a little skinny but I can fatten up if you want but I'll never be able to grow breasts," she gives them a little heft, "these are all I'll ever have. What do you think, Pete, they're kind of funny looking I know but they're really sensitive, they're really sensitive to you, they're always standing out when I'm think of you." "God, they're beautiful, Pits, can I suck on one?" "Come on, Pete, don't ask, just suck on them whenever you want. That's what they're for, for you and the kids." "They're beautiful, Pits." I bend down and suck gently. "You said they tasted salty in the script, do they?" "Salty and sweaty." She pushes me away, "I'll take a shower for you; I want to take a shower for you." I sit up and try to make her understand, "Pits, please, this isn't about what I want, it's about what we want. We're both supposed to get pleasure from each other, not just me. So, please, don't talk that way, don't tell me I can take whatever I want. Don't say stuff like that." She sits up now, too and looks at me, almost fiercely, "I have to, Pete, that's the way I feel. I want to be perfect for you. I will only be happy if I make you happy. That's me, that's who I am so don't take that away from me." She takes my hand and massages it, "Your job is to work, my job is to protect you and make you happy. I'll do anything to make you happy, Pete, that's who I am, that's what I want to do, that's who I want to be. You have to understand that; it's important to me. Making you happy is my job. Do you understand that? It's important that you understand that." I have to look away, she can be unbelievable intense. "... Pete?" "Ya." "Do you understand? This is important." I don't understand, but it's obvious she means her words, the intensity on her face is almost painful. I push her gently onto her back. Pits is very thin, with a tiny chest, slim hips and long slender legs and every since we got into the bed she has been constantly writhing and squirming as if her body is contorting in sexual excitement. It's unbelievably erotic, like she is fucking my imagination. I press down on her white nylon panties to hold her still but her hips fight at my hands, thrusting at them as if wanting to escape. "Lift up, Pits. I want these off." "Let me shower, Pete. I told you, I've masturbated, let me shower for you first, OK?" I peel her panties from her legs and notice how wet they are, then I kneel between her legs and kiss her thighs, "Pits, you're beautiful." She tries to squirm away but I hold her, "Please let me shower, Pete, it will only take a minute." I can't wait. There are beads of moisture on the sparse brown hair of her swollen lips. As I trace kisses up the inside of her legs I'm almost breathless with expectation, "Pits, you smell just fantastic, God, I want to taste you, I want ..." She continues to try to get away, but I hold her by the hips and bring her pussy hard against my face. "Pete, no, I'm not clean, I want to be clean for you, Pete, oh, God, Pete ... Pete, please, ... Pete, oh, God, Pete ... Pete ... Pete ... Oh, God, ..." When I look up I can see her stiff brown nipples above her flat white stomach, which is heaving from the exertion of pushing against me as if she wants my face and tongue to go as deep into her as they can. She has turned on the bed to press her face into the pillow, but I can still hear her cries. Her juices hit be with a stunning force. At first I think she has pissed on me, but it doesn't taste like urine, it tastes sweet and salty and fishy and the feeling of her writhing against my face, squeezing her thighs against my face, pressing herself into me is so erotic I have to fight not to come myself. Then she stiffens for a moment, as if in shock, and slowly settles on the bed. She has been pulling at my hair, pulling me into her, now she is pushing me away. "Oh, God, Pete that was just so fantastic." She means it, I can feel that she means it, that she's been sexually satisfied but I need more. I love her body, reed thin, white and squirming against me. I bring my face from her pussy and press it into her stomach, rubbing her juices into her. Her fingers are still in my hair and she's pulling me up to her, and I go, slowly, kissing my way up, lingering over her nipples. "Oh, God, Pete, I just so love you, I love this ...," now she pushes me away, "oh, God, you have me all over your face." She tries to get away, "here I'll get a cloth." I hold her, pulling her skinny little body into mine, pulling her onto my lap. "Don't go, Pits. How was it, did you enjoy it?" "Oh, ya, Pete, that was unbelievable, I mean, sticking your face in there ... are you, ah, like, OK with that? I mean, isn't it a little ... I don't know, disgusting? Did you like it ... I mean, could ..." "I loved it, Pits, I love you, everything about you, including your smell, your taste and I loved the way you're always wiggling, do you know you're doing that, Pits, do you know that always wiggling, wriggling and writhing?" "It's my turn now." She helps me as I quickly take my clothes off and she pushes me onto the bed and kneels beside me looking at my penis. "I don't know how to do this so tell me what I'm doing wrong, OK?" She licks at the pre-cum that has been oozing out of me for awhile now, "What's this stuff?" "I think it's there to lubricate you." "Tastes OK." Then she kisses it, on the head and along the underside to its base, gentle, sucking kisses. "It's beautiful, Pete, really pretty. Are you ready for my first suck?" She doesn't wait for my responses, she puts me in her mouth and sucks gently but only for a moment then she looks at me, "Oh, God, Pete, this is so great. Imagine, having you in my mouth. I knew this was gong to happen. Not right away but maybe about a week ago, that's when I knew we were going to be together and ever since I've imagined having you in my mouth and inside me, I've imagined making you happy, I've imagined waking you up this way, kissing on you and sucking on you and I've imagined waking up with you in me, God, Pete, I'm just so ready for this." I take her by the hair and ease her back onto me, I am seconds away. "Pull me out when I tell you," and for the first time since I met her at the bus station I relax, I melt into the bed and watch her head bob up and down on me, her eyes closed in concentration and I give myself to her, every last shred of resistance floods from me in an ejaculation that seems to go on forever. She is coughing, wiping away the tears from her eyes and I am apologizing but she isn't listening, "Oh, God, Pete, I just so loved that. I didn't know if I would, but that was great. How did I do? Did I do alright? I'll get better, I'll get a lot better. But you have me all over you. Let me run you a bath, Pete, let me clean you up, and me, too." I watch her little ass run from the room then I look down at my semi-erect penis, still wet from her spit. At about 2 o'clock this morning I knew all this was going to happen, I knew we were going to have sex and when we did, I knew we would be together. What I didn't know, and I had no way of knowing, was how I was going to feel about it. And I am far from sure now, it has all happened so quickly, so completely. One moment I am single and essentially miserable; the next I am the committed partner to a young woman I barely know, a woman perhaps best described as a hippie. None of it makes any sense to me, yet I know it makes perfect sense to her, and that gives me a surge of pleasure, it envelopes me like a warm, womb-like cocoon. I have worked hard for the past ten year building a company, unbelievably long hours, often in the grip of frantic tension. Now, in an instant, I am lying on a bed thinking about how many kids I want with a woman who I feel is entirely capable of naming them Tulip or Earthling or Skypower. For the first time, I feel like my life is out of my control and I'm shocked to find how exhilarating I find that. "Come on, Pete, let's get you cleaned up." She's pulling at my arm, dragging me to the bathroom. "How much money do we have, Pete? Do we have enough to get a better bathtub, one with all those jets that can massage you? You should have one of those, Pete. Do you want me to get you one?" When I step into the tube I pull her with me and carefully and very gently dunk her head under the water. I don't get giddy very often so it really surprises me I'd do such a thing but she thinks it's pretty funny because when she surfaces she's sputtering and spitting and laughing and she jumps into my arms so violently that half the water sloshes from the tub and the waves don't settle before her lips are pressing against mine and she's asking how many kids I want.