1 comments/ 13555 views/ 0 favorites Gypsy Dreams Ch. 01 By: Jenna Grey His eyes were as blue as the sky at Autumn's peak. His skin was weathered and tanned and filled with laugh lines around his almond shaped eyes and mouth. His hair was tawny and tousled and kept long beneath a floppy leather hat. His hands were calloused and strong with long fingers. Fingers that wove magic in the night, and beauty into the air as he strummed his guitar while we sat beside the campfire. When he spoke to me his voice was always filled with love, whether he was scolding me for wandering off for too long, or whispering the endearments he kept only for me as we melded in union. When we walked it was side by side, hands locked together, fingers interwoven. He did not see it fit that I walk behind him like his dog, or before him like a shrew leading her hen-pecked husband. But by his side, as befitting a life partner. We would not marry. Ever. This was my choice, despite what was considered the norm for women. My heart would not survive a marriage. Too often I had seen what became of women, and I was just too free a spirit to be caged and tamed, and eventually beaten down. So I took my chances. If he was going to stray he would stray whether we were married or not- he was a man and this is just what men do. The only difference would be in what it was labelled. If we were wed his roving would be adultery. If we were not married, it would be that he had grown tired of me. So much easier for me to walk away, without the mess left behind before God and the law. Aye, I would much rather he grow tired and leave for good, then grow tired and make me miserable the rest of my days. This was the dream I had night after night, week after week, month after month. For the last year. Sometimes I could see his face. Sometimes I could feel his breath. Sometimes I could feel his hands burning memories against my skin. Always we made love by the end of the dream. And always I woke up drenched in sweat, trembling and ready to cum. And always I found myself missing him desperately. It was a bittersweet dream. Tonight's was worse than the others. Tonight I heard his whispers, and now, at 3 a.m. I found myself awake and unable to fall back to sleep. I had woken up with my face buried in a tear soaked pillow, drawn up with my knees beneath me in fetal position. My right hand was clenched between my thighs and as I woke my hand pressed hard against my clit and I came, calling his name in a broken whisper. "Phillip..." The first problem I found with this was that I had never known a Phillip. Not a Phil, a Bill or even a Will. I'd been with a Dan once. And a Jim. Never a Phil. So why did I miss him so? I didn't even know him. The dream was still so vivid. It wouldn't leave me. So I got up, booted up my computer and began to write it as I remembered it. Maybe something would click. Maybe I would see his face. Remember a last name. As a writer and journalist, research was second nature. If he existed out there, I would find him. But as long as I failed to record the dream upon awaking, he would remain a mystery. For as the days meandered on, the memory of my dreams grew distant and then forgotten. My second problem became apparent as I recalled the details as I typed. I had just realized something devastating. He wasn't out there now. He couldn't be. The dream took place in a different era. There was a covered wagon, a campfire. Horses. And my gown was not ordinary clothing like I would wear or see today. I had a bodice that laced up the front, was cut very low and pushed my breasts up so that they nearly spilled over the low cut neckline. Not exactly the type of fashions I normally wear these days. My hair was different, as well. Although it was still long, in my dream it was full and curling all the way down my back, past my butt, from what I could feel. Thick tresses that fell about my face and down my back. I remembered how my hair felt as it tickled my naked skin when he slipped my dress down and off my body. I actually felt him tugging the shoulders and sleeves down my slender tanned arms, over my breasts so that they spilled out, perspiration glistening in the firelight. My nipples ached just recalling the moment now as I typed. I groaned as I felt the familiar tingling between my legs. I needed him desperately. Only I didn't know who he was. And more likely than not, he probably didn't even exist. I finished typing as many of the details that I could remember then saved the copy and shut down my Mac. I had to work in the morning, I had to try to sleep. I crawled back into my queen sized bed, the sheets crisp and cold, the quilts heavy on my body as I turned over onto my side and burrowed deeply, hoping to dream of Phillip again. *** "I've been waiting for you," he said, holding his hand out to me. "It saddens me when you leave like that." He embraced me, and I willingly went to him, resting my face against his chest. Fresh air, campfire and leather filled my senses as my nose and cheek nuzzled his shirt, worn and soft. His lips brushed the tender skin below my ear and I shivered. A bedroll lay open and inviting beside the roaring fire at the center of camp. Without a word he led me to the makeshift bed, tugging me gently to the ground as he knelt on the quilted material. The night air was cool, and grew even cooler as my body fevered beneath his roving hands. He cupped and gently squeezed an aching breast with one hand, as his other cradled my head and gently lifted my head upward to accept his all consuming kiss. His lips were playful and gentle, darting and licking and seeking out my own as he parted my mouth in a deep, commanding kiss. He stole my breath and I moaned in surrender, pressing my body against the lean length of his own. Then suddenly his hands were beneath my skirts, cool to the touch as he massaged my heated thighs until they parted with my invitation to probe deeper. Strong fingers brushed through the thick nest of curls. His knowing fingers outlined the swollen moist lips of my womanhood. And then with a quick thrust he claimed me, and I cried out with relief. Finally we were joined, somewhat. My hips moved with the rhythm he played against my body. It was as if I were his lute, his tambourine, his guitar, his drum. He made music with my body as I mewed and moaned and cried out as he brought me to climax. Skirts pushed up around my waist, knee pressing against my swollen throbbing mound, he released my breast and stood to undo the fastenings on his trousers. There he stood, half naked, firelight shimmering off his skin like melted gold. He stood tall and proud and his cock was hard and straight. I stared at him brazenly, drinking in his maleness. The sight of him filled my blood and my being until I could contain myself no longer. I lifted my finger and crooked it towards him, beckoning his return to my side. He came willingly, parting my legs easily, the tip of his cock nudging his way to my opening. I froze momentarily bracing for this most welcomed invasion. He growled deep and fierce as the tip of his cock penetrated my slick lips. I forgot to breathe as I waited for him to ease between the tender folds. His mouth found my breast and his lips suckled and nibbled on my aching nipple as he slowly brought himself up and inched his way inside of me. "Oh. Ohhh... Oh." I could find no other words to utter as he pumped in and out of me slowly, growing accustomed to the tightness, the sleekness, the intricate canal that was slowly beginning to milk the length of his hardness. "Yessss...." He groaned as I rolled my hips upward to meet his downward thrust again and again. Faster and faster he moved, focusing his kiss once again on my mouth, brutalizing and bruising my lips as he devoured me both with his mouth and cock. Together we cried out as he came. Seconds later my own explosion rocked my body and mind. Feeling his hot cum burn deep inside my womb was more than I could bear. I raked my nails down his back, surely drawing blood, as I pressed him deeper and deeper inside of me. My body trembled violently beneath his, pleasure rippling through my limbs in one intense wave after another. One last tender kiss sealed our union, as three thoughts echoed in my head before my world faded to black. I needed him. I loved him. I wanted him. Forever. *** I awoke to broad daylight, with the familiar ache throbbing between my legs. My hands moved between my thighs of their own volition. I satisfied the primal urges while I wept as the memory of his face once again faded away with reality. Gypsy Dreams Ch. 02 Another sleepless night had Rachel up and writing at 3 a.m. Thoughts of Phillip had kept her thoroughly distracted all day. She couldn’t concentrate on her deadline. She missed an interview scheduled for the first thing after her lunch break which she spent searching the Internet for Phillip and Gypsy on every search engine she could imagine. Of course she came up with nothing. Well, 12,3 17 hits of nothing, to be exact. A cold and lonely apartment greeted her later that day as she unlocked the door and let herself into the darkness. Thirty four years old and living alone, married to a career as a journalist, how depressing. By day she busted politicians asses. By night Rachel wrote erotica. Or dreamed of unknown lovers-lover, she corrected herself silently. He felt so damn real. It wasn’t fair. she agonized, practically tasting him, smelling him, feeling his fingers playing along her skin. She wandered through the living room, bee-lining for her computer. Maybe being dateless for so long was taking its toll. Passing the kitchen table, Rachel grabbed an apple from the ceramic bowl before proceeding to the living room where she kicked off her shoes, threw her coat and purse on the couch and watched her computer whir and blink to life. Then she opened up the piece written last night about her dream. After re-reading it a few times she corrected a few typo’s, changed a few graphs and decided to submit it to the erotica site she contributed to now and then. Even if it was driving her crazy, it would make one helluva story. Within a week the story was approved. Emails and messages started filling her mailbox and desktop. Most were encouraging and sincere, filled with honest praise. All but one, from a woman named AnalJane. She was pretty nasty in her comments, and wrote Rachel in no uncertain terms that she had voted a 1 on that particular story because she was fairly certain Rachel had plagiarized another writer. A stunned Rachel checked her score and saw it was 3- pretty low considering her other scores with other stories. And very low considering all the 4’s and 5’s people who had written said they had given. A quick note back assured AnalJane that the thoughts and words were Rachel’s and Rachel’s alone. After politely telling her her she was mistaken, Rachel let her temper get the best of her and signed it “fuck off.” Plagiarize another writer? What nerve. His office was quiet. Soft, yellow light spilled out from the brass and green shaded lamp on his desk. Other than that and the glow from his computer, his office was dark. He was waiting for copy editors on the third floor to finish reading his work. Then he could leave, get something from Wendy’s for dinner and head home. While he waited he confirmed appointments for tomorrow, contemplated next month’s leads, and lastly, checked his business and then personal email. It was this last item that caused him to straighten up in his swivel leather chair. Resting his elbows against the edge of his cherry finished desk, Phil read with interest an email from a long time internet friend, AnalJane. As soon as he read the forwarded email a frown etched across his brow and he clicked onto the erotica site to search for the username of the person discussed in Jane’s email. He checked her profile after the second story, but it said little about the woman. He scrolled down to her story list and clicked on the most recently submitted entry, marked “New” and settled down for a good read. Moments later he leaned back in his chair and sighed. Jane had good reason to believe this woman had plagiarized him. Her story was, although not word for word, very similar to a few of the stories he had written and submitted to the site. Plot-wise it was identical. Even details like his name and the type of computer he used was included in the story. Both of these items, he noted, could easily be learned by reading his profile. He licked his lower lip thoughtfully as he typed an email to the woman. Maybe she was doing this deliberately as a means to attract attention from him. Then, before he hit send he changed his mind and deleted it. Better to see what she did next before addressing the situation. It annoyed him terribly that she had chosen to steal this particular story of his. This one, the one based on true experience. The one story that haunted him. That kept him up sometimes. But to write it from the POV of the female who haunted him... Now that was creative. And sly. And devious. She must be a real bitch, he thought as his phone buzzed. It was the copy editing department. His copy had been proofed and completed. He was free to now go home. He covered her eyes with his hands and nudged her forward. Tentative faulty steps made the going slow as she moved in front of him, walking carefully over the hard sun baked earth. Every now and then she would stumble on a stray stone, or tuft of rogue weed. His hold steadied her and urged her forward. Calloused hands, rough and strong and wide gripped her by either arm. He stood close enough to her that her essence, her skin, her hair invaded his senses with every breath. Likewise, his presence, his body, his smell, the sound of his breathing, embraced her even though he did not touch any other part of her but her upper arms. Every so often his chest would briefly lean against her back as they walked, and she would hesitate, melting against him with his touch. Then, inhaling sharply, she would attempt to regain control and continue on. He breathed deeply, intoxicated by the smell of her. Air, earth, sweetness. “Careful, love." His whisper came softly through the tufts of hair curling around her left ear. It rested breathlessly on the nape of her neck, causing her to shiver in the hot midday sun. He felt the shiver reverberate through his hands, up his arms, through his body, as if it were his own action. He felt a stirring within. He wanted her. Despite his warning she tripped on the first step of what actually was half a dozen which led to a wooden porch. She would have landed on her knees and palms had his instincts not taken over so quickly, encircling her waist with one lean, hard arm. He righted her and they continued the climb until reaching a door. When they stopped walking he told her to keep her eyes closed as he removed his hand. He reached for her hand and placed it on the latch, pressing her thumb until the cool metal clicked and the door swung open. It was then he released his arm from around her waist. "Take a look." She opened her eyes and took in her surroundings: a neat, sparsely furnished cabin. To her left was a table with two chairs, a cupboard, an ice box, another long table without chairs, with wooden crates stacked neatly beneath it. Straight before her, on the far wall was a brick fireplace, nearly the entire length of the wall. Two rocking chairs sat immobile before the stonework. She swung her whole body to the right, and he heard her breathe in sharply. There was a tallboy bureau and a long low chest of drawers with a mirror hanging above it. Beside that was a night stand. And finally, his four poster bed. Her pause was overly long as she stared at that last bit of furniture, the patchwork quilt pulled snugly over the feather mattress, over the fluffy pillows resting against the head board. A rosy hue colored her cheeks and then moved through her body he guessed, as he felt the heat emanate from her being. She stood unable to tear her gaze from the bed. the bed she knew where he no doubt rested his wearied body each night after toiling the long day. “You like?" A wordless nod was her only response as she stood, unable to turn and look him in the eyes. "I was referring to everything, not just the bed." All she could bring herself to reply was simply, "Oh." He spun her around on her heels and lifted her chin with a crooked finger, gazed hotly into her eyes and said simply, "I want you here. in my house, my bed. With me. And I will not take no for an answer." Any protest was lost as he dipped his face low and kissed her. It was at that moment Phillip awoke. “Not again,” he groaned and looked at the clock. 3 a.m. An aching in his groin added to his dread. He was awake, again. Because of “her.” Again. His cock lay like a loaded gun, hard and ready to explode. His balls itched for release. His mouth yearned to kiss a woman’s soft flesh, a breast, a smooth neck. Not any woman’s. Hers. Her sweet lips. He wanted to taste her musky sweetness, smell the scent of her sex as he made her moan with pleasure. Man, he needed to get laid. Not with just anyone. With her. The woman in his dreams. Closing his eyes in the darkness, he rubbed his hard-on through his cotton boxers. He stroked himself slowly thinking of her, how she would feel sitting on him. How her lips would feel as they ran the length of his cock right now. He groaned again and slipped a hand inside his shorts, thinking of the beauty he would have shared that four poster bed with had he not woken up. He leaned over and grabbed a tissue, feeling his load build as he worked his hand harder and faster up and down his shaft. He came quickly, not unlike he had when he was a teen and unable to control his urges. And as he came into the tissue he cried out her name. Only then did sleep embrace him. He welcomed the oblivion, knowing she would soon be by his side again. “Rachel,” he whispered, before dozing off to a fitful, restless sleep. ********************************** 3 a.m. Rachel swore softly and blinked her eyes in the darkness, needing desperately to go back to sleep. The sleepless nights were beginning to take their toll on her. Moodiness, shoddy workmanship, inability to focus. She was drained. It seemed she did her best writing at night. Within 20 minutes she found herself flinging the covers away from her body. She made tea while her computer was booting up, the details of her most recent dream burning in her memory. Although she had been sleepless all week, this was the first time she remembered details since writing the piece she had been accused of plagiarizing. The blank screen waited patiently for her to collect her thoughts. She stared at the whiteness of the word processing page and soon was transported back. Back in time, back to her dream, back to the arms of her lover. His kisses rained over her smooth skin like a misty morning shower, soft and cool and unending. He missed not an inch of her skin as he explored her neck, her earlobes, her shoulders. She trembled beneath him as he teased her most intimate erogenous zones, suckled softly, bit lightly, and lapped at her smoothness. By the time he his mouth found her breasts she was pulled tight as a bow ready to snap, her nipples hardened and pointing upward to him as if demanding his attention. A tender smile played upon his lips as she looked up at him, pleading silently for him to continue. He kissed her full and deeply, his tongue darting between her lips, coaxing her heated response. His hands roamed over her hot, naked flesh, finding the full swell of her breast. Softly he cupped her, his thumb and fore finger teasing the hardened nub of her nipple. She cried out and arched against his hardness, mewing softly and calling out his name. Her reward came immediately as his strong, muscled thighs parted her legs and his cock nudged against the moist damp curls of her pussy. Of their own accord her legs parted wide and she wrapped herself around him, guiding him deep inside of her. He entered her with one swift thrust, unable to contain himself, his desire. She cried out his name, moving against him, needing him deeper, pulling him deeper, with his every thrust. He pumped his hard length in and out of her, changing tempo every so often. Fast and hard, then teasingly slow and tender. He suckled her breast, as he brought both of her hands to rest above her on the pillow, near the headboard at her head. Capturing her wrists with one hand, his free hand trailed softly over the soft white skin of her delicately shaped arm, tracing a path that led to the breast he suckled and kissed. He turned his attention to her other, as his hand kneaded and massaged her aching flesh. His teeth tenderly tugged her nipple and Rachel cried out his name. An earth shattering explosion wracked her body as her pussy squeezed and contracted around his pounding cock. It was her body’s turn to coax a response from Phillip and so it did. Her nails raked down his back, her cunt sucked and swallowed his cock, her body danced beneath him, undulating and pulsing as wave after wave shook her through to her soul. Little coaxing was needed actually, as Phillip felt his response thicken and swell in his balls, his cock, until his own release exploded inside of her, his cum spurting deep in her womb, filling the essence of womanhood completely with his maleness. The four poster bed rocked beneath their dance, as sturdy and strong as the timeless love they shared with each other that night. **************** Rachel stared at her words, trembling in the after affects of her own orgasm. Her right hand rested against her thigh, her cunt was still pulsing, not unlike the aftershocks of a major earthquake. It wasn’t often her own writing moved her so deeply. But this time it wasn’t as if she was writing. This time she felt as though she was actually making love. With Phillip. Gypsy Dreams Ch. 03 Hi, Thanks to everyone who has written me asking me where I've gone. It seems I've lost my muse and without him it's been hard to find the desire to write. Maybe the healing has now begun? Happy reading, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy bringing Rachel and Phillip to life. JG * The grey sky hung low, Winter's chill evident with each breath Rachel took. She pulled the threadbare woolen shawl around her shoulders tightly. Each booted foot crunched along the hardened frozen earth as she stepped towards the barn. Reluctant to give up even a minimal bit of warmth by unfolding her arms, Rachel shouldered the heavy barn door and it slowly gave way to creak open. The smell of hay mixed with the heady scent of burning wood as the warmth of a kindled potbellied stove enveloped her. There he was, standing on the far side, by the stove, at his bench, banging away at something. He was always fixing something, repairing something, making something out of nothing. They worked well together. He did the building and the mending, and the tiling and the cutting and the chopping and the lugging. She did the cleaning and the washing, the cooking and the growing and the sewing. She would help him as much as she could, but his strength and stamina was immeasurable to hers. They would work together in the fields, tend the animals together. Then, as sunset gave way to evening, she would join him out on the front porch cradling the last of the days coffee in a tin mug. Sip by sip they would share the brew and watch the sun go down. This one night she came to him while he was lost deep in thought, as he plied the metal. He barely hesitated as the door pulled closed with a soft thud of wood against wood. Finally, she whispered, hesitant to disturb his concentration. "You think 'twill snow?" "Aye." It was cold and she wanted to go to bed. With him. She watched him hammer and pull at a piece of old tin. "Canna that wait til morn?" Though her voice was little more than a whisper, he replied. "Nay." He always replied, regardless of how soft her request. Sometimes it seemed she barely spoke the words and his reply would come. Sometimes she could just think the thought, and he would respond. Likewise with her and his thoughts and words. "What is it you're making?" "Woman, shush now." With a deep sigh, she reluctantly turned to leave. "Where are you going?" "Back into the house by the fire. 'Tis cold." "Warm yourself there." He nodded off to the side while he worked a corner of the tin until it was rounded. "Verra well." She sat in the chair by the fire, eventually falling asleep to the sound of her man plying the piece of wellworn tin, the fire crackling, and the wind outside picking up and howling around the barn rafters. This dream was different. There was no sex, but the longing was just as powerful. Her readers wanted sex. Of course, Rachel knew this, so she sat there, staring at the white document, trying to imagine what the Phillip and Rachel of her dreams would do. The announcement of an email broke her train of thought, so she hid the word processing program and brought her email program to the foreground. Feedback. She always enjoyed feedback. "You write well. Where do you come up with your story lines? I get mine from dreams." It was signed journo1130. Well. She wrote back to the faceless, nameless, sexless reader. "I, too get my ideas from dreams. So you write as well?" She sent it off and focused again on Phillip and Rachel. No sooner had Rachel gotten the couple out of the barn and into their bed when the email alert sounded once again. Yes, journo1130 was back. "Do I write as well? No. Not as well as you do. But I manage. What else do you write?" This went on for most of the night, with Rachel caught up in the game of conversing through email. It felt safe enough. And unless he was lying, Journo was a professional writer, such as herself, in his mid-30's- such as herself- married to his career. Again, such as herself. And he lived within 45 minutes of her. She had not told him where she lived, but when he answered her question as to where he lived, as promptly as email could allow he gave the name of a town which Rachel knew to be fairly close. She smiled. Journo had distracted her enough to keep her from finishing the story. When at last her bedtime came she dejectedly emailed him one last note, "Good night. Bedtime for me." She waited a few minutes and sure enough, he wrote back, "Sweet dreams." * * * * * "I don't know, Carrie. There's like some kind of attraction. I can't explain it." Rachel updated her co-worker and best friend the following morning waiting on the deli line in the shop across the street from work. "But you don't even know his name." Carrie said before ordering "two coffee's black, one sugar." "Thanks." Rachel put her money away and nodded to her friend. "I know. Names didn't come up." "If he's reading your stuff on that website he's got to be a perv." "So what's wrong with that?" Rachel laughed. "I'm a perv and you like me." "You're a normal perv!" She took the stryofoam lidded coffee cups and handed one to Rachel. As they left the deli, Carrie tried to rephrase her concerns. "Look. You don't know him at all. He didn't offer his name. He reads your stuff- I'm sure you're not the only writer he's contacted. Does he write for the same site you do? can you check his profile?" Rachel shook her head and burnt the tip of her tongue as she impatiently tried the coffee she knew would be too hot to consume for the moment. "He didn't say." "Why didn't you ask?" "Well. I did sorta." "And?" "Well. He said he didn't write as well as I did." A knowing look was all Carrie offered for the moment. "A non-denial denial." "Well. Yes. I guess it was." "So he writes but doesn't want you to read it. He's probably into something weird." A chuckle escaped Rachel's lips. "It's all weird," she grinned. "Okay then. Really weird. You're not using your brain. Come on, woman. Think!" That was the problem. Rachel was thinking. All she could do was think about Journo. And the dream she had last night. Oh my god, what a dream. IT wasn't about the Rachel and Phillip in her stories. It was about journo and herself. And so hot that she couldn't even begin to put it into a story format. Just too personal, for some reason. That information was kept from Carrie. She just wouldn't understand. Silence prevailed until they reached their desks, at which time Journo1130 was filed away for the moment, until deadline had passed and Rachel had free time to toy with the idea of her fellow perv. * * * * * Phillip was having a problem. He couldn't focus on work. His friggen hard-on made it difficult to write, research, interview, prepare for interviews. He couldn't get Rachel out of his head. Or her author. He knew what she looked like, even though he had never seen her. He knew what she felt like, although he had never held her in real life. He knew what her skin would taste like if he ran his tongue along the curve of her neck, then lower, to trace the soft orb of her breast. He sighed, the bulge in his pants tightened against the cotton material of his Dockers. There was no getting around it. He had to meet her. Especially after last night's dream. She was beneath him, her hair fanned out and tousled against the stark white crispness of her pillow. Her eyes were closed but her face was screwed up in deep concentration as she hovered on the edge of release. "Not yet, baby. Ride the edge." "Ohhhhh God. I can't. Please." She pleaded as her nails dug into his shoulders. Rachel clung to him, obeying him instead of giving into her orgasm. Just the thought of such command over her drove him wild. At first, he let her think she had control, at least until she sucked him to the point where she tasted his pre-come, demanding he fuck her. Although his body begged him to give in, he took over, teasing her relentlessly, almost bringing her to orgasm so many times, until he himself could take her suffering no longer. Although his cock was hard and throbbing, although his balls were tight with his need to shoot his load, he denied her demands over and over again. With great effort he kissed her soundly on her lips, his tongue raping her sweet mouth before trailing down her tanned, sleek body to focus on her juicy pussy. Her nipples were taut with her desire, her flesh quivering as his tongue and lips claimed her. Her legs parted and spread even further as he moved his hands to her inner thighs and prodded. She smelled so sweet, so musky, as he buried his nose in her bush. His tongue traced the tender folds of her pussy lips, as he parted them and found the hard nub of her clit. Fingers tangled in his hair, Rachel cried out, thrusting her hips upward as his lips found and teased and sucked gently on the swollen, glistening pearl. One, two fingers slid inside her pussy, curling upwards to massage that secret, tender spot that stilled her writhing and made her wimper. She undulated beneath him, trance-like and he smiled down at her. "I love what you do to me," she whispered. "Don't stop." "I'm not." He slid a third finger into her tight cunt and her eyes grew wide as she looked up at him. He continued to tickle her hidden spot, his hand flooded with her pussy juice. "I'm gonna come!" Rachel groaned loudly and lifted her hips. "Hold on, babe. Not yet." He smoothed the flood of juices over her clit, over her lips, down further over the valley between her cunt and ass, over her beautiful ass, around the tight bud of her asshole. Very carefully, he slipped the tip of his middle finger into the tight bud of her asshole. "Oh My God!" Rachel started bucking beneath him, fists knotted up in the sheets and blankets. Phillip slid two fingers of his other hand into her pussy and pumped hard, while his middle finger continued to slide slowly in and out of her ass. He felt the walls of her vagina grip him and release him over and over as the first waves of her orgasm began pulsing through her body. Finally, when he could take it no more, he moved his hands from her cunt and ass and grabbed her hips, nudging his cock against the opening of her thoroughly drenched cunt. She wrapped her legs around him and he slid in slowly, inch by inch, moaning and throwing his head back as his cock glided into the soft velvet folds of still pulsing pussy. "Fuck me," she whispered, her hands coming up to grab his ass, urging him deeper inside of her. "Please, fuck me, damn you." Her voice drove him over the edge and he picked up the tempo, wanting nothing more than to fuck her as deeply, as hard, and as fully as he possibly could. The length of his cock bore home, pounding her as she lifted her hips up to join him. Hands on her hips he guided his cock into her over and over and over, real slow and hard, then moving faster and faster until her sweet tight cunt squeezed the first bit of his come out of him. "Fuuuuuuuuck!" He cried out as he came, his load spurting deep inside her cunt. "Fuck, Rachel. Oh fuck! You feel so fucking good!" Her nails dug into his ass as she clung to him for dear life, her orgasm clenching and unclenching his cock as he fucked her relentlessly. Phillip woke up drenched in his own come and sweat. And achingly alone. He had to have her. That was the thought that kept him from focusing on work. He had to have her. He had to have her. He logged onto his email program and typed out a quick note. Her email address was memorized already. "Thinking of you. Hope you slept well." He signed his initials and sent it off. Only after hitting "Send" did he swear softly, regretting his actions. So consumed in her thought, Phillip had used his work email address. * * * * * It was lunch time. Rachel had to force herself to focus on work all morning. But now she waved off Carrie's offer to grab a bite to eat and instead pulled out a salad she had brought from home and logged onto her freebie email account used for her erotica writing. There was an email there, but not the one she was hoping to see. This was from plairdon@sentinelnews.com. It seemed so official. No one ever wrote her using official email addresses. Her heart hammered loudly in her chest as she opened it up and read the quick note. It had to be from journo. It had to. It made her heart beat wildly and her thighs ache. Only he elicited such a response from her with a few simple words. It had to be him. He had taken it a step further. He wanted her to know who he was. Quickly she dialed Carrie's extension, leaving a message to buzz her as soon as she came back. Meanwhile, Rachel loaded up her browser and checked out the Sentinal News website. Phillip Lairdon. There he was. Well. There his byline was. Political reporter. Good stuff. "Hmmm....Didn't write as well as I did, huh?" She chewed her lip lost in thought until Carrie came up behind her. "What's up?" "Look." Rachel pointed to the website. "I got another email. Meet our perv." A quick scan of the news article before her was all it took to get Carrie to respond. "He could just be saying that," she noted with a bit of cynicism tainting her voice. "He could just be saying that's who he is." "No. He emailed me from this-" Rachel pointed to the contact email address of Phillip Lairdon, "address. plairdon@sentinelnews.com." "Hm. I don't know. I smell something fishy here. He's up to something. You're not getting the whole story, Rache." "I'm going to write him back." "That's fine." "From my work address." "Oh, Rachel, I wouldn't if-" "It'll be fine. You'll see." One more glance at Rachel, who was totally absorbed in the story on her screen, and Carrie backed off without another word. "Phillip, Hi. Thanks for giving me your real email address and name. You do write well. Probably better than me. I'd better get back to work now. Have a great day. Thanks for thinking of me. Cheers. Rachel PS. Do you find it a bit odd that we have the same names as the characters in my stories?" She then copied and pasted his email address into her work email program and sent it off, wondering what he would think when he got a response from rachelp@thejournal.com. * * * * * Rachel. Rachel P. At The Journal. She was a journalist. He automatically trusted her. While most people do not hold journalists in the highest regard, Phillip knew that it would be a rare event indeed for a journalist to plagiarise another writer. And her name was really Rachel. What the fuck was going on here? He immediately hit "Reply" wanting nothing more than to get to the bottom of this. He had to meet her. To see if she was the woman he dreamed about night after night. What was going on? "Rachel. "It's difficult not to think about you for some reason, although I'm not sure what the reason is at the moment. "Yes, I find it odd that we have the same names as the characters in your stories. I wasn't expecting your name to be Rachel. I'd like to meet you. Regards, Phillip PS. What color are your eyes?" Before he hit "Send" he erased the 'PS.' Geez, what was he thinking? He was thinking how bright a green her eyes glowed as she came. That's what he was thinking. * * * * * Rachel buzzed Carrie's phone and squealed when her friend answered. "He wants to meet me!!" "Rachel! Get a grip! You have to meet deadline. You can't meet him!" "Not now! He didn't say when. I can't work. I can't think." "It's too soon. You can't just start meeting strangers off that pervy website. It's too dangerous." "He's not dangerous." "You don't know that. Talk with him a bit first. Read his stuff and see what you get out of that. Just don't meet him yet." A sigh sounded through the phone. "You're right. It's too soon. I just ache for him, Carrie. I can't explain it." "Well ache after deadline. You gotta get your head outta your ass and get back to work." "I know. I know. Thanks." After hanging up, Rachel turned back to her email to Phillip. Carrie was right. It was too soon. He could be an axe murderer. "Dear Phillip. I'd like to meet you, too. But I don't normally meet strange men from this site. I'd need to get to know more about you first. Do you have a profile? Rachel" It took a while to re-focus, but soon Phillip was out of sight, out of mind. The article she wrote on fundraising efforts for a new playground was put to bed successfully a half hour before deadline. As if on cue, her email notification jingled softly and with a knee-jerk reaction Rachel clicked on the throbbing icon. "Plairdon" had replied. "Hi. Hope your day is going better than mine. What are you doing for dinner tonight?" He signed it "PL". With a slight grin she responded without hesitation. "I think I'm meeting a new friend." If, she thought hitting the "Send" button, tonight went as well as her most recent dream, his day would be improving very, very shortly. -end-