tagLetters & TranscriptsFortune Shines Ch. 05

Fortune Shines Ch. 05

byzestyandshy©

(To the reader: This is the fifth in a string of many correspondences between a former professor and me. It started out to be just a harmless little distraction for myself, to break up the day. It became so much more, so unrepentantly.)

She didn't know which one was more taxing – keeping this online affair a secret from her friends or keeping her identity from Mr. Fortune. She replied to his email, still not sure which was worse.

"OK, tit for tat. I have to admit this is a lopsided deal. Specifically, what form of currency are you requesting?

Yes, I have boots too.

I also need to develop this a bit better. I really never thought it would get this far in the first place. I have no foundation to send the characters from. Random acts of lust are great, when in person, but don't make much of a story.

I'm also a bit curious. What's going through that ponytail-capped head of yours? Do you accept my anonymity or do you try to figure out which one I am? I sometimes feel a bit of nervous tension as I approach my vehicle. I fear that there will be a note on the windshield, from you, requesting my presence."


She found herself now spending more of her work time just waiting for his responses. She was hooked into her own game yet she wasn't the game master. She'd even looked up his schedule so she knew when not to expect an email. She laughed at herself. "I gotta get out more."

Finally, his jocund email reply was received.

"You are curious? A bit? Let's see, how do I respond to that (lightly drumming on my upper lip and moustache, squinting slightly into the near distance with an earnestly reflective gaze). You? Curious? Bless your fairly wonderful fanny (Oh, I so hope it is. Okay, is it? Prove it?), I can't for the life of me imagine how that must feel. Excuse me for just a moment here. Okay, I'm back now. What muffled laughter? What's that old marvelous Latin _expression? Paybacks are a mofo, I think it goes. Well, you do have my sympathy, and if there's ANYthing I can do to, shall we say, relieve the tension, don't hesitate to ask. But send me some polaroids, oops, a slip.

Through my mind? Oh let's see....Intrigued curiosity, a strong sense of anticipation, some arousal--but that's all about the 500 this weekend, go 8 car! And absolutely those same things about you....

The anonymity thing. Yes, I do accept it and bow (hey, while I' m down there....) to your wishes. Of course I wonder who you are, just as you would. Actively try to figure out your identity? Besides the fact that my options are limited, I'm essentially down with my man Keats, who said something to the effect of: To be in the presence of mystery without reaching irritably for answers is a fuckin' blast. Such a way with words, 'em ol' poet dudes. Anticipation, you know? Getting off is wonderful: getting to that point's pretty damn fine too. Hey, you're in charge, no?

A note on your car? Absolutely not. I figure you'll let me know when--or if--you desire contact. What's that ticking noise there, sugar britches?

Okay?"


Maybe she could bully her way through her lack of literary prowess but she needed substance to work from. Unfortunately that was lacking too. She didn't know much about Mr. Fortune. So far, she understood that he had a thing for girls in boots. He let her know that he was either into NASCAR, or was really excited about the number eight. This man was a walking inconsistency. What was he?

Geography was the only link she could come up with. She was grabbing at straws and they all seemed to have holes in them. Maybe at the beach, or downtown? The little exhibitionist in her kicked in.

She loved having sex outside, during a warm rain. The state park had been the most recent of destinations in her sights. She thought of the balmy summer showers in the early afternoons. She pictured them together, walking through the barely usable trails.

She tried to not fast-forward to the "good" parts in her imagination but she just didn't have Mr. Fortune's self control.

Her mind flashed to his tanned, wet, and very naked body. The two of them, in the woods, sitting belly to belly, intertwined in each other. She was wrapped around him and he was rocking them both. His hips bucked slightly upward, back and forth, every so slowly, feeling every inch inside of her. She clung on, as he worked himself deeper into her. She fell into the rhythm of the sway. With her eyes closed, she felt everything. He picked up the pace, so she bit his shoulder to show him two could play at that game. She relished his salty taste. Then their cadence began to take on a life of its own; it became hungry. Their hips grinded, almost angrily, into each other. He could hear her stifled moans, stirring from deep within her. She wanted more of him. The rain became heavier, provoking them to an even faster pace. Their bodies where soaked with sweat and rain. She threw her head back and he lunged in, to sink his teeth. She let out a little whimper but then begged for more. Oh, how she wanted to scream in ecstasy.

Yup, there she went again. She had to work on the building and savoring of potential energy. Maybe that comes with time or experience. She wondered if reading Keats would help. That's silly– she had her own quazi personal Keats to show her the ropes.

"Ok, as for "getting this far" part that evoked such comic relief, I mean, c'mon. How many girlie plotted schemes have you ever seen that were well thought through? This was to be "Shock and Awe" and it didn't carry a well-crafted follow through plan. I never thought I'd have the bravado to post that envelope in the first place, much less to have it pay off in such a remarkable way. I simply didn't "brain storm" before hand. My judgment was somewhat clouded by erotic thoughts. It still is. There should be a Q & A session.? A drywaller or an intellect? I assume that country music isn't far behind. I need to find some common ground. Age- nope. Work? Nah-ah. Hmmm - I wonder if you're a boxer or brief kind of guy.

I half assume you already know whom I am and are keeping it to yourself. Paranoia is now biting me in the ass. (I'll leave that one alone.)

I have to say that I truly enjoy your titillating tales. They bring me to a much heightened state of arousal. Pity, you aren't allowed to reap what you sow. Tick tock – tick tock.

~Ethel"


Then she had to wait until the next day. Drudgery kept the clocks hands from moving forward. She had never looked forward to the next day as she did at the moment she sent her email. She was addicted. Looking for her next fix like a crazed woman she logged on as quickly as she could early the next morning and tried to go about her day. She was in denial that she was hitting the "check mail" button like a teen hits redial on a phone in attempts to be the 94th caller to win that big prize from a radio show. Finally that familiar announcing sound went of. She hurdled a pile of laundry and an excited dog but lacked the beautiful landing.

" The following should please you--and trust me on this one, babe, pleasuring you is a matter I've been devoting some thought to--I haven't the slightest notion of who you are, never mind what car you drive, which course you took (I am assuming you did--you certainly have a familiarity with my class-related stuff) or when, if you're actually attending classes now, or basically anything that might identify you. Feel better now? I'm in no real position (oh the possibilities there...) to request anything of you, but I'd ask simply that you tell the truth as you reveal--that play fair thang. Otherwise, I'm enjoying the little intellectual strip tease, a little tough to give up control I admit, but yours is a most stimulating performance. I'd say your scheme is working just fine. Oh, and about your paranoia. If your bottom is indeed in need of some attention, say some gentle massage of the affected area, the careful application of some soothing lotion, I do have some experience in such treatments and stand ready (oh absolutely!) to provide deep, satisfying relief. At your pleasure, ma'am.

And the reaping and the sowing? Personally, I think it's plowing time in your lush fields of opportunity, no, I know it is. The plow's tip moistened by those warm showers you love sinks into the rich, fecund earth, and gently but steadily turns back luxuriant furrows that they may receive the sun's (did I mention I'm Leo?) warm offering. At furrow end, the plow turns, pauses trembling, and with a shuddering throb its length plunges eagerly and deeply back into the damp, hot richness. So, um, you garden?

Quick Q & A:

Boxers/briefs: Neither. And your own style, sweet pants?

C&W music: Absolutely, but second to Allman Brothers and Steve Earle. I stand and remove my hat when "Dixie" is played; I fight when Skynyrd's dissed. Timely quote from "Free Bird": How 'bout you! Really darlin' ...how about you? Tell me more.

NASCAR: I cried when Dale Earnhart passed, I pull now for Junior's 8 car.

Drywaller/intellect: Smart ass carpenter, you know, kinda that renaissance-man thang--love to show you some nailing techniques.

Common ground of age: "Nope," you said. That way threw me. I talk in class'bout contents-technique-persona? I read your persona as not necessarily in my age ballpark, but definitely NOT at great remove--which you aren't saying. But you "read", well, mature? Absolutely wise and clever--your intelligence is very sexy. No foolin', I can't recall much, maybe any student writing that remotely approaches yours--and not just because of our, um, contents. All of which is a long way around to saying, again, I'm clueless about who you are, but you sho' nuff got my...interest...up. Your best disguise is your writing; be truthful, pull-ease!

Beer/wine/brown likker/none?

Again: Why me and why now?

You saw me wanting you in my eyes? That's alarming, somewhat. I'd like to think I'm not completely obvious--oh well. Not exactly any response from you, was there? Yep, I' m curious.

Uh-oh, weekend comin' & no home computer. How vexatious. I really need those polaroids."


Damn. No contact during the weekend. She quickly typed and hoped to get another email reply before his weekend started. She couldn't understand what she had become so manic. She didn't want to discover that she really wanted him to catch her.

"Leo? Are you trying to turn into one with all that hair? :)

I glean from the content you have provided that you are an ass man. I chuckle your homophobia and your concern of which gender is doing the "Catching". Must be a product of your age.

As for truth in advertising, it's a women's prerogative to accentuate the positive to askew the less so.

Hedges are trimmed. Undies with skirts.

I enjoy all forms of rock, from Buddy Holly to System of a Down. Van Halen was a biggie in my household, music varied wildly from current to past rock. Hmm – classic rock like Steve Miller band and the Eagles are as close as I can get to C&W.

My mom wept when Jerry Garcia died.

renaissance-man... yeah, I bet all the girls fall for that one.

As for my style of writing, I'm stoked to hear such words from you. It's from the circles that I orbit and well read parents.

I have a "thang" for older men. They have a "thang" for me. My current "man" is 10 years my senior.

Fortunately, I dig the moustache. I have other secret fetishes. I think my parents glorified the 70's for me. My choice of man is a bit abnormal in the common sense. Some of my choices in men skive my friends but they relent on teasing me b/c they think that a man's money may play a hand. They aren't my true friends, just the _mocha frappe mini moo decaf girls that are forced upon me. Really, I'm simple. For my sake, I'm glad there isn't a bunch of veterans in wheelchairs, sporting said moustaches, around today. Kinda feels weird to declare that one in the open.

I would have been the girl Adam Ant wrote that song. "Don't drink, don't smoke..." I do enjoy sparkling apple cider and was much bummed when I found out that champagne tasted nothing like the sort.

As for ocular undressing, I wore boots for you on that particular day. "


As she sent the email she noted how now she hated Fridays and how fucked up that thought really is.

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