Catfished

Michael was about to log off and go mow the yard when he decided to check on one of his old kink social networking sites, where he hadn't been active recently. He was intrigued to see that he had a little notification flag for a private message, and even more intrigued to see it was from his old pen pal Jenna.

"Hey, remember me?"

Of course he remembered her. He used to do some sexting and online roleplaying on this site, and she was the best partner he had ever had. She wasn't exactly a unicorn -- there are women who enjoy these kinds of exchanges -- but they're outnumbered by men ten-to-one. Of course, Michael figured he was better than the average writer, and so he had had some success engaging women who liked being creative and slutty while remaining anonymous.

Eventually, though, most of them get bombarded with male attention, much of it awkward or harassing; so Michael hadn't been surprised when Jenna had disappeared a year ago.

"Of course, Princess," he responded. "How could I forget? You're the hottest little vixen I've ever chatted with."

"Awww."

"So how have you been?" he typed.

"I'm fine," she answered. "But I've missed our chats. I was hoping you might want to start another one."

"I could be persuaded."

The truth was, Michael and Jenna weren't quite a perfect match, but that's sometimes what can make collaborating with a stranger interesting. Jenna liked role-playing as a good girl with a hidden slutty side; she liked working on stories where she was used, even degraded a bit.

Michael's kinks ran more toward submission, tease and denial, cuckolding. Which didn't really interest Jenna. But last year they had spent several weeks building a story where he played both the shallow, well-hung fuckboys who took advantage of her, and her loyal, willfully oblivious boyfriend. She had no interest in denying her boyfriend, or really even teasing him, let alone putting him in chastity. Cheating, it seemed, she liked.

"So what have you been doing lately, miss?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. Online, that is. Just taking a break."

"I get that," he replied. "I've not been very active on this site lately, either. I've been posting some complete stories elsewhere."

He wished she would ask him about that; express interest in reading them. But she didn't, and he didn't want to sound needy by suggesting it.

A few minutes went by. He wondered how many other guys she was chatting with at the same time. Finally he asked her, "So, what do you have in mind?"

Her response came quicker than he expected. "I liked playing your cheating girlfriend. I thought maybe we could set this one up where we're college students."

College students, he thought. Her profile said she was 101 years old. That's okay, his said he was 103. He presumed that in real life he was considerably older than she was; but they never addressed their real ages, names, or occupations; he felt that would spoil the fantasy. It might even scare her away. On the other hand, he was sure she suspected that he wasn't a 26-year-old self-made millionaire venture capitalist with lots of time on his hands.

"If you want to try something a little different," he suggested, "I could be your favorite professor." Then he quickly added, "Or graduate assistant."

She barely paused before responding, "No, I don't think so.

"I want us to both be virgins."

Oh, okay. Then, she added, "I mean, I'll give you handjobs, but that's all."

That's all for me, he thought, although he felt himself stiffening at the thought of pursuing this scenario; describing for her how some other stud would take her virginity while he, her boyfriend and narrator and the best sexting partner she'd ever had, sat haplessly at home.

"Unless maybe you'd like my feet..."

Well, well, my little Jenna, he thought. You have been expanding your kink horizons.

"That could be fun," he typed.

She sent him a picture. She had done that from time to time last year. Always clothed, although often minimally so. She had a great body, lithe and slender, with shoulder-length dark brown hair. Always with her face obscured by the camera in the mirror. He was sure she was just protecting her privacy, not obscuring the fact that she was ugly. She wasn't eighteen, but she wasn't thirty, either.

This time, the picture was a close-up of her feet. It's hard to photograph your own feet without making your calves look huge, but she had done a good job with it. Her ankles were dainty and her toes were painted white.

"Very nice," he entered. Then, "thank you."

"My sorority is doing a fund-raiser for Homecoming, and I have to work at a kissing booth..."

That sounded like a familiar scenario. "Yeah, I could see how a smitten college boy could get jealous about that."

"So, I need to get dressed for this party," came her next message. "You'll do my math homework for me while I'm gone?"

He smiled. It sounded like the game was underway.

"AAANNNDDDD... we're off," he typed.

"LOL."

He stretched his arms, and decided to get into character. "So, this is that homecoming fundraiser?"

"No, that's next week," she replied. "This is just an athletics mixer. Just the players and the cheerleaders."

"Huh. So... student government geeks aren't invited?"

"No. And you have homework to do, remember?"

"That's right."

"So this is what I'm wearing tonight," she said.

A moment went by, then she sent him another picture. A full-length selfie in the mirror, face behind the camera as always. But she was wearing a shimmering metallic party dress, with matching heels. The dress had spaghetti straps; the neckline was not too revealing, but the hemline was extremely short, coming down barely to mid-thigh, and with a slit up one side that reached almost to where her panties should be. Unless she was wearing an over-the-hipbone thong. Or no underwear at all.

"Wow," he said, in his mind and on his keyboard.

"Now, I don't want you touching yourself while I'm gone."

Well, that was a little different, too. He liked it, but didn't want to push too hard. "Okay..."

"I mean it," she continued. "No masturbating! That would be like cheating on me!"

He laughed out loud at that, and then typed in the corresponding abbreviation.

"If you can get yourself off," she pushed, "What do you need me for?"

"Okay," he agreed, liking this new aspect of her. "So, just leave me your math book..."

"We're not role-playing yet," she said. "We're still just texting."

He felt his breath catch at that. Wait a minute. So, the message about "not masturbating" wasn't a co-ed talking to her college boyfriend... that was an actual suggestion from the real-life woman on the other end of this computer chat?

"Really?" he typed.

"Uh huh."

He bit his lip and considered that, and realized that he needed to adjust himself in his walking shorts. He always got hard when a woman teased him about denying him.

"But," she then added, "I've got to go now. Check back later?"

Ooh, he thought; get me hard and then leave me. It's like she had figured out his kinks and decided to give him what he liked. "Of course," he said. Then she logged out, and he did too, and got ready to mow the yard. In a few minutes. When his erection had subsided.

It was that evening before he could log back on again. There were two messages from Jenna. The first simply said, "You there?" followed at some time later by, "Babe?"

He responded with a message that was both cheerily teasing, and quietly forlorn: "Oh no! I missed you! Sigh. And I've been so faithful to you!"

His cock was hard at the thought that the woman he had been chatting with had instructed him not to stroke himself. He gave himself one squeeze to admire his own rigidity, which he knew he owed to her. He resolved to not go further.

A few minutes passed without response. Finally, he added, "I guess I'll have to continue being a good boy until we can chat again." Then he closed his computer, and unbuckled his pants to adjust his erection, which was tangled and suppressed in his boxers. He paused for a moment, then self-consciously lowered his shorts to mid-thigh. And stared, for several minutes, at his turgid penis, bobbing with each beat of his heart, as if in futile search of the soft, grasping hands of the pretty co-ed in the shiny party dress, the girl who had just made him promise that he would not touch himself, that he would save that "for her."

****

He checked again before bed and first thing the next morning, but saw no messages from Jenna. Like most men, he usually had an erection in the morning; this one didn't go away, as he continued to think about the fact that he had promised a playful woman that he wouldn't "cheat on her" by touching himself, and as he honored that promise.

Eventually, in the course of shaving and dressing, his hard-on went away; although it came back throughout the workday, much more frequently than it normally would have, every time he thought about yesterday's little online exchange.

Monday evening he checked the site twice, three times; still no message from Jenna. Every time he checked, he could feel his heart sink with disappointment, and his penis rise with arousal.

Tuesday was the same, as was Wednesday, up until the time that he stopped by a farmer's market after work. He was browsing at a produce stand when suddenly the young woman working the booth finished helping another customer, and turned to him from behind the counter.

"Hi there," she said. "Looking for anything in particular?"

He looked up from the bins to make eye contact with her... but got distracted on the way, during the millisecond when his eyes passed her magnificent cleavage.

If she noticed, she didn't mind. He quickly acknowledged her by looking directly into her pretty heart-shaped face -- a pointed chin, dimples in her cheeks, full lips curled into a knowing smile, grey eyes sparkling at him, all under a head full of curly light-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"No, not really," he replied, registering that her eyes matched the simple gray plaid shirt she was wearing, cotton rather than flannel, the top three buttons undone, two magnificent breasts straining to burst it open, no doubt being pushed together by the most wondrous of Wonder Bras, for his viewing pleasure. Melons, please, he thought. Two firm ripe cantaloupes, on a platter, for me.

"What's in peak season?" he asked.

"Strawberries!" she replied. "We're at the tail end of local strawberry season, but these are fresh off the vine this morning. And then, peaches, just starting this week, but these are from South Carolina..."

Michael picked up a quart of strawberries and asked, "How about your sweet corn? Is it local?"

"Sure is," she said. "These were connected to Mother Earth at this time yesterday."

"I'll take... four of them," he decided, although he didn't need that many; but it kept her busy talking with him. "So, are you new here?"

"I am," she replied. "The stand isn't. It's my uncle's. I'm just helping him out for the summer."

She handed him a paper bag with four ears of unhusked corn. The process of paying for his purchase gave him the opportunity for a bit more small talk, a chance to learn where she was going to college; and another opportunity to sneak a peak at her lush bosom. He was normally more of a legs-and-ass man that a tit man, but that's the wonder of women, he thought... their ability to convince you, with just a glimpse, that you had to have something that you hadn't considered before.

That night, he had a new image to duel with his thoughts about Jenna's denial. He pictured Farm Stand Girl on her knees before him, gray eyes wide with carnal intent, her cleavage still magnificent, but created now not by a bra but by her hands, cupping her breasts, lifting them and pushing them together, around his throbbing erect cock.

He had never had a "tit job" to completion in real life, but now he was imagining it, imagining stroking himself to orgasm, his cock engulfed by and gliding between her oiled, pale, blue-veined breasts, her looking up at him with those wide eyes, then looking down at his flaring knob as it appeared and disappeared between the globes of her flesh, until he spurted forth his thick, viscous load in stream after stream over her collarbones, her chin, her upturned nose...

But then he remembered his hot conversation with his long-time online partner Jenna. He was a bit perturbed that she had ghosted him for three days, but then again, it had only been three days, and this could very well be a part of her plan, to give him something that he wanted for a change. And damn, if the idea of denying himself, saving his orgasms for her, wasn't hot. And denying himself with the image of Farm Stand Girl fresh in his mind made it even hotter.

So instead of splattering his semen all over Farm Stand Girl's chest and face, he opened up his laptop and kept both hands busy writing to Jenna. Assuring her that he was being faithful, saving his orgasms for her. Admitting that he missed her and looked forward to hearing from her, without sounding needy or desperate. Although he was getting needy and desperate.

Another day went by without hearing from her, so he wrote to her again. And again, as another weekend began. He found himself wondering and imagining what was going through her head. Had she gotten bored with him, changed her mind about another long-term role-playing game? He pictured her leaving him aroused and distraught, and bound -- handcuffed to a headboard, or arms tied to a support pillar in a dark basement -- and walking away, her pert round bottom swaying with each step as she disappeared, never looking back.

She had told him that "chastity" didn't appeal to her. But maybe, as her parting gift to him, she had locked his penis into one of those infernal contraptions, so he could swell and writhe to his heart's content after she abandoned him forever. The thought was insanely arousing.

Or maybe, he thought, she was in fact as engaged in this little exercise as he was; thinking about him every day just as much as he thought about her; enjoying the edging, focusing on extending it as long as possible, either before giving him release, or before finding the exact perfect last second to ruin his orgasm.

Then he had a thought that she was somehow getting something tangible out of this. As if every day that he went without an orgasm, every day that he made that sacrifice for her, she was somehow *collecting* his gifts, banking them. As if every orgasm that he didn't have, was one more that she could enjoy.

So he told her that, in a message. And on Sunday, a week after their last conversation, she replied, "Ooh, that's hot. You're such a good boyfriend. Let's do it again."

And then nothing. Monday came and went, as did Tuesday. If she hadn't popped online long enough on Sunday to say "Let's do it again," he probably would have tired of this game by now. But she had given him just enough attention to earn another week of sacrifice.

Wednesday, he went back to the Farmers' Market. He went by the produce stand where he had met the buxom coed last week, but she wasn't there today. He visited other stands, bought nothing, passed by her booth again. Still nothing.

He sighed, dejected, and headed home. In his mind, it was easy to convince himself that, damn it, Farm Stand Girl was real. As if her very mild flirtation with him the previous week was something more; an invitation that he had stupidly ignored.

He pictured her, right now, back behind the tents and booths of the produce stands, letting some other customer fish her marvelous breasts out of her shirt, gather them into his hands, suck on her taut, brown nipples. He pictured her bent over the tailgate of her uncle's pickup truck, her cut-off jeans around one ankle, another man grasping her by the waist and pumping in and out of her. Farm Stand Girl was cumming on the stranger's cock. The stranger was cumming in Farm Stand Girl's ripe young body. Jenna was cumming, too, psychically connected with him so she could enjoy his denial and regret, burning up one or two of the orgasms that he had allowed her to stockpile by denying himself.

He continued to write to Jenna every night, although he didn't specifically mention Farm Stand Girl. He definitely mentioned how urgent his need was becoming.

Finally, on Sunday, a message from Jenna popped up on his screen.

"Damn, you are so hot," she told him. All his frustration and regret was swept away.

"I've missed you!" he admitted on his keyboard.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I've just been so busy!" He waited for her to tell him what was keeping her so busy. What, or who. To tease him like she used to,with images of her succumbing to the seduction of other men. But nothing was forthcoming.

"I really like the idea that you've waited for me," she finally wrote. "And the idea that every orgasm you don't have, is another one that I get to have. You're such a thoughtful, loyal boyfriend."

He hoped maybe now she would give him relief, text him through a virtual handjob, or maybe a footjob with her lovely pedicured toes.

"Will you give me an orgasm tonight, baby?" she said, instead. "By going another day without having one yourself?"

He groaned, but felt himself teetering on the edge of arousal. He couldn't touch himself. He couldn't resist playing along.

"Of course, baby."

****

Rodney leaned back and swivelled in his desk chair, laughed, and tossed a couple more cheetos into his mouth, before wiping his hands on the orange-stained legs of his sweat pants.

What a loser, he thought, thinking about the guy he had been chatting with. Not only did the moron believe that an actual, hot young woman would be wasting her time sexting with some rando stranger on the internet; the schmuck was actually giving up masturbating, "sacrificing" his orgasms, as if that imaginary woman really got something out of that bizarre exchange.

And he had done it now for two weeks! Rodney couldn't imagine going two days without rubbing one out, let alone two weeks. Two weeks without cumming! Two weeks the stupid putz would never get back.

Rodney found himself grinning as he recalled the pathetic chump's blathering to his non-existent girlfriend about how every orgasm he denied himself was a gift to her; that she could somehow bank the orgasm that he had not spent, and enjoy it as her own later.

Huh.

All right, then, dweeb, since I'm the one you've been sending your unspent orgasms to, I think I'll go ahead and cash one in right now. He rose up in his chair enough to shove his worn sweatpants down over his pasty thighs, and took the short fat stalk of his stiff dick between the thumb and two largest fingers of his right hand.

He always jacked off with his right hand. It required him to clumsily use his left hand to manipulate the mouse and open the folder with the girl's photos that he had stolen off her Instagram account.

She was a hottie. Not as big a rack as he would have preferred, but definitely legs and an ass to slobber over. She was an idiot, too, he thought. Bimbos who post pictures of themselves on the internet are just asking to get turned into jerk-off fodder. Too bad she didn't show her face; although that's one of the reasons he chose her to impersonate, because it was less likely that someone would recognize her.

He closed his eyes and imagined the face of the girl he had been portraying. Big brown eyes. A little button nose. Thick, soft, lips. Dick-sucking lips. Yeah. And with that image he felt the sharp little convulsion ripple up his spine, felt the underside of his dick pulse against his fingertips, and opened his eyes to watch a couple of silvery streams of jism shoot up onto his dirty t-shirt. He closed his eyes again and pretended the last two or three splooges were landing on the face of this Jenna chick.