And there she was, Mrs. Adderson, right in front of me, close up, and looking right into the screen at me. She was sitting in a chair looking into what probably was a videocam on the computer. Her hair had more gray, a luscious soft silvery kind of gray, very becoming. Otherwise, she looked the same.
No smile, as usual. Just a soul-searching look into my eyes. She cocked her head to one side in a gesture that has been etched in my memory since the first time she did it back at the beach house that long-ago night.
I could tell there was sound, yet she said nothing. She stood up and behind her I could see a bed. Her bedroom? I wondered. She walked over and sat on it. She was naked and beautiful. She sat up with her back against the headboard and several pillows. She slowly spread her legs -- wide, directly in front of the camera.
Her eyes still fixed on the camera, she began stroking her pussy with her fingers, then slid one fnger in her slit as she grew moist. I'm staring at that place between her legs, which I never thought I would see ever again.
After a moment, she leaned over and picked up something from the floor, a champagne bottle. Why was I not surprised? I'm watching, trying not even to blink. I want to miss nothing that happens, not even a millisecond.
I sat transfixed as she took a swig, then slowly inserted the neck of the bottle between her vagina's lips. pushing it gradually inside her, deep in, all the way. I had no idea it would go that far. She then began slowly pulling it half way out, then sliding it back in, all the while circling her clit with the middle finger on her other hand.
Slowly, as the moments went by, she began breathing heavily, even loud enough to be picked up by the microphone, but still keeping her eyes on me. She grew more and more aroused and rubbed her clit faster while moving the champagne bottle back and forth, gaining momentum. Champagne began spilling out of her pussy onto the bed. Her nipples were hard. At the last moment, she pulled out the bottle and she came, her hips moving back and forth on the bed, her thigh muscles contracting, her breasts heaving. And at her peak I saw a small spurt shoot out from her pussy onto the sheets.
She calmly got off the bed and reached for a white T-shirt that she slipped over her arms before sitting back down in the chair, her face now once again directly in front of mine. No words. But she winked, a very slow-motion, deliberate wink, with her left eye. Then her hand moved up to the monitor and the screen went black.
But I caught a half-second look at the T-shirt and some writing on it: "Rosarito Beach" in large letters and below it the word "Baja."
I looked for a replay button, but there wasn't one. I got out of the email and re-entered. Try as I might, I couldn't open the video again. I suppose it was somehow installed that way, to view just once. Is that possible? Maybe I could have tracked the video host, but am not sure they could tell me anything helpful.
By the time I went to the office Monday morning, I had found Rosarito Beach online. It's a playground of restaurants and dance clubs in Baja California. I also had typed out my letter of resignation to a surprised bunch of friends.
On Tuesday, I gave the cat away. By Wednesday, half of my furniture was in storage, the other half trucked off to a homeless shelter. And for some inexplicable reason, I also sold my beautiful two-door Mercedes, a present to myself when I won my first significant case a few months earlier.
Just as unexplainable, I bought a BMW k1200, which I'm told is a nice road bike that does well on long cross-country trips. I've packed one bag and one bag only to strap on the back. Tomorrow morning I'll gas it up and head southwest for what I guess will be a hard 10 days of riding.
I'm fully aware that my chances of finding her there are about one in a thousand. I mean, was the T-shirt a message to me, or just a T-shirt she threw on for the moment? Maybe she lives nowhere near Baja. Still, she had on the T-shirt and I don't believe she does much of anything that is purely accidental. She's a deliberate woman.
But why would she wait until now to contact me? She introduced herself to me as Mrs. Adderson. Was she really married? Is she still? Her name may not even be Anna Adderson.
She was right about one thing, though. We are both on the same path, bound together by this taste of white-heat living, these unknown pleasures. We are fellow travelers. I understand that now.
There are no other options for me. I have no choice. And maybe she knows that. I have to try. I need her. You see, I have this hunger.
Wish me luck.