The Door Into Summer

I have written my share of smut here at Literotica, but this is different. It is a true story, a love story (although a very dirty one.) It may not be the best stroke material, because it involves poetry, revelations, dizzying heights of happiness, and bitter disappointments. But go ahead, read it. You only go around once.

Prelude

Something remarkable happened on my 62nd birthday. I promise to convey it to you as truthfully as possible, while unavoidably changing some names and dates in the interest of discretion.

I had been around the block a few times. I had lived an unusual life, foregoing creature comforts in order to pursue my interests in music and poetry. But I was beginning to feel old, beginning to wonder what I had missed in my life, what opportunities might have passed me by when I was younger. I was comfortably married, but I was lonely.

My body was changing, or perhaps it was my mind. This had a bearing on my sex life. When we speak of sex, which, dear reader, we often will, it is a rather psychosomatic business. In fact, it may have more than a little in with baseball, which as Yogi Berra sagely pointed out, is “ninety percent mental and the other half is physical.” Entering my sixth decade, a change was underway, and I don’t know whether it was my body or mind that was leading the way.

Sex had been important to me throughout my life. I got an early start with it, although it wasn’t always easy. When I was a lad, women seemed unattainable, and they inspired in me a combination of desire and fear. I was preoccupied with the mystery of how men and women relate to each other, and I gradually came to understand it in fits and starts. As my life progressed, I had my fair share of lovers, and became more and more comfortable with the dance that men and women do as a prelude to what happens in bed. But along the way, I also grew weary of the anxieties and uncertainties of it, and made up my mind to find a stable relationship and settle down, which I managed to do shortly before I turned 40.

More than 20 years of monogamy went by pleasantly enough, but it eventually became clear that my sex life was dying down to a flicker. I did not suffer from the dreaded Erectile Dysfunction, but it had become increasingly difficult for me to reach a climax during sex with my wife. I was beginning to think that it was time to hang up my spurs, figuratively speaking, although as my body seemed to lose interest, sex was very much on my mind.

During this time frame, the internet had emerged as a social phenomenon, and I got interested in it early on. And, like so many other nerdy types that were early denizens of cyberspace, I soon saw the potential for online sexual encounters.

I had been spending some time on Literotica, a website that caters to writers and readers of erotica, and I became both. Literotica attracts men and women from all over the world who are interested in both writing and sex, to varying degrees. The website is popular because it offers free porn in abundance. But some of those who contribute stories and poems are serious writers who are simply trying to reach a wider audience, and the sexual nature of the material ensures that the readers will be there.

At Literotica, aspiring writers can benefit from feedback left by readers, either in the form of public comments or in private messages. I occasionally left, and received, such feedback. Many people who frequented the site also took advantage of the feedback system to flirt with people who intrigued them; this I had done as well, anonymously, with some women who contributed stories or poems to the site.

Simona: “I had been on LIt off and on for about a year and a half, and had come back from an absence of several months after some recent personal difficulties. I had no clear goal other than to assuage some vague feelings of loneliness by writing stories as an exercise in exorcising demons. I was used to having very little feedback, so I was gratified by the occasional comment from those who looked like they genuinely liked any of my contributions. One reader had recently written a fairly extensive comment on one of my stories, and I kept track of more comments. Then another gentleman (I assumed, given the name) commented on the same story, also via the private feedback feature, and invited me to read his own pieces. I generally did not respond to such invitations (or if I did, rarely, it was with a rather obnoxious and dismissive comment) but he had been very polite and had included a link to his author’s page and I was curious, so I looked. They seemed to be pretty racy strokers but literate and set in interesting locales, both unusual for the majority of Lit fare I had sampled. His profile picture was a male nude from the back, presumably himself, which seemed like a rather forward invitation to passing female readers. I filed that away somewhat dismissively (an invitation of this sort was the last thing I was interested in), but I read one of his submissions, Wet Panties, and left a tongue-in-cheek comment at the end--I told him mine were indeed wet after reading his story. He responded quite promptly, telling me he was glad the story had worked as he’d intended. I looked at more of his work. Unlike most authors, he had also posted poetry. One of his poems had an intriguing title, Freudian Rap. It seemed to imply that his politics were quite hard left, as he suggested that Obama was right wing. I left a polite and friendly comment, and let it go at that. Until he commented on another of my stories.”

On that day, my birthday, I read some poems by a woman who went by the screen name of “Seascapes”. I sent her a message in which I provided a sober and serious critique of her poems. To my surprise, she quickly sent a response. She appreciated my critique, and she was curious about some of my views with respect to poetry in general. However, she concluded her message with the following sober admonition:

Finally - just to avoid embarrassment: I'm happy to talk "shop" about writing. Other stuff - please, no - I'm happily attached and have no plans to stray. Sorry if this seems rude and may be farthest from your mind, but prevention and all that... Thanks in advance for your understanding.

I replied that I did not find her admonition inappropriate at all, and that “we can continue to talk chastely about smut for as long as you like.” I answered her questions, which prompted another round of discussion. The emails began to fly back and forth between us, and they continued throughout the day, and the day that followed.

With each exchange, I saw qualities in Seascapes that drew me to her more and more -- she was very bright and articulate; ideas were important to her; she enjoyed being challenged, but if she felt she was in the right, she would defend her position fiercely; her sense of humor meshed well with my own; and it became clear, soon enough, that her libido was exceptionally powerful. Yet these attractive qualities in and of themselves cannot explain what was happening between us. There was a quality in our interactions that I could only describe as aesthetically beautiful, a sort of instinctive rapport, as my warm and fragile heart recognized its twin in hers.

By the third day we had revealed to each other that our real-life names were Andre and Simona. We joked about the loss of our “mystique”, but Simona slyly joked that it was just as well that we dispense with it, because her “imagination was too… imaginative.” On that day we ventured into an internet chat session for the first time, and began to get to know each other at an accelerated pace, describing our lives, our jobs, our cultural interests, and our respective marriages. Simona was ten years my junior, and born in Czechoslovakia. Her family had emigrated to the US after the failure of the Prague Spring. Now she was a Professor of Computer Science at the University of Oregon in Eugene, only a few hours away from my home in Portland. I was a professional jazz musician. We both loved classical music and jazz, but Simona was partial to certain kinds of hard rock that I disdained. My political views seemed radical to Simona. We both loved espionage novels. The combination of similarities and dissimilarities was intriguing and bewitching.

I was married to Ella, a black woman from Barbados who worked for a Non-Governmental Organization that campaigned against violations of human rights. Simona was married to Herb, a successful software engineer who worked in the private sector and traveled often for his job. They had a 9-year old son, Alistair, who I gathered was precocious and sounded adorable. We agreed early on that it would be best not to let our spouses know about our budding friendship, not that we had done anything improper, just yet.

But our e-mail exchanges, despite Simona’s admonition, had grown increasingly flirtatious, and once we were in that chat room, the flirting reached escape velocity. By late afternoon, we were beginning to describe our sexual fantasies about each other, and after about 15 hot and heavy minutes of that, we agreed to make a date for cyber-sex. I was dumbfounded that she had retreated so quickly from her prohibition of sexual interaction. Cautiously, I asked when she might be ready to do it. To my surprise and delight, she typed, “How about tomorrow?” Then we went on typing some ardent and deliciously raunchy exchanges. Our nominal commitment to propriety had fallen by the wayside.

The next morning, at 10 A.M. we were in our respective private locations, chatting again, drinking rum and testing the waters. Simona had never had cyber-sex before. However, it seemed that she had done her homework, and she took to it like a duck to water. When the inevitable question came, when I asked her what she was wearing, she replied that she was wearing a gold chain. Soon I had stripped down to an equivalent state of nakedness, and our conversation became more and more salacious. She asked me whether I had ever visited a site called FetLife, and I replied that I had not, but made a mental note to investigate further. Soon we were sharing a fantasy, where I asked her to imagine that she was standing before me as I sat on the edge of my bed. Together we imagined the first tentative exploration of each others’ bodies, followed soon by tasting one another. I quickly discovered that there was nothing reserved or pedestrian about Simona’s sexuality. The kinkier I was, the more she seemed to like it. We egged each other on and encouraged each other to touch ourselves, until we both climaxed. It was lovely and satisfying, and I typed, “I’m so glad we met.” We chatted further, and when it was time to go, I typed to her, “You are so sweet.” She replied,

btw, i am most definitely not sweet, but ... you can enjoy the dream a bit longer

I found this provocative. Later that day I wrote to her regarding her “sweetness”:

You have treated me with a refined and poetic sensitivity, and I want you to know that I appreciate that. Two days ago we were strangers. Your comment might be read as a sardonic, enigmatic warning, or merely as Simona being self-effacing. I don't want to speculate.

...to which she responded:

You are a poet. I am really touched.

"Your comment might be read as a sardonic, enigmatic warning, or merely as Simona being self-effacing. "

Neither black nor white...

Several things were becoming clear.

For both of us, there was a deep sexual itch that begged to be scratched, and our online interaction was scratching it in a new and most satisfying way. We had both been married for over 20 years. The tendency for sexual relationships to grow mundane over time is well-known. My wife Ella was a workaholic with numerous health problems; she liked sex now and then, but was set in her ways and not open to experimentation. Simona’s husband Herb was insecure and short-tempered, and the rare discussions of how to improve their sex life would frequently become fights or lead nowhere, in Simona’s eyes.

However, in both our marriages there was a strong intellectual connection with our respective spouses. Simona had a long and fruitful collaboration with her husband in scientific work; I shared Ella’s passion for politics and human rights. Simona and I agreed that we would do nothing to jeopardize the stability of our respective marriages. Of course, this is easier said than done.

We were rapidly forming an intellectual bond as well. It seemed, at first blush, a mis-match, but somehow it worked. I was fascinated by her work in science, and she was fascinated by my music. She requested videos of my band, which I sent her. The intellectual connection produced what seemed to me to be a surprising effect: it dramatically intensified the sexual heat between us. We scheduled another date for cyber-sex, three days after the first one.

One of my kinks was an interest in exhibitionism and voyeurism. I was hoping to interest Simona in an exchange of explicit photos; I was not confident of success. Despite the searing intensity of our shared fantasies, I thought she might balk at what I had in mind. She had sent me a few photos which were very tame, and I thought it might go no further than that. But just in case, I took a series of photos of myself in various positions: standing, kneeling, reclining. In each photo I was stroking my hard cock.

I also registered an account at FetLife, social networking site which Simona had mentioned during our first cyber-date. I was surprised and somewhat dismayed by what I found there. The site caters primarily to denizens of the BDSM subculture. I found many photos there disturbing, including pictures of whipping, spanking, and people bound in very uncomfortable positions. Almost universally, the submissive parties who were being tied up and flogged were women, and the dominant, sadistic parties were men. I wondered, what attracted a highly educated and politically feminist woman like Simona to this scene? Over time, I was to learn the answer.

The days passed quickly, and soon it was time for our second “date.” I had my explicit selfies ready, hoping that Simona would respond in kind. I asked her whether she would like to talk on the phone, and she declined, saying that she was still too shy. But our chat (lubricated by some rum) grew increasingly, audaciously raw. She sent me first a photo of her boots, then a seductive photo of her panties. I sent her some of my photos in return. She sent a photo of her top with a zipper that ran down the front, suggesting that I ought to take it down with my teeth. We continued to chat, sharing a fantasy of what we would like to be doing to each other, and the text messages were punctuated at intervals with more photos.

Simona had a knack for this. She was timing the sending of her photos just right to arouse me more and more. It was also apparent that she was taking the photos live as we went along, and the more aroused we became, the more explicit the photos were. She showed me her nipples. She showed me a fabulous and very alluring wet spot on her panties. And as our date progressed, she showed me her wet, scrumptious cunt, up close, followed by another close-up shot of her fingers buried deep inside it, followed in due course by a shot of those same fingers disappearing into her mouth. The waiting between photos, the escalating wickedness of our chat, the building tension, all had a distinctly musical quality. I was beginning to get a presentiment of how wonderfully satisfying sex with Simona might be.

We were beginning to reach a fever pitch of excitement. Together, we imagined for the first time actual penetration and fucking, and then we reached orgasm simultaneously. It was not only highly erotic -- it was powerfully emotional and intimate, giving a sense of communion that I should not have thought possible over the internet.

I had been interested in poetry for years, but whenever I sat down to write some, I was unable to find a subject that inspired me. Now things were different. In the days that followed, I wrote this sonnet to commemorate my second cyber-tryst with Simona:

The Revelation

I'll see the panties first; your belly, sleek

And taut, invites me to the satin lace,

A region where my lips would gladly chase

Your fingers down that boundary, and seek

The softness of your thighs. But next, a peek

Upon another most enthralling place:

Your other naughty fingers that embrace

Your nipple, plump and pink, and gently tweak

It 'til it cries for more. Your panties now

Are glistening, and calling me to kiss,

To lick, to taste the viscous blessings they bestow.

And finally, the revelation, this:

The lips that hint of plum, but tasting so

Much sweeter, like our hearts conjoined in bliss.

Much later, I wrote the following reminiscence in an email to Simona:

I'll never forget it, darling. I had a kink which I had never had the proper opportunity to explore, a desire to exchange explicit photos with a cyber-lover. I didn't think you would be prepared to indulge me. But indulge me you did! And it was so masterful, darling (or mistressful), how you teased me, how you timed the sending of each photo to send my arousal through the roof. It was so erotic! And then, at a certain point, there was a miraculous shift. You proposed that we cum together. I hesitated for a moment. I thought that in cybersex, one party must type while the other cums. But then I just surrendered to it. It was beautiful -- and it was loving. Perhaps for the first time, I felt simultaneously the heights of erotic arousal, and the sweetness of romantic love.

By that evening, Simona and I had crossed a Rubicon of sorts -- we had begun to openly acknowledge that we lived close enough to one another that a real-life meeting were possible. We began to debate, more with ourselves than with each other, the pros and cons of such a meeting. We were both very excited at the prospect of having real-life sex, but the downside was the adultery -- if we were to take that decisive step, we would be cheating on our spouses in real life, and there could be no equivocating. We also recognized that we were drawing closer emotionally, and Simona sounded the alarm: if we met in real life, might we fall hopelessly in love, making our dilemma all the more painful and dangerous?

We left things up in the air on the question of a real-life meeting. Meanwhile, we began to have cyber-sex at every possible opportunity. I was somewhat experienced with cyber-sex in its different varieties, having had a number of brief digital affairs over the past decade (while remaining nominally faithful to my wife in real life.) I had experienced phone sex and been introduced to web-cam exhibitionism/voyeurism. Simona, while no stranger to real-life sex, was only now being introduced to the digital variety. She possessed a talent, one that is apparently not uncommon, for being able to masturbate by simply crossing her legs and squeezing her thighs together to exert pressure on her clit, making it possible for her to reach orgasm, undetectably, in public. One afternoon, as she was in her office, we fantasized together until she had climaxed three times while sitting at her desk. The naughtiness of it was delicious.

Simona was raw and wanton in the chat box, but painfully reticent on the phone. We had made a date to have a brief phone call, which was almost comically chaste and formal. We were both nonplussed, and to overcome our shyness, we agreed that we would have regular short phone conversations, which were always about non-sexual matters, in contrast to our out-of-control lustiness when chatting. This was done as an exercise so that we might gradually become more comfortable with each other’s voices, because we knew that in time we would want to have phone sex. I jokingly referred to the “phone Simona” as if she were a different person, very proper and cerebral, as opposed to the other, digital Simona who was so willing and uninhibited.