Your Choice

Your heart skips a beat as you feel your phone doing that little buzz thing. You reach for it, look at the screen and see that it's indeed a notification indicating that you have a message waiting to be read. This is not the moment to read it, as you are not alone right now.

You look up from your phone, and your eyes meet the eyes of your friend. You hope she doesn't notice your blush, while you slide away your phone again. Two weeks ago you arranged to meet with her, and now you're sitting here, in this rather classy restaurant.

Even though she's your best friend you haven't told her about this weird online fling. About the man who is writing to you, messages you, who tells you he adores you, who tells you what he wants you to do. It started as a silly game, and maybe it still is silly or a game or both. Nevertheless it feels real, it makes you feel alive.

It's like you own this man. As if he's your private plaything, living inside your telephone. You sure want to keep him for yourself, and no one should know about him. Not even your friend, let alone your husband. Or does this man inside your pocket, inside your phone, as anonymous as you are to him, owns you? And then again, does it really matter?

The conversation with your friend continues, but in the back of your mind you wonder what the message on your phone entails. You realize that there is someone, this man, somewhere, thinking of you, right now, and not in the most mannerly way. It arouses you, but of course now is not the time to be aroused.

You excuse yourself and leave for the bathroom of the restaurant. There, alone, you reach for your phone again. But you don't want to skim through the message. Instead, you want to take the time, savor every word of it. He sure knows how to write.

And besides, this man, your private plaything, told you that you may only read his next message when completely naked. Silly? Sure. But you've learnt that when you play along with him, the reward is there. You can either laugh it off, or give way to your arousal and do as he says.

It's a choice. It's always a choice. A free fantasy world next to your day to day worries. If you want to live to see this secret world you have to play along. And oh, how you need this escape. You put the phone away, and start to unbutton your dress. Moments later, with all your clothes in one hand, you grab the phone again, and start reading his message.

"Charlotte, dear," he writes, and it is as if you hear his voice in your ears. A sound you made up, obviously, because he never spoke to you in person. But it sounds just like him, you are sure of that. No one calls you Charlotte anymore, yet this man does. And when he does so, it sends a shiver down your spine.

It is cool in the bathroom as the outside air comes in through a small window. But the summer evening breeze is not the main cause of your goosebumps. Your nipples harden and the initially hesitant tingles between your legs have now become persistent. They used to call you Charlotte when you were a little girl, but look at you now.

The discrepancy between this name, that is tied to the times of innocence, and your aching body, that now seems to have a life of its own, makes you dizzy. How can this man have such a ridiculous effect on you?

His calling you Charlotte makes you feel like the small girl you once were. When life was only play. You often relish these memories, but not without a certain sadness because those times are gone. Apparently, this man is able to dissolve that sadness through a wonderful trick. He propels you into the past.

With the authority of a grown-up he tells you what to do and what not. But that's not all. Somehow he makes you feel blissfully safe. There are no worries anymore, because this man, this grown-up is there to take care of you. You can trust him. In any case, that is what you choose to do. And it's precisely that feeling of letting go that makes you childishly happy and, confusingly, wet.

"The sheer thought of you reading these very words au naturel pleases me more than I can say. Forgive me for letting my mind's eye wander over your luscious body." You close your eyes, smiling. He is good. With your clothes in one hand and phone in the other, you endure his imaginary gaze.

It is not uncommon that people, mostly men, stare at you. Apparently, there is something, although you're not sure what exactly, that draws their attention to your appearance rather than your inner being. It wears you out to be disrobed by a stranger's eyes. But this man is different. You actually want him to look. He already touched your soul.

You peek at your phone again. Is there more?

"I want you to put your panties in your mouth for me. This assignment is very simple. Just stand for one minute, your legs slightly apart, your hands high in the air, your mouth gagged. That's all."

Without much thinking, you do as he writes. And there you stand, motionless, in this lascivious pose, slowly counting to sixty as the summer evening breeze caresses your bare skin. You hear some shuffling on the other side of the door. Is someone waiting there? Heavy breathing on your part, and a fine trickle of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. Wetness. There too.

... thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four...

Your arms start to feel numb. It makes you even more aware of the sensations in the lower parts of your body. It's hard to stand still.

You always considered yourself to be a liberated woman, and you frankly despise the traditional role model that puts the man first. Except for this man. It's impossible to justify if not for this: submitting yourself to him, only him, makes your head spin. And your pussy throb.

One minute, an eternity.

... fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.

"Now slip into your clothes again, Charlotte, but please forget about your undies. No bra or panties anymore today." You cannot help a nervous giggle. The word flimsy is not completely inappropriate for the material of your dress. His wish might turn out to be quite a spectacle considering the circumstances.

Of course, you could simply ignore this last request but that would break the spell of the divine and intoxicating mindfuck that is captivating you for almost six weeks now. You don't want this to end. Ever.

All of a sudden there is a knock on the door. "Charlie, are you all right?"

You nearly spit out your panties.

You must have been standing there quite some time, as your friend sounds worried. "Yes, yes, just a sec," you manage to utter with a shrill voice. With your heart racing you lay down your phone and after an incredulous look at your bra and panties you throw them out of the small window after which you step into your dress. While buttoning it up you flush the toilet.

You smile at your friend as you open the door. "All fine," you say while you leave the bathroom. "Good," she smiles back and goes in.

During your walk back to the table you only know too well what it is that now draws the attention of everyone, both man and woman, to your appearance. The fabric of your dress strokes your already swollen and sensitive nipples with every step. Your flushed face probably doesn't help either to move inconspicuously.

Then you make the worst mistake possible. You look down to see if the sight of your cursed pokies is really that bad. It is. And if any of the spectators wasn't aware of it yet, he or she is now, simply by following your gaze.

You nearly run to your table and when you finally seat yourself, you take a few deep breaths. Calm down now, Charlie. Let's continue with what should have been a relaxed evening with a dear friend. You take a sip from your glass, and try to lower your heart rate through some more breathing exercises that you remember from your guided morning meditation sessions.

In through the nose out through the mouth.

Fuck! FUCK! Your phone. A sinking feeling comes with the realization that you left your phone in the bathroom. Your heart starts racing again. Panic.

Someone puts a hand on your shoulder. It's your friend. She lays your phone on the table, face down, and takes the seat opposite to you. "You forgot your phone, silly," she whispers. Thank God. But when you pick up the phone you see it's not been locked. You must have left it that way in the bathroom, the messages still on full display.

You hardly dare to look at your friend, who tries to make a reassuring gesture.

"Did you...," you start. There's an awkward silence.

"I could not help seeing the screen," she says sheepishly.

"Ohmygod."

You have known Megan for sixteen years now. She is your bestie no doubt. In those years you have laughed together and you have cried together. You have had many deep and meaningful discussions. And there was silly banter. A sheer endless amount of silly banter.

But somehow the words needed to have a serious conversation about your respective sex lives were never part of your vocabularies. Racy jokes, yes, of course. In fact, anything to mask your vulnerability in this matter.

At this moment you're both exploring uncharted territory.

"Are you... having an affair?" Megan asks, mouthing the last words almost inaudibly.

"No!" you state firmly. Then, much softer: "Not really, I think."

Megan observes you quietly, with a look of concern.

You sigh. "It's... I don't know where to start."

"Look, Charly. We've known each other since forever, and I treasure our friendship. I don't ever want to lose you. And I won't judge. I'm just a bit worried about you. Should I be worried?"

"I guess not," you say. "Let me ask you. In earnest. It's about this indistinct yearning I sometimes experience. Do you recognise such longing for something that's really hard to verbalize? It's almost like missing out on something, but you don't know exactly what."

"I'm not sure, can you be just a bit more specific?"

"Well, you know, I've been married for ten years. And sometimes I wonder if this is all there is. I love Bill to death, he's the sweetest man. He does everything for me. And that may just be the problem. I feel truly ungrateful to say so, but I'm plainly not satisfied."

"Sexually, you mean?"

"Well, yes, that too. It might even be bigger than that. It's an existential feeling, I think."

"I do recognise that," Megan says.

"You do?"

Two years ago Megan went through a nasty break-up. After licking her wounds she dated quite a few guys, but none of them ever lasted. At times you are envious of her. Megan seems free and liberated, while you feel trapped in a gilded cage.

"Sometimes I wonder why I am even swiping through my dating app. It doesn't solve my real problem."

"What is your real problem?" you ask.

"I'm trying to fill a certain emptiness, I think. I use men for it, sometimes women, but to no avail. People come and go, but the emptiness is always there."

"That sounds indeed familiar," you say, "although I always thought that you did have a solution in the form of your dating app. I even envied you a bit. A lot."

"Believe me, it doesn't live up to the hype. I'm lonelier than I ever was. And the sex is mediocre at best. Often I have to take care of business myself, after my date has left."

You look at your friend as you envision her "taking care of business," but quickly shrug off that image.

"Words help me to fill the emptiness," you say.

"Words?"

"Yes, words. They can be very powerful, you know."

Megan glances at your dress. "I can see that."

"Do you know a website by the name of Literotica?," you ask.

"Never heard of it."

"I used that site to ehm, take care of business, as you say. It is a treasure trove of erotic stories. Some of them are really good. Mind-shatteringly good, in fact."

Megan raises an eyebrow. "Go on."

"About two months ago I read a story there. It was a weird one. Written in the second person. It was as if the writer spoke to me directly. I know, it's probably just a literary trick, but I fell for it."

And then you tell her everything. How you couldn't forget that story. How you kept imagining yourself being part of it. How you missed the spice and excitement in your daily life. And that you, in a whimsical mood, decided to say hi to the writer and compliment him on his writing. You wrote him a message. It took you more time to hit the button "Send Your Feedback" than to write the actual message, and when you finally did, it made you feel naughty in a disobedient schoolgirlish way without really understanding why. After all, there's nothing wrong with giving someone a friendly compliment, right?

You did leave your own mail address for him to reply to, though.

The next couple of days you were frantically keeping an eye on your inbox. You even checked your spam filter regularly, just in case. Finally, you told yourself to stop being so ridiculously immature and forget about the whole thing.

Then you got mail.

The tone, the phrasing, it was just like the story. It was him, alright. And he wrote these words for you alone. The writer happened to be an amiable and unassuming man, and before you knew it you were sending emails back and forth. He turned out to be a great listener, and you had much fun with this correspondence that went far beneath the superficiality that you might expect from a conversation with a stranger.

There was nothing sexual in these letters. At least, not at first.

Until he asked you to notify him whenever you had an orgasm.

His request shocked you. When you asked him why you should do that, he answered that he wanted to "understand your rhythm". He also told you in a mildly imperative tone that these notifications should be really short, only stating the fact, the time and location and how it happened. It could be something like "I just came on the couch as I masturbated reading a story" or "I orgasmed while my husband was licking me in bed 15 minutes ago".

You didn't reply to this. His wish was so ridiculous that it seemed better to end the conversation and forget about this man. But the seed was planted, and you could not not think about it anymore. As long as you hadn't had an orgasm, there was nothing to notify, so you were still playing by the rules. That is, if you wanted to play this game at all.

Apparently ignoring his request you continued the correspondence and so did he. Again, the conversation deepened and each time you sent him an email you could barely wait for his reply. It was so wonderful to talk with this man.

One evening you were alone downstairs, on the couch, rereading his letters on your iPad. Bill was already gone to bed. Your mind was with your mysterious soulmate, you could actually hear him talk through the emails, almost even see him. You smiled at him as if he was sitting next to you.

Then you stumbled upon his preposterous request that seemed so out of tune with the rest of his letters. And much to your surprise it turned you on. Your hand slid down inside your panties, and as you quietly worked your way towards an orgasm, the thought of telling this man of what you were actually doing right then and there, turned you on even more before drowning in gulfs of conflicted lust.

"I just came on the couch as I masturbated thinking about your request."

There. You did it. And it felt as if you passed a border, as if there was no way back. His response was immediate. "That's my girl. Thank you so much for telling me." You gasped. Sharing this with him, almost real time, and then his answer within seconds, the feeling of intimacy was overwhelming.

Megan looks at you. Her cheeks are flushed, and she shifts her position cautiously. She inhales, as if she wants to say something, but remains silent. You continue.

"From that moment on I told him, every single time I came. At first, I was extremely conscious of it. Sometimes I even masturbated for the sole purpose of telling him. I wouldn't want him to think that 'my rhythm' was slow, or something like that," you confess with a giggle.

"Later it became second nature. I just did my thing, and notified him whenever necessary. I became completely accustomed to having a witness to my urges. In fact, it felt really good. Before I met this man, a solitary orgasm used to give me satisfaction, but also a feeling of loneliness. With him, that loneliness was gone, while the satisfaction deepened."

"Jezus, Charlie," Megan whispers, "what a story." She stares at you intently, visibly breathing faster than normal. "Well, it doesn't end here," you say, as you enjoy the undivided attention of your best friend. Megan bites her lip.

"After some time he started to give me assignments. I mean, other assignments than the notifications that I was still supposed to send to him. More tangible tasks, if not weird ones. For example, one morning he asked me to write his name on a small piece of paper. And so I did: I wrote 'moriander', as he calls himself, on a post-it note. His follow-up task came as a surprise."

You take a sip of wine before continuing.

"He asked me to put the paper in my panties and wear it with me all day. Oh Megan, you wouldn't believe what an impact this had. I was continuously reminded of him. I felt him. It was as if he was there. The whole fucking working day I was in an utter state of arousal. This guy really knows how to fuck my mind. That evening I had to send him a notification. Three times."

Megan looks at you in awe. "And now, here, in the bathroom, you just finished another one of his assignments?," she asks. "That's right," you admit, in a tone more self-assured than you really are, as you don't know how much she has read on your phone.

"And so," Megan hesitates, "you are sitting here, at this very moment, without panties and bra." Apparently she read everything, and now it is you who blushes. With a faint smile Megan tries to reassure you. "I totally get it, Charlie. In fact, your story turns me on more than I like to admit. I'm pretty damn envious of your adventure."

You smile, a bit unsure. Suddenly, you feel extremely self-conscious. Now that your friend made clear what you are not wearing, you feel more naked than ever. And even though your arousal returns, it is not something that you want to share with her.

"It's getting late," you say, "tomorrow will be a busy day." And that breaks the spell. Megan looks disappointed for a moment, but recovers herself, "I guess you're right."

You pay the bill, and accompany your friend to an uber that is waiting for her. Before she gets in, she tells you that she absolutely loved this evening and will surely think of your story every now and then. You grin, and tell her jokingly that she is not allowed to masturbate to it. All of a sudden Megan looks at you dead seriously.

"OK, I won't," she says. "I will ask for your permission first."

Her unexpected obedience is cause for a confusing sensation in your already titillated groin. "Excellent," you gasp in astonishment. You hurriedly say goodbye and stumble back home, a few blocks away. What the fuck just happened?

You open the door quietly and listen. Is Bill there? Not in the living room. You go upstairs and there you find him, in the bedroom. Fast asleep. Book open, bed light still on. You watch his innocent face with endearment. Your husband is the sweetest man, but sweetness is not exactly what you are looking for now. After the experiences of this evening, your body is aching for relief.

You undress yourself. What to do? You are standing naked before him, contemplating your next move. No, you will not jump your husband. Let him sleep. You pull up a chair and sit down close to him. You spread your legs slowly, and put one foot on the nightstand, next to his head. The other foot on the bed, close to his crotch. Oh Bill, look at your refined wife now. Her cunt wide open just before your face. What a spectacle you're missing out on.