I had been lying in bed for over an hour, tossing, turning, resisting temptation. I knew there was a letter in my in box, a letter with an attachment, and the attachment was growing bigger by the moment. I wanted to read it, I wanted to experience it, I wanted to feel all of the things that it contained. I was standing on the brink of something that I might at any minute lose control over. It was totally thrilling.
It had all started innocently enough. We were both in the same online knitting community. We became friends and started sending private messages back and forth. At first our letters were about our projects and knitting related stuff, but one day out of the blue we both started to talk about our passion for writing. She told me that she wrote erotic short stories and published them under a secret pen name. I had been blogging for quite some time, but I had been wanting to move into fiction. The idea of writing erotic stories was intriguing. Things had not been the same in the bedroom since my kids had been born and I convinced myself that maybe this would be a good way to reignite the flame. I could kill two birds with one stone. I decided to give it a try. I wanted feedback, but I was afraid to publish my tales. What if someone found out? What if my secret desires became known? We decided to exchange stories and offer each other critiques and advice.
At first it was all about the writing. I can't say that her tales didn't turn me on, but I never touched myself when I read them, I never saw myself in the stories. They were stories about orgies, exhibitionist, bisexuals, and exotic couples from places I had never been. They were good stories that ignited my imagination, but at first(at least) they were just stories.
I was on my way to bed late one night. My husband had been in bed for hours On my way to join him I stopped at the computer to check my email and I found a letter from her. It wasn't much different from her other stories, two friends who fell into bed unexpectedly or some such of a thing. I went to bed as usual that night only to wake up at 3am. I was twisted in the sheets, damp with sweat, and heart pounding in my chest. Wetness and heat spread between my legs and my face was flushed. I hadn't had a dream like that since... well... I don't think that I had ever had a dream like that. My sex was still pulsing from the orgasm and I hadn't even touched myself.
Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, maybe it was the fact that my husband had gone to bed early leaving me unfulfilled, hell maybe it was something I ate, but in that dream I had seen myself in her story and the clandestine friend was her. I'd never seen her before, but I had cobbled together an image of her from blurry profile pictures and correspondences.
The next day when I sat down at my computer to write all I could think about was the dream. So I wrote about it. I didn't retell her tale, instead I wrote about waking up wet and panting. I wrote about the dizziness, the shame, the naughty pleasure. I described her as I saw her and I made her real. Then I pressed send. It wasn't about the writing anymore.
I didn't hear from her for days. I worried that maybe I crossed a line. And then it came. Her story was about us. She described herself as I knew her with a few added details. The other character was most certainly me with a few minor differences. She wrote about the online friendship, the stories, the dream... she wrote about everything. After that the floodgate opened. The stories were no longer about orgies or exhibitionists... they were about two women and their fantasies. The topics became less varied, but the descriptions became richer. We traveled to exotic lands, sucked each others nipples, and gave each other the most exquisite head. I did things in my imagination that I had never done in real life. I read her stories and touched myself. I rewrote the stories on my body with my fingers. I imagined that they were her fingers... her lips... her clit.
Then last week she told me that she was going to be traveling through my town on business and asked if I'd like to meet. While our stories have always been passionate our letters have always been strictly letters. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure if I wanted to spoil the fantasy with reality. Our tales were forbidden and exotic and when placed into the context of the real world I found them slightly intimidating. I knew that no matter what my answer was that her invitation had changed our relationship. And was it really a relationship at all or was it all just a figment of my imagination?
So I decided to come clean. I decided to be brutally honest. I decided to confess that I didn't know fact from fiction, reality from fantasy. I told her all this in a letter and not a story. I explained my doubts, my insecurities, and all my hopes. Now I sit at my computer after tossing and turning for hours and I've finally found the courage to open the letter. I open it and to my surprise there is nothing written at all. No subject line, no text, no signature... only the attachment. I open it up and begin to read: "Her lover had come to town on business. They agreed to meet at a bar downtown. She was wearing a black skin tight dress...."