Meeting in the air
"This is like cybersex!" she typed, the thrill was palpable in the rapid flow of characters across the screen. I imagined her girlish delight at her end of the internet dial-up line.
She had been busy with the family, and had not been able to cross the ocean. So it was the private chatroom that we had to contend with.
The "meeting time" would be early in the morning, when the kids had just been packed off to playschool, and the rest of the office staff had yet to show up. Her cyber presence alone was enough to initiate a hard-on, and she was told so explicitly via the keyboard. She would be in her usual yukata housecoat. If the computer did not lie, she claimed that she had nothing underneath. With no one else in the house, she could just as well have been stark naked, but she reserved her nudity for me, not some nosy neighbour peeking through the french windows. I recall from yesterdays past the precious sight of her proud breasts, full tipped with huge dark nipples, standing firm without bra, challenging gravity. Too bad she did not have a videocam set up. On the other hand, the mental conceptualisation of a horny housekeeper meandering about the kitchen furniture with a wet tush was more erotic than any tiny pixellated image on the screen.
"I get wet easily," was not an idle boast, as she had demonstrated at an earlier real-life encounter. So if she had followed the instructions over the internet, she must have had several orgasms by then, fingering the swollen clitoris at her vaginal entrance. Or she could have climaxed just to the mental copulation of two minds across the wires, squeezing her vulva tightly between sweaty thighs. Her ecstasy, imagined or otherwise, was sufficient to coax ejaculate into my underwear. But there was no subsitute for her real lips pleasuring my tool, and her tensed up vaginal muscles as they milked me to completion.
It was a good start for each morning, although sometimes she would log in late. Then we had to contend with brief platitudes like what her day would be like. Maybe she wouldn't have time to undress for our cyber meeting. Maybe she would have been wearing her faded denim jeans and jacket, ready to dash off to the supermarket. Then it would be another dreary day in the life of a suburban housewife, or cubicle warrior.
She had been busy with the family, and had not been able to cross the ocean. So it was the private chatroom that we had to contend with.
The "meeting time" would be early in the morning, when the kids had just been packed off to playschool, and the rest of the office staff had yet to show up. Her cyber presence alone was enough to initiate a hard-on, and she was told so explicitly via the keyboard. She would be in her usual yukata housecoat. If the computer did not lie, she claimed that she had nothing underneath. With no one else in the house, she could just as well have been stark naked, but she reserved her nudity for me, not some nosy neighbour peeking through the french windows. I recall from yesterdays past the precious sight of her proud breasts, full tipped with huge dark nipples, standing firm without bra, challenging gravity. Too bad she did not have a videocam set up. On the other hand, the mental conceptualisation of a horny housekeeper meandering about the kitchen furniture with a wet tush was more erotic than any tiny pixellated image on the screen.
"I get wet easily," was not an idle boast, as she had demonstrated at an earlier real-life encounter. So if she had followed the instructions over the internet, she must have had several orgasms by then, fingering the swollen clitoris at her vaginal entrance. Or she could have climaxed just to the mental copulation of two minds across the wires, squeezing her vulva tightly between sweaty thighs. Her ecstasy, imagined or otherwise, was sufficient to coax ejaculate into my underwear. But there was no subsitute for her real lips pleasuring my tool, and her tensed up vaginal muscles as they milked me to completion.
It was a good start for each morning, although sometimes she would log in late. Then we had to contend with brief platitudes like what her day would be like. Maybe she wouldn't have time to undress for our cyber meeting. Maybe she would have been wearing her faded denim jeans and jacket, ready to dash off to the supermarket. Then it would be another dreary day in the life of a suburban housewife, or cubicle warrior.
posted by sandy @ 7:55 PM
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