The Hat Trick

Dedicated to the Team of Three who helped make the story come true. And to Ben, who made me glad I wrote about it.

It took three of them working as a team, even though they were unaware of one another, to complete the job. All were Lit users, of course, since that's where she met them. All married, or so she came to believe, though The Liar claimed to be recently divorced.

The first began wonderfully. His name caught her attention with its uniqueness, and the complementary email address added to her curiosity. She pm'd to see if he had some time to chat, and he did not. She was surprised at how disappointed she felt. On a subsequent visit, he pm'd her, and they began to chat like old friends.

The more she got to know him, the more she liked him. She was fascinated by his home country and enjoyed the music he shared and his romantic nature. He understood her "appliance" metaphor – how her family and some of her friends made her feel like a convenience. He'd never do that. They made passionate and intense cyber, filled with spanks and nibbles while she took time to massage her clit and he to rub his cock.

The

Evening started like that. She was in his lap as they stroked and fondled and nipped. Next, she knelt between his feet, eyes raised to his as she groaned and slurped around his cock. His fingers ran through her long brown hair as he enjoyed the blow job. He entwined and tangled his fingers when he began to fuck her face. She gagged on his thick cock as he forced it into her throat. He placed his hand lightly on her neck to feel how he pressed and stretched her. After fucking for several minutes, he came hard and they began to cuddle and chat.

And then she asked a question, and there was no response. And a second. His pm box disappeared and hails in Yahoo were not returned.

It was three days later that he responded on Yahoo. By some grace, she was logged in. She learned that his wife had walked in at an inopportune moment, and he was avoiding PC time while she was present. He continued to log in occasionally, chatting some, cybering some, but becoming ever more distant and slipping away unannounced, until the feeling of lover as convenience was well engrained.

Next came an interesting, clever man. They agreed about nothing, except sex. Chatting was a traipse through a mine field – a challenge, truly, but exhilarating. He said he was recently divorced. They chatted in the evening, following (for her) a sleepless night – and she left to get some sleep before things became intimate.

The next night he hailed her as she logged into Lit, asking how she was. Someone cared? And their conversation continued. They talked about the fools who use Lit to deceive and lie. He'd never do that. Eventually they became intimate, with her knelt between his knees and his cock in her throat, as he pressed her nose to him, refusing to release her until she fought.

And then she brought up his profile to re-read his comments. "Old Town?" What room was he in? Oh, please no – But yes, he was in a private room with one other person. Wow. Yes, she'd had people log out on her before. She'd had people treat her like dirt before. But she'd never had anyone enjoy her blow job – rave about it – while fucking someone else.

He tried to pretend that his deception was her issue, not his. So much for their "why would anyone bother to deceive another person, on line" discussion – apparently, he understood why. Hey, at least she'd been smart enough to cut off his (wildly premature) hints about meeting in person. She wondered if The Liar fantasized setting up several Lit conquests in a long hall of motel rooms, then hopping from cunt to cunt.

The third was the one that hurt the most – because she believed she'd come to know him so well. He was commanding and demanding. Just thinking of him – just saying his name – made her wet. They established boundaries, most of them mutual from the start. He agreed to never slap her face. She had no respect for anyone who would.

He listened to the tale of her first phone sex – when the man had gleefully, passionately described strangling her, and then worked on her until she'd said what he wanted to hear: She was worthless, pathetic, willing to sink so low as to accept his abuse. Her new lover expressed disdain for such a thing. Making oneself strong by weakening the person with whom one is intimate – ludicrous. He'd never do that.

He was an angry and aggressive lover, though not abusive. He inspired her. She scrawled page after page of what she called her "sappy romance" about the two of them. She quivered when she saw him on MSN or logged in at Lit. While he did not ever pretend to share the emotions running through her, his lust and need were obvious.

When possible, she'd call his cell phone, chopping great chunks out of her calling card. Even on the phone, he could be abrupt. But she loved how he called her cunt and bitch, or stroked his cock as she described how she'd dress for him.

Always, always she'd start with stockings and a garter. A bra, to be pulled down. A skirt, a blouse to be unbuttoned, to hang loose. Sometimes she would suck his cock. More often, he would tease her or touch her or ignore her as she groaned and writhed. And then he'd take her hard, slamming his cock into her wet cunt, grabbing her hair and fucking until she squealed as she came. And she'd describe her cum for him and he'd grunt and moan as he stroked harder, with more fury, until his cum shot from him.

She even got used to his hanging up with no good bye, and came to appreciate that he kept the line open so that she could hear his ragged breathing and imagine it on the back of her neck, hot and moist. She tried not to nag while he was ill and boy, was the session with her as nurse, him as patient teased to the breaking point HOT! Then came the week of school holiday – he cautioned that he'd not be available, stressing the fact until she wondered who he was trying to convince, since she'd neither protested nor pouted. And she did not see hum during that week – day or night – until the last night.

Her heart beat a little faster when she saw him log onto MSN, but by the time she checked, he'd apparently logged off. She saw one of his aliases log into Lit, imagined him surveying the room before continuing on to Family Roleplay. She waited, watching the scroll. Finally, she hailed him.

Afterwards, she tried to remember the wording of his response, and could not. But she could not forget the feeling that he'd turned his back on her as he huffed, "Later," and continued looking for a more appealing chatter. Again she sat and watched the scroll. Finally it began.

"I am in a foul mood. I will not discuss it."

"k," she responded, knowing that he should definitely discuss it with someone, but that he'd never condescend to do so with her, now.

"You are the annoying hard on in the morning. You are the useless annoying wank into the toilet at work. You will cum. I may or may not cum. Call now."

She stared at the hateful words, trying to believe they were fore someone else, that he was taking his anger at his wife or mistress or mother out on her. She blinked, trying to clear her vision of the tears, and reached for her calling card information.

Looking down the list of card numbers for the one she'd labeled, "UK Cell," she dialed the access number, only to receive a busy signal. She tried twice more with the same result. Her frustration now turned toward the phone and card, she dialed her regular card access; the one that cost way too much for calls to cell phones. She frowned as she listened to the garbled ring and typed, "Trying," in the pm box, and hit enter.

The odd ring continued, then stopped, but the line never connected, regardless of how often she said, "hello?" She swore and hung up, then picked up and dialed again. As she was pressing in his number, she read, "Was that a lousy connection, or you playing games?"

She started to type, "fuck off," recalling all the times she'd called at his command, the calling cards she'd purchased, his games she'd (willingly) played. She backspaced and typed, "lousy connection," and hit enter as he answered the phone. She could see the sneer on his face through the tone of his voice.

"You are the annoying half hard cock, good for nothing. You are the boring wank to photos in a porn magazine. You are the annoying, wasted morning hard on." She sat, listening, wondering how in God's name this man expected her to cum. She grunted. He continued his tirade of hate. "You are a worthless, pathetic cunt. A nothing." She moaned. He started to repeat his quiet, hissing rant.

She hated to do it. It was against everything she believed. Hell, she didn't even know if she could pull it off. But she needed this to be over, now. She could hang up, but she was still praying that the shit being sprayed on her was meant for another. She moaned again and panted, praying she was a better actress than she believed. She grunted again and again, then cried, "Oh, yes!"

Had he bought it?

She could hear him grunting and wanking.

"Cum on my face," she heard herself say.

'How could he have bought that? I sound like a robot,' she thought.

"Cum all over my face and tits," she said.

He growled, groaning as he came loudly. She sat with the phone to her ear, waiting for a thank you or an apology or a dial tone. Finally she said, "Goodbye, then," and hung up. She looked back at the computer screen, watching his pm box.

"Whore."

The box disappeared.

She hoped for an email, as in the past. An explanation. For him to hail her when they were both in Lit. And then she stopped waiting. The sappy romance shattered.

The first of the men made her believe that he'd never make her feel like a convenience. The second, that he'd not abide deception. And the third, that he'd not make a lover feel useless to soothe his own ego. But now she knew. The hat trick was complete.