Part I: Prologue
It had been 7 months since I had met him, 6 months 3 weeks since I had known him, and 6 months in which I had loved him. His name was James. He had unruly hair, fashionably cut and the most intriguing shade of brown, like dark chocolate; when looking in his eyes, one wondered if they contained all the answers to the mysteries of life and love, or if they were just-opaque. His body was slim and muscular, and more inspiring than any sermon or painting.
But none of this was within my realm of knowledge. Not at first.
I'm a fairly sarcastic, sardonic individual; though I spend a good deal of time on my computer, I've always found the people pathetic enough to develop online relationships to be excellent fodder for my caustic wit. Suffice it to say that, after meeting James in a chat room at the online community for which we both work, I realized how amazingly wrong I was. He met me word for word in our banter; he admired the handiwork of the walls I had erected around myself, and I admired the craftsmanship of his. It took me a week to decide I wished to break the walls down around both of us.
James had problems-problems mostly with trust. I wanted him to believe in me more than anything else-I wanted, no, NEEDED him to know I was who I said I was; even more than his love, I needed his trust. Which was why, four months after I met him online, I skipped buying books for my inaugural semester of college (don't tell my parents!) and used the money to buy James a verrrrrry special birthday present: a plane ticket across the country, and two weeks with me in my dorm room.
When I first bought him the ticket, I never dreamed he might be as attracted to me as I was to him-in his pictures, his masculine beauty was so awe-inspiring, and next to him, I felt plain, perhaps even on the homely side. Women are so good at picking out their faults! I know I'm no beauty queen, but I wouldn't say I'm hideous-my skin is perhaps a tad bit too pale, but my legs are long, and though my figure is on the full side, it's an hourglass, and quite proportionate to my height. My only really outstanding feature, I'd say, is my hair; jet-black, and falling nearly to my waist. I sighed with months of pent-up relief when James told me how much he loved black hair.
In the three months between me surprising him with the ticket and his visit, James and I got remarkably close, perhaps culminating in the few days right when I arrived at college. My parents drove me to the campus the day before check-in, and we stayed in a hotel close to campus. It was that night that I first spoke to James on the phone... The conversation was innocent and idle, though one exchange sticks out in my mind: as a complete non-sequitur, James said, "It's a theory of mine that the topic of any conversation between a male and a female degenerates into sex."
This struck me as a bit of a surprise, but I thought I handled it well. "I.. Well, I'm sure you're right."
"Right about what?"
"That it degenerates into sex."
It was the first time he and I had spoken, but I still knew him well enough to know he was smiling. "Sorry. I just never heard you say the word 'sex' before."
This, however, was not the first time I heard his voice-I had a toll-free voicemail number, and he'd recited one of his favorite poems on it. To this day, I remember listening to his voice over and over, lying on my back on my waterbed at home... cupping my breasts gently and crying tears of joy-silently, so as not to mar the beauty of his voice.
As an incoming freshman, I'd never spent a large amount of time away from home before, and the first night in my dorm room struck me far harder than I ever could imagine. I could only think of one way to beat my homesickness: calling the young man who had become my home, even if he didn't know he had.
We talked about nothing for the longest time, and then he started complaining. "My grandparents are visiting, and they're sleeping in my room. Dammit, I can't get online and look up any erotic stories. How'm I supposed to sleep tonight?" Erotic literature was one passion that we both shared; it was the only way to beat insomnia at times.
I chuckled. "Well, I'd read you one of the ones I have, but I've got neighbors now."
That bare sentence drove him wild. "Oh, God, Moira... You have NO idea how in love I am with your voice. Please... Please..."
That did it. I was young and in love; I would have done anything he asked after he used the L-word, and read him an erotic story was the least of it. I quickly chose a wonderful story about a blindfolded woman who was teased with ice at the side of a pool.. One that had gotten me through many a lonely night back home.
I thought his speaking voice was the most erotic thing I'd ever heard until I heard him moan and sigh; I was scarcely paying attention to the words I read, listening to his reactions. He growled and moaned my name, and I knew he had climaxed. His breath returned to normal slowly, and I was as dazed as he was. I'd only spoken to him once before, and he'd just shared something with me so intensely personal... Finally, he spoke.
"Did you touch yourself at all?"
I blinked in surprise, and blushed profusely. "...No, actually."
There was a pause of disbelief. "Aren't you the least bit turned on?"
My blush deepened. "Of course I am. God, your voice..."
He sighed, then chuckled. "Moira, you were very bad not to pleasure yourself, and you're going to pay for it."
"What do you mean?"
"Well... I'm lying on my bed, completely naked, covered in sweat with a stream of cum pooled on my abdomen. You did that."
That picture seared my mind like a branding iron: James lying in the half-darkness with the sheen of perspiration giving his skin an almost otherworldly luminescence; and the cum pooled on his well-chiseled abdomen, a pool of sweet liquid moonlight. I let out a low exhale, and my hand began moving instinctively down my prone body.
