I had been sharing my stories with you and the others for about a month when I "met" Brad. That wasn't his screen name, but when I asked him to edit my work, he wrote back, sharing his name.
I had tried to find an editor of my own gender. I thought I would be more comfortable pouring out my intimate fantasies that way. But one after another, the ones that I tried either didn't write back, or turned out to be men who were posing. There was always something to give them away.
Brad's online profile was casual and funny. I read the few stories that he himself has shared, and they were genuine and rich. And obscenely erotic. He agreed to give it a try, and I sent him my next little piece, a mostly-true story about my husband and me and some light bondage play.
My husband knows that I've been writing these for you. It was odd at first, though, when I discovered that the passages I'd written when he was around seemed forced and dry. I came to realize that I wrote more naturally when I could be naked, almost always touching myself while I let the images come, unbidden and welcome and always surprising.
As often as not when I write, I am not seeking orgasm. I write (and I read) these fantasies because they make my heart soar. Yes, I love my husband and yes, there was a time when giving our bodies to each other made me feel that way. But we were grown up now, partners and comfortable lovers, and I'm glad of that, too.
Sometimes while I'm writing, I do pass the point of no return, and I will orgasm as I sit at the computer, unexpected new fantasies pouring into me as I shiver, and I have to dry off my fingers to type them all out.
I had never told Brad that this was how I wrote.
In two years of reading and tweaking my naughtiest thoughts with me, Brad had always been a gentleman. I have had private (and public) feedback sometimes that is less so. Now, I hesitate to admit it, but, I get a little smile every time a man tells me that one of my fantasies teased him to orgasm. And while I do gasp sometimes opening an email unexpectedly telling me that a reader wants to spray his jizz on my breasts or my face, I like those, too. I know why I write and we read, you and me. I take care with all of them to write my sincere thanks.
Brad wasn't like that with me, though he could be frank in expressing when he found one of my stories especially arousing. He found polite ways. Once, I had asked him what he meant when he wrote that one of my scenes was "full stop erotic." He wrote back "It means I had to stop reading for a little while ;-)." That was the closest he ever came to saying flat out to me that he pleasured himself while editing me.
He never asked to meet me; we never shared where we lived; he was always just business. And I grew to appreciate having his masculine view. "A guy probably wouldn't do it that way" was invaluable to me, because I want to share fantasies that are vivid and real. I know my writing is better because of him.
So we never got personal, but I always felt a warm gratitude for his really thankless work. I once worked up my courage to write, just for him, a fantasy of the two of us meeting. It was different for me, writing a story that had neither happened to me nor sprung into my head from the unknown source of my fantasies. It felt a little bit forced, and I don't much like writing that way.
But I thought it came out ok. I was so anxious when I sent it to him, this little surprise, hoping with more than my usual nagging doubt that it would please him.
It was done just for him initially, but he has urged me to share it with you. Here is what I wrote:
