We met when we were both in-between - that period of limbo between relationships, when you aren't sure what will come next, or how long you might be in-between. Her husband had lost interest in her after she had put on a few pounds - while he himself had put on more than a few. One night she came home after work to find him gone.
I, too was separated, and had moved to New York to not only take a new job, but to start over. We met by accident online one late evening - I had worked all day and was aimlessly searching the web, wondering how to meet people in the concrete jungles of Manhattan, and she had a night off from her work managing the swing shift at a large hospital.
I couldn't tell you exactly when or how our conversations grew more intimate. We went from hanging out in a chat room to exchanging emails, and then, one night, to phone calls. We never actually set any ground rules, but seemed to just understand that our relationship was based upon courtesy and respect, even at arms-length. She told me that the anonymity and distance made her feel safe, that they were buffers that allowed her to be herself without worries.
Her worries, although they loomed large in her mind, were perfectly normal - she wanted to be reassured that she was attractive. And yes indeed she was. Smooth pale skin, a full chest, and a passionate, sultry voice that would make my blood race. But what made her even more attractive was that she let me into her fantasies, offering a level of intimacy and trust that I'd never felt before. She told me how she liked the idea of being watched - her ultimate fantasy was to make love to her partner while someone she knew watched, and enjoyed the scene that unfolded. And in a funny way, while her fantasy itself didn't particularly interest me, the fact that she shared it with me was enough to draw me in. I'd delight in our time together when she'd tell me her desires, I'd encourage her to tell me more, and eventually her crashing orgasms would sizzle from my telephone speaker thru my ear and down past my stomach.
Our relationship carried on - first for weeks, then for years. There were times when months would pass and we wouldn't be in touch - work, family obligations - and then we would reconnect as if it had only been a day. It was during one of these gaps that I first wrote her a story. I knew what she craved, what she longed for, so one night, missing her - a woman I had never met - I closed my eyes and imagined. I imagined the glimpses of her I had seen from pictures, I imagined the sound of her voice, I imagined how she had told me what she wanted. I placed her in the middle of the story, right where she always wanted to be and let my imagination sail, and before I had half finished writing the story I had an aching erection which I sent to her immediately, before I had second thoughts.
Her emailed response troubled me at first - it simply said "we need to talk." I thought I had overdone it - something seemed to be wrong. She answered the phone, and I thought I heard a tremor in her voice. "Did you write that just for me?" I told her I had, as I hoped she could tell. "I've never been more turned on in my life. Read it to me." I fumbled with my computer, and in a few moments pulled up the text and started to read as I heard her breath in my ear.
As the months went by we found a new way to share and explore - she'd tell me her fantasies, something about her day, her daydreams - and I'd write them into erotic stories which I'd send to her, and then read to her if she liked them. And when I would read her stories I would hear her soft sighs, her breathing, the small things she would tell me at just the right moment - "I'm soaking right now" - until at just the right moment she would let herself go, crying out into the phone and making me want her even more. Eventually we had a small library of stories, each a different theme, topic, scenario, and when she'd whisper through the phone that she wanted me to "read her a bedtime story" I'd feel an instant twitch between my legs.
