Alter-Ego

Her fingernails are painted a deep, bright blue.

She stands in the kitchen, butt to the counter, giving the cat a look of suspicion.

She's housesitting. A gig she gets every third weekend. Two dogs, three cats, one bird, and an overweight goat.

She's waiting for water to boil and she suspects the cat has been into her grated cheese.

Her index finger and her middle finger are scratching a private part of her body. But since no one is home, she doesn't care. And because she's distracted with lunch and the cat, she's not conscience of it.

This housesitting gig began several years ago. The homeowner travels to the opposite coast for business reasons largely unknown. So for several years now she has her own private, well-paying, retreat.

It started as a reading retreat, then turned for several long months as a recovery retreat after she turned away from her felonious fiancé. In the summer months it's a tanning retreat. In the winter months it's a chic-flick retreat. And also for many, many months now it's kind of turned into her alter-ego retreat.

One thing had led to the next.

The tanning led to fewer and fewer clothes in the summer months.

The chic-flicks led to romantic notions and feelings.

The reading led to ideas of writing things of her own.

And a single social media post led to things going over the hill and down the other side.

She saw a post from an old professor. A kind of dorky, cute, confident, quiet kind of professor. So with fewer clothes and certain notions and with eager fingers she created a false account to see if she could anonymously flirt with him.

She was successful. Quiet successful. He took the bait. And as she reeled him in, he didn't fight one bit. He all but jumped into her boat.

And that led to a few more flirtatious opportunities. And that soon led to posting a few photographs. And that led to posting a few more photographs of higher quality and more exposure.

So she stands in the kitchen eyeing the cat, waiting for the water to boil, scratching a private part of her body. She has no clothes on and again she is not aware of how or where she is touching herself.

She spends much of these weekends binging on her alter ego. She's kind of addicted to it. The attention is fun. The role playing is fun.

As soon as her food is cooked she'll return to the kitchen table, and return to several men awaiting responses, and return to comments on the pictures she's posted. She can't get enough of it. It's truly addicting.

With a dozen internet searches she's gotten pretty good with taking picture of herself. She's learned about camera settings, lighting, positioning, cropping, filters, and most of all, how to disguise her face.

Her nudity fuels her alter ego. She rarely nude back at her apartment. But in the house, she's undresses soon after she arrives.

The water comes to a boil, the cat has sauntered away, and the light scratching of her pubic hair has stopped. She stirs the noodles and wonders if the old boss she messaging with really is as perverted as he sounds.

When she returns to the table she scrolls through several messages and several dick-pick men have sent.

One of her hands rest on pubic hair and she plays with them, running them through her fingers. Her bright and beautiful fingernails inch closer to the fun zone. It's not the dick-picks that push her to stimulate herself. It's the attention. She feels pretty. She feels important. She feels desired.

She reads a message about a comment about her breasts. She took a picture of them hanging over a railing. It makes her mind race about taking more pictures. As she thinks about poses and places in the house an index finger slides down and finds what she knows is down there. Wetness.

She's not intending to masturbate. She does this kind of thing all weekend long. Touching where it feels good. Feeling how her body is responding. Touching what the men she's interacting with dearly want.

One of the men says he's a middle aged married man from the mid-west. He says he's into younger women.

Another guy, the old boss, writes endlessly about where he has masturbated. Male sexuality never ceases to amaze her.

Another guy, the old professor, is clearly a boob man. He's still sweet and dorky. He's a favorite.

Another guy, someone who somehow saw a photograph talks a bit too much about anal and oral sex.

Another guy, someone she finds herself most looking forward to seeing his replies says he's a retired farmer with too much time on his hands. He's endearing. He somehow knows the words to stir her more than most.

And another guy, one she feels most guilty about, is someone she knows. Family. She sent a note to see if she could get a response. She was successful. Now they exchange lots of photographs. Incest was never a thought before she started all this, but now it often crosses her mind. She'd never act on it with him. It'd blow her cover. But she sure fantasizes about it.

And with that thought her finger finds its ways a little deeper down he body. As she reads she slides a second finger alongside the first. She's doing more reading than touching, but they so often go together. It seems natural.

She reads a note from one of the guys describing what he would like to do to her. She frankly doesn't like reading such things, it's kind of creepy, but it's her fault because she had written what she would do to him first. She had described sneaking into his house, sneaking into his shower, and giving him prolonged oral sex. It's all tremendous fun for her. It's a huge turn on to type such words.

As she thinks about what to write back she moves to the couch, props her feet on the table, and begins to type a response. Between her arms are her breast, and just before her lap top is her pubic hair. She likes the look. It often propels her and motivates her and inspires her.

As she gets comfortable a picture comes through from another guy. Dick-picks do not turn her on. They're a curiosity though. She never turns them down. She encourages them. She does wonder though if some of them are stolen. Not every penis looks like THAT.

And with the picture comes a whole new set of curious thoughts. She writes back. "Nice. Wow. Thank you. Can I ask a few questions, please. "Ever wanted to be in porn? Ever show that off and get praised?"

And that sets off another set of curious thoughts. "How old were you when you had your first erection? How old were you when you first masturbated? Who was the first one to masturbate you?"

And that sets off a whole new sets of curious questions. "Has that ever seen the light of day? Has it ever been out for a run? If so, how'd it feel to run and have it bounce all around? How about a trampoline?"

She pauses and she realizes her questions are turning her on. She next types, "Ever want it to be bigger? If so, how much bigger?"

She stops. She quickly hits send. And she can't stop herself. She puts the computer to the side and with her right hand plays vigorously with her clitoris. And with her left hand she plunges two fingers in and out of her vagina.

She's turned herself on. Mightily. As she masturbates she keeps looking back at the screen hoping for a response to any of her questions. She's stumbled upon something she didn't expect.

She's not coming fast and that is okay. It still feels tremendously good.

A response comes back, "Oh, my! Your questions are a huge turn on. Wow. Thank you. Let me see. Me? A porn star. Only in my dreams. Praised? Only once, but by a guy in our locker room at work."

As she reads his responses it arouses her more. She wants to type, but her hands and fingers are busy.

Then she wonders. Is her masturbating too? At the same time, over the same topic, as her? That thought doesn't do that much for her, but she realizes how such questions suddenly became so mutually arousing.

She glances back at the screen. He's describes running naked through a football field on the night before a friends wedding. He's saying it was both kinda violent and a whole lot of fun for his penis.

As she reads that her orgasm comes. She's picturing an attractive man and his engorged penis running. It puts her over the top.

As her orgasm slowly winds down she reads of his the first time someone masturbated him. She reads and her orgasm lingers longer and builds some.

When she calms down, and before she writes back, she realizes that for all the fun she's had with her alter-ego, she didn't know she could get that turned on, that aroused, that horny, that eager. She writes back, thinking hard about her questions, trying to re-capture the intensity.