Confession Time In Living Colo U R

Once again, I recently found myself strolling down memory lane. Whenever I do, I touch upon memories that bring up a wealth of emotions. Love, joy, anger, even disgust -- of my own behavior and attitudes as much as those of others. As I've said before, not everything I've done is something to be proud of. I'm not always the hero in my own story.

Then again, there are times when the morals involved aren't quite so clearly defined.

A few years after my divorce, I knew I wasn't ready to get involved in a relationship. That didn't mean that I wasn't ready to have some fun, though. I figured that as long as I was up-front about my intentions (or lack thereof), any women I dated would be able to make up their own mind about how much they wished to get involved.

Looking for something serious? I'm not your guy. Okay to play? Let's chat. As long as everyone knows the ground rules up front, what could go wrong?

At least, it

seemed

like a foolproof plan.

For reasons that have never become clear to me, there are women who take this as a challenge. Despite all evidence to the contrary, they were convinced that I didn't

really

mean what I said or - and this is probably more realistic - they believed they could change my mind.

Becky, though, was a special case.

The truth of the matter is that she may have had all the evidence in the world that we

were

'right for each other.' On paper, there were enough checkboxes ticked to convince her that we could become a couple (except for, you know, that pesky little problem that I didn't

want

to be in a relationship with her -- but more on that later). She was intelligent, and I

really

go for intelligent women. She was a geek, and I love she-geeks. She was funny, she engaging, and she was horny.

She was also

weird

.

I met Becky on an online site that at the time only "sort of" focused on dating. It was a social site that catered to different topics of conversation, social hangouts and, yes, the personals. We met through a mutual love of all things geek-like, and naturally the conversations turned more and more sexual.

When you talk to someone online with whom you've never spoken in real life (as I'm sure many people reading this might already know), there is a certain freedom. You can lie, or you can be as brutally honest as you wish. After all, there's no requirement to meet in person, so you can always cut things off before it gets too serious.

I chose to be brutally honest. I mentioned that my divorce had been rough. I wasn't looking for anything romantic, but could certainly use more people to chat with. If I got lucky enough to find someone who wanted no-strings sex, all the better. I wasn't going to push it, though.

"I can deal with that," Becky wrote. "I'm taking a bit of a break as well."

"Cool," I said, "I figured it might come across as a bit abrupt, but I do like to set expectations and avoid anyone getting hurt, too."

"Makes sense," she said. A pause. New line. "So, you wanna fuck?"

It was a joke, of course. Well, sort of. It was the best thing to say and immediately injected levity into the moment. I actually did laugh out loud.

I wrote back, "LOL! Sure, just let me take my cock out."

"What's it still doing in there?" she typed back. "I've had my dildo inside for at least fifteen minutes!"

"I guess I have some catching up to do!"

"Just don't be surprised if it takes me longer to respond," she said. "I'm typing one handed, after all."

"It may get pretty quiet then," I wrote, "Because I'll be doing that in about 30 seconds."

"Why so long?"

"I need to get the lotion."

"LOL!"

It was an odd thing to type, but I figured she wrote that because it was only a way to respond with something other than silence. Soon, I had my jeans around my ankles and my cock lubed and glistening in my hand. It felt good. It also felt good to engage in a bit of flirtatious play with someone who knew there were no strings attached for once.

"Okay, I'm ready..."

"About time," she wrote back instantly. "I'm already done."

"What? That was fast!"

"Yeah," she wrote. "I confess, when I started thinking about you getting ready, I couldn't help myself."

"What do you mean?" I tapped out with one finger.

"I can't help it," she typed. "Thinking about you getting hard because of me, wanting to touch yourself because I was doing it -- I instantly get pushed over the brink."

Her words were coming much faster now. She wasn't kidding; she was using both hands to type. I kept my hand on my cock awaiting every next line, but she was a fast typist and it didn't take long.

"It's my biggest fantasy," she continued. "It's my go-to jilling fantasy. A guy sees me and can't help himself. He's got to have me. NOW. Works every time."

"Well, if you were here right now," I typed, trying to not make too many mistakes, "I'm pretty sure I'd have to have you."

"Oh? What would you do?"

My cock throbbed, wanting attention. I had lubricant on my hand and -- as crazy as it may sound -- I didn't want to get it onto the keyboard.

Fuck it

. I grabbed a tissue and wiped off my hand so that I could use both hands to type.

"Like right now, I'd take out my cock and put it in your mouth."

"You typed that quickly. Are you still typing one-handed?"

"Not for that sentence, no. Or this one."

"That's a shame."

"Sometimes you need three hands."

"LOL," she wrote. "I'll tell you what. You stroke, I'll type."

"Deal."

I reapplied more lubricant.

"We haven't met yet, but I could see you picking me up at the train station. We've had a few conversations like this, where you know that you could take me any way you want, whenever you want, because you know it gets me off.

"As soon as we get into your car, you pull out your dick. I see it for the first time, and I can't help but lick my lips. You know I want it, and you're right. You can't even wait to get back to your house before you show it to me. It's right there, sticking straight up. Wanting me.

"Oh God! I'm so horny again!"

There was a longer pause this time. I couldn't tell if she was typing a long paragraph or had given up altogether.

Finally, the screen flashed. "Sorry, I needed to go get my bullet. Now I have it pressed up against my clit in my panties. Feels

soooo

much better! I hope you don't mind."

"No problem." I tapped out.

That seemed a bit abrupt, so I added a smiley face.

"You're not finished yet, are you?" she asked.

"No, but I don't think it will take long."

"<grin>" she typed out. "Now where was I. Oh yeah. So, you've offered your cock to me, and what's a lady to do? I lean over and start sucking you."

I had cooled a bit during her pause, but now the engine was firing on all cylinders again. "Mmmmm" was all I could manage to type. At least the first letter was capitalized.

"I feel your hands on the back of my head, forcing me down on your cock. I can feel how much you want me, pressing my head down until you're all the way in the back of my throat. You've gotta have me, and I can feel it as you grab my head..."

"I'm close..." I managed to type out. It took four attempts.

"I am too. This bullet is one of my favourite toys."

I imagined her sitting at her keyboard, both hands trying to crank out the words while the vibrator worked its magic. I envied her ability to get off without needing to touch herself.

"I don't know how long the drive is to your house, so I try to get you off as quickly as I can. I think you do too, because your hand is on the back of my head forcing it down as far as it can go. I don't have a gag reflex, so you can push as hard as you want."

I loved how she was giving me instructions about what she liked at the same time as trying to get me off.

"You keep pushing my head down harder and faster, and I can feel you going in and out of my throat. You need to come. You love being in my mouth.

"Oh god..."

I knew what those two words meant. It meant that she had just come while typing out her fantasy. Another line of nothing but ellipses. I guessed that meant she was riding it out.

I erupted. I watched my come ejaculate all over my hand, reaching a height of several inches in the air. It was a powerful orgasm, and I couldn't prevent myself from groaning out loud. I imagined her head in my lap, all of that beautiful come filling her mouth. It was a huge turn-on.

I reached for the tissues. Cleaning up took slightly longer than usual because of the mess I had made. I hadn't realized how much I had been getting into her fantasy. Well, that and it took a long time for my body to stop convulsing from the strength of my climax.

When I finally looked back at the screen, there were several paragraphs waiting for me. The last one read, "Hello?"

I didn't want to make her wait any longer than she already had, so I responded without reading the rest of what she wrote. "Sorry," I said. "I had a very powerful orgasm and took longer to clean up than I thought it would."

It was her turn to go quiet. I began to wonder if I had upset her by being non-responsive.

The screen flashed. "Oh wow," it read. "That made me come so hard reading that."

Again? That was impressive. I raised an eyebrow and re-read what I wrote. It didn't seem to be the kind of thing that would set someone off, but who was I to judge?

It was a fun moment. It had been a while since I'd 'cybered' with someone who actually could string sentences together.

Over time, we had a few more conversations, and only a few of them were sexual in nature. We were completely open and honest about it, though. "How are you doing?" "Horny." "Okay, then." We were off to the races.

All of our sexting involved the same thing. Wild, spontaneous and free sex. Losing control. The settings were almost always somewhere risky where we might get caught. It was a heady combination of take-what-you-want and this-is-probably-wrong.

Most of the time, though, we talked about work, respective friends, new technologies. I talked about how I was trying to get a work visa to stay in the UK that wasn't dependent upon a sponsor since I hated my job, and she told me about how her system administrator responsibilities included protecting users against themselves. We had a lot in common.

We were becoming pretty good friends, I thought. I never actually felt the need to remind her that I wasn't looking for anything more than what we had. It simply never came up.

I honestly don't remember whose idea it was to meet in person. Perhaps it was just a moment of inevitability. I'm not really sure.

What I do remember, though, was what happened at the train station on that first meeting. It's very hard to forget that first impression.

She told me that I couldn't miss her. "I'll be wearing bright orange shoes."

I'll give her this: that much was true. She was indeed wearing bright orange shoes, and they were the least ostentatious part of her appearance.

Back in the days when coloring hair wasn't always a political statement, Becky had gone with the philosophy of "I can't decide, so I'll choose them all." Blue. Purple. Red. Pink. Green. To this day, I have no idea what her natural hair color was supposed to be.

She wore a jacket

literally

made of patches. Her backpack had more colors than the rainbow. All of it was bright, bold, and

loud

. If the visuals were sounds, she would have been an orchestra tuning up at maximum volume. She was a kaleidoscope of color.

As much as I hate to admit it -- even to myself -- she was also something of an embarrassment. Nothing seemed to fit, either aesthetically or physically. Her clothes were too big, the colors clashed with each other. She was a disco light and wailing siren in a dark, quiet room. I've always found the British to be a bit too stuffy at times for my American taste, but even I was taken aback by her appearance.

It was impossible to ignore the stares around us. Becky may have been English, but she was most certainly not

British

. At least, she wasn't anywhere near the stereotype of the snooty, upper-crust, stiff-upper-lip soulless automatons that made up most of the English culture (her words, not mine). She had said it, and now I believed it.

She came up to me with a huge smile on her face, bubbly and friendly. She held her arms wide, expecting a warm hug. I'm ashamed to admit that I instinctively recoiled at the thought, with every eye in the station zeroed in on this girl with the incandescent colors bouncing across the platform.

I reacted in kind, and if she had any inkling of my embarrassment or discomfort, she didn't show it. I did wonder what I had gotten myself into for the weekend, though.

The drive back to the house was a bit strange. She made enough references to our online conversations that it was clear that she genuinely expected me to whip it out. I admit there was a temptation to do it - it would have been a personal record, it would be the fastest I'd ever been sexual with a girl after first meeting her. I was just too put off.

I realized that I hadn't been catfished, not exactly. She didn't have many photos on her profile, but what she did show was either extreme closeups of a selfie or distant shots of her doing things like skiing, or otherwise bundled up. At the same time, I couldn't exactly say she had been hiding her true nature, either.

More importantly, the simple reality was that I just wasn't attracted to her. The idea of her was far more appealing than the reality. Sure, I had thought about playing out that fantasy of hers as well. Even on the way to the train station, I fought to stay comfortable as my erection kept me shifting in my seat.

Now sitting next to her, I found myself in a situation I'd never thought I'd experience: I could simply take out my cock, put my hand around the back of her neck to bring her face to my lap, and she would

love

it -- except

I didn't want it

.

What was worse, though, was that she had traveled more than two hours to visit for the weekend and she expected me to take her every which way until she was loose. We had all but made it a promise during our online sex talk, even if we hadn't made a commitment.

We made small talk during the short trip back to the house, but my mind was racing. How could I get out of having sex with her? And how could I do it without hurting her feelings? After all, if her biggest fantasy was that a guy would lose control around her because he wanted her so bad, certainly her greatest fear would be that a guy would never touch her because he didn't want her at all?

Even so, Becky was exactly like she was online. She was funny, witty, smart, and easily drew me in with her great sense of humor and her ability to match me step-for-step on the tech talk. I did truly enjoy talking with her, even if I didn't find her sexually attractive. We got along well, and I didn't want to necessarily throw the baby out with the bathwater. She would make an excellent friend, a buddy, but it was instantly obvious that there would never be anything more.

"So can I get you a drink?" I asked when we got back to my house.

"Actually, I got some from my local. I think you said you like bitters, right?" she said.

"Oh yeah, I've really started to get into them," I said.

"Great! Let me get them out of my bag. Be right back," she said. "You just stay there and relax."

I sat on the couch. "You know, I'm the host," I said. "I really should be getting you the drink."

"It's okay," she said as she disappeared into the hallway. "They're buried in my bag, anyway."

She disappeared out of the room and I heard her messing around in the kitchen. A few moments later, she called, "Where do you keep your pint glasses?"

"The cupboard to the right of the sink," I called back. As she poured the drinks, I returned once again to my dilemma. I needed to be fair to her. I enjoyed her company, but I needed to set proper expectations so that she didn't get hurt.

I've thought about it, Becky, and I have decided that I don't think it would be a good idea for us to get physical. I'm enjoying the kind of situation we've got right now and don't want to ruin it.

I winced. Lame.

Hey Becky, we should probably talk about what's going to happen this weekend.

Holy christ, that was even worse!

So, I was thinking we should probably start off slow...

No, that would give her the impression that I was looking towards a long-term relationship, which was the exact wrong thing to do.

Hey Becky, I --

"Here you go," she interrupted my internal monologue rehearsal, bouncing back into the parlor. She held two pints of dark liquid in her hand, a perfect head crowning the top of the glass.

She handed me one. "Cheers," I said, both as a matter of salute and gratitude. I raised it to my lips, and savored the delicate aroma as it entered my mouth.

She watched me intently, looking for my reaction. "Oh wow," I said. "That's amazing!"

She beamed. "I told you!" She took a sip and then put her glass down on the table next to her.

I closed my eyes and made an exaggerated show of leaning back on the couch in an indulgence of relaxation. "Now that's what I call service!"

Movement alerted me, so I opened my eyes. I saw that she was now kneeling in front of me, her hands reaching for my belt. Stunned, I couldn't find anything to say. I simply wasn't prepared for how forward she was.

"Go ahead and enjoy it," she said. "Because I'm going to enjoy this."

Surreal. That's the only word that comes to mind when I try to reconcile what was going on. Here I was, sipping a beer while this girl with the multi-color hair had just removed my cock from my pants and was going to town.

My prick was a prick. It betrayed me like so many other men's pricks had betrayed them from time immemorial. I didn't want to have sex with Becky. I didn't

want

to react to what she was doing. I didn't want to get hard in her mouth. And yet, here we were.

Well, it's too late now

, a voice spoke in my head. Whether it was the devil or the angel, I have no idea. All I knew was that I was living some sort of porno plot with a beer in one hand, getting blown, all within minutes of having met her in person.

What's worse was that she was

very

good. My dick became rock hard in her mouth in mere seconds, much faster than I thought possible given my initial reaction to her.

I took a sip. Damn, the beer was good. This felt like it should have been perfect, except for... well, you know.

It felt like her hands and mouth were everywhere, but she wasn't frantic. She listened to my body and learned how I reacted to what she was doing, and then made slight adjustments.

"You've been thinking about this a lot, haven't you?" I asked. It was more of a statement. I don't know what made me say it, actually, because while I meant it to be something of an understated joke, it came off as arrogant. Perhaps even a little obnoxious.

"Mmm-hmm," she murmured around my cockhead. It came out as a whimper. A high-strung, intensely erotic, almost plaintive whimper.

There was a lot conveyed in that one sound. She had been wanting to do this for a

long

time. Now that it was happening, there was relief, insistence, arousal, and compulsion - all lingering heavily in that one little noise.

"You like it when I got hard in your mouth." There was more of an edge to my voice.

She whimpered again.

"You like how it responds to you," I pressed. "You know that it gets harder because it wants you."

A groan.

A thought occurred to me. "You wanted me to take it out on the drive back from the train station, didn't you?" Again, another statement. Not a question. I didn't know where this confidence was coming from.