Chapter 1
I'd purposefully not worn a bra. One reason being the delicious feelings on my full breasts and nipples from the lustrous, pale pink, pure silk blouse I was wearing. I'd just slipped that on and had slowly done up each of the four buttons. They were rather too far apart really for, as I moved, the blouse gaped and much of my breasts and occasionally my nipples were exposed; that excited me even more making my nipples harden and become such stirringly large indentations in the silk.
I was also wearing thin, track trousers. They were beige and loose at the bottoms of the legs with a double white stripe up each side. They had an elasticised waist band and fitted snugly across my tummy and bottom. Glancing in the full length, mirrored wardrobes in my bedroom and seeing the slight sagging of my breasts, the bulge of my tummy and the surplus fullness of my hips and bum, I grimaced a little, but overall the sight wasn't too bad I thought, well not for a near forty year old that is.
I wasn't wearing anything on my feet, but then you don't need to if you have under floor heating do you? For some reason I found being barefoot sexy.
Under the trousers I was wearing a white, lacy thong. It was small, ridiculously small really for there was quite a lot of me to go in there. Not that I'm a BBW or anything like that, but at just over ten stones, which for our American readers is one hundred and forty five pounds, I'm, shall we say, nicely rounded!
I went into the main room of my, fairly large, apartment overlooking the Thames. I sat down at my desk in front of the PC.
Everything was ready; all that was needed was in place; I was prepared, emotionally and physically.
Pressing the key and moving the mouse I then typed.
"Matt, you can now fuck me."
Chapter 2
Looking back I often wonder how I reached that point. How I'd reached such levels of, depravity, I suppose some would call it? How I'd come to accept, no relish really, having cybersex three or four and sometimes more times per week? How I'd got to the state where I had three regular, electronic lovers, two male and one female? How I'd let myself so often be persuaded to finish a session in a chat room laying back in my large, black leather, office chair naked or almost. How I'd log off having made myself cum, often surprisingly strongly and now and then wonderfully satisfyingly.
But it was my only source of sex during that two years period between parting from Kevin, my husband, and being divorced. I couldn't bring myself to start dating. No not whilst waiting to be a free woman
I'd found chat rooms by mistake. They seemed to be the answer to finding other females to talk to who were in similar positions to me. Recently parted women who found it hard to work out why an almost perfect marriage had gone wrong. Why a partner, who one thought they loved, needed to fuck other women?
Inevitably, I suppose, as the frustration of celibacy took over from the smug sexual satisfaction of orgasmic sex most nights, I found the rude rooms. I was slightly horrified, at first, that people could "talk" so openly, but that soon gave way to me finding a perverse sort of enjoyment at telling men, and some women, that I was celibate. I started to feel comfortable describing what I was wearing, particularly the colour of my panties, and my body to them. I even started sending copies of the glamour pics Kevin had taken of me "to perk up our sex life" to a few I became close to,
Chatting led to exchanging e-mails; steamy ones. That led to chatting about the content of the mails which, in turn, resulted in me one afternoon almost masturbating with a man. It was such a turn on to hear a total stranger telling me what to do with my hands, to hear him telling me that he was naked and hard and for us to tell each other that we were near to cumming. It was such a turn as I did that, but I felt such guilt I just couldn't. So as I touched myself, heard him say he was near and as I found my climax starting, I reached out and logged off.
I felt guilty that I'd nearly climaxed. I vowed never to do it again and to stop visiting chat rooms. The sordidness and wanton nature of what I'd done got to me. I was amazed at how easily he'd seduced me, or did I seduce him I wondered? Maybe it was exactly what I wanted and needed? Maybe I did want to undo my blouse when he asked me, to stroke myself through my bra and to then lift each orb out from their cups and pinch and squeeze my dark, pink, swollen nipples as he suggested. Maybe I was ready, I know I was willing and clearly I was able to rub myself through my jeans. And I guess, really, I was eager to go along with his suggestion of stroking myself down there, of slipping my panties off and touching my wetness. Yes I guess I was ready to fuck myself listening to a total stranger talk to me via cyberspace.
But, somehow, I stopped myself. Despite the anonymity, despite the man having no way he could ever find me and despite there being an ignore key I just couldn't do it. My upbringing, my "respectable" persona, my positions as a mum, member of golf and tennis clubs, a, fairly, successful business woman and all the other conditioning that prevented me.
After that first, slightly worrying, well bloody scary really, episode I did stop. I didn't visit a chat room for almost a month. But by Christ was I frustrated and did I give the batteries on my two vibrators a bashing? Yes two, which I used at the same time. There's something ravishingly exciting at having one vibe buzzing away on my clit, or up me, while I used the other on my nipples and tits.
But my chat room avoidance couldn't last. I was too hooked on the net; after all it had become my hobby and favourite pastime during my self-imposed, post parting and pre-divorce sexual solitude. And I actually enjoyed chatting. So I slipped back into the old habits easily and was soon logging on and chatting away to all and sundry. But I was a good girl, well at least whilst on line. I didn't once come near to going off the rails for ages.
Then I met Matt.
He was all the good things I look for in a cyber mate. Articulate, bright and quick minded with a self-deprecating way about him and a great sense of irony. He could chat on most topics, was an avid golfer, had a worldly-wise approach to chat rooms and a wickedly naughty sense of humour. He was clearly up for anything on-line, but wasn't assumptive or overly pushy. We were soon exchanging views on a wide range of topics including, of course, those of intimate and personal natures.
He was married and, unlike most men I meet on there, claimed to love his wife. True, he said things were a little difficult, but never pushed me to meet so I believed him when he said "I just like chatting to women." I believed him, for that was exactly what I most enjoyed, well with men mainly.
We got on too well really. We were so easily able nearly every time we talked to turn the conversation to sex. Easy, comfortable, relaxed, non-threatening, flirty sex-chat. Not heavy, come-on, demanding stuff, but nevertheless stuff we admitted turned us on.
I'd explained earlier when we were talking about being aroused that I didn't cyber
"Don't or haven't?" he quickly quipped back.
"I don't now," I replied feeling the need, as I so often did on there when with a man I liked, to be totally honest.
I changed the subject and like the gentlemen, as many I'd met on the net were, he respected that and didn't mention it again, well not for some time that is.
We'd also started exchanging e-mails. He wrote well. Not with classically good grammar, punctuation and spelling but with clear, "picture painting" descriptions and forceful narrative. I enjoyed reading his mails and, increasingly, I enjoyed composing for him. And of course from both of us the writing became steamier and steamier. He told me in wonderfully graphic, but not pornographic, explanations exactly what he'd like to do to me. As I read them I could imagine him doing them to me so clearly that they became my masturbation material. Just as my replies that described my feelings as he did those things to me, became his wankfest as he termed them.
Chapter 3
"Are you sure," he typed back.
"Yes, yes I am."
When we'd last spoke on a Friday we'd got very steamy.
"God I so want to fuck you," he'd typed near the end of the session.
