Lisa woke to the sound of her alarm. She got ready slowly in the dark early morning hours. She selected a black bra and camisole with matching black panties. She brushed her long, fiery red hair and applied lipstick and mascara. She finished with a black and gold silk robe. The contrast of the black against her porcelain skin made her features stand out. The thick curls of red hair cascaded over her shoulders and her green eyes glowed in the first dim light of the day.
Lisa moved to the makeshift office she put together in the corner of her living room. She turned on her laptop and her webcam. She flipped on the home photo studio lighting, which came to life with a gentle hum. She sat on the old office chair, adjusted her robe, and signed into her account as she had almost every day for the last nine months. She took one last look at herself on the screen before opening her webcam officially for the day's work.
Although bright, well-educated and articulate, Lisa understood that the economic realities were harsh. Any job that would draw on all her years of University education could not come close to generating the income she made as a webcam model in the corner of her living room. She understood men well. Some visited her webcam out of loneliness; some were motivated by curiosity. The vast majority of men, however, wanted only to look at a pretty woman and jerk off quickly.
Whatever the reason for their visit, Lisa knew how to speak in innuendo and show just enough skin to fulfill any man's fantasy. The work was clean and easy, and the money was good. In reality, it actually was quite boring at times. She smiled at most visitors, feigning excitement as guys pumped their cocks in their fists until semen shot onto their bellies or dribbled weakly over their fingers. None of these men excited her. None could connect to who she was, and what she needed sexually.
This morning started no differently. She met an Italian, who professed his undying love until he spilled his semen onto his keyboard and ran off, and then there was a man from India who oogled her shyly as he masturbated to a quick climax. The third man she met did not appear any different. He was an ordinary-looking American, pleasant looking with a few extra kilograms. His dark eyeglass frames stood out nicely against his graying temples and salt-and-pepper colored beard. Lisa thought he looked a bit bookish, but kind.
Lisa and he traded the typical perfunctory banter: how they were doing, where they were from, marital status, kids, etc. The conversation was easy and the visitor had a calm demeanor. Even in this basic communication, she caught glimpses of his sense of humor. She found herself actually enjoying the chat, something that felt almost remarkable given how rare it had been to talk with a visitor that held her interest. They talked of work as is often the case. And then, Lisa asked about his hobbies. Calmly, he said, "I am an author." Wow, this seemed interesting. She had not chatted with a writer before, let alone someone with the ego big enough to consider himself an author. She smiled and asked what genre he preferred. His one word answer almost startled her. "Erotica."
Lisa's cheek got pink with interest as her stranger explained. He was deeply fascinated by human sexuality, itself a contradiction of basic instincts and complex desires. He explained that there were no rules to define our sexuality. While there were limits to how we may express our sexual needs, the basic desires we feel are neither good nor bad. We are sexual beings, driven by lust and stimulated by our senses into a web of involuntary biological and hormonal responses. From the receptors in our nerves that fire with equal force at sensations of pleasure or pain to our undeniable "pack behavior" of alphas and betas, the stranger explained that we have few differences from any other mammals.
Lisa's mind raced at the very suggestion that she was simply a sexual animal, even though she was very aware that this chat made her nipples hard and she could feel her pussy dampen. Perhaps sensing her interest, the unassuming visitor spoke calmly, "Would you like to read my stories while I watch your reaction?"
Lisa accepted the author's offer. Part of her was offended by his arrogance. It was presumptuous for him to think that his second-rate, amateur "word porn" would offer little more excitement than the cheap romance novels found in a drugstore or bus station. She expected the typical overblown, oversized, cliched writing that petered out and trailed off, signaling conspicuously that the author had blown his semen onto the carpeting and was in search of a microwavable burrito because he was hungry. But, at the same time, Lisa was intrigued. This visitor had a unique manner. He was not boastful, but spoke with a confidence that told her he may be different.
The author began to share his first story, feeding her one paragraph at a time. The story began calmly. It was of a mother recounting her days before Christmas, busy with last-minute shopping and excited for her son's return from University. But, as the mother returned home, instead of egg nogg and "It's a Wonderful Life," she found her son and his college roommate naked by the fireplace locked together in passionate gay sex. The quick shift from Christmas cheer to hot, steamy sex between men was jarring and the imagery so vivid. Lisa could feel the intensity of these college students discovering themselves through their lovemaking. She saw clearly in her own mind the softness of their kissing, the way each nuzzled and sucked the other's cock, and the power of one man's long deep thrusts into the other's ass. Lisa shuddered as she imagined the moment of climax as one man groaned and emptied his semen deep inside the other. Lisa knew that her own pussy's dampness had turned into a trickle of her own juices, soaking her black panties and staining the office chair.
Before Lisa could regain her composure, her mind flashed elsewhere. It was no longer the idyllic Christmas scene from the story, it was her old apartment from before her divorce. The scenes flashed quickly through her brain, shuffling and organizing themselves into such a clear memory. Lisa recalled the night. Her husband had returned from work with a surprise dinner guest, a dear friend from his days as an army conscript. The two men ate heartily, laughing and boasting about their strength and physical prowess as much younger men. Certain that these men could not possibly eat or drink another thing, after a while, Lisa excused herself and went to bed.
As Lisa remembered, a few hours later, she woke with a start, unaccustomed to her husband's absence. Lisa recalled how she slipped out of bed to see if the men had passed out with all the lights left on. As she approached the living room, she heard the first signs of activity, muffled groans, the sound of bodies moving and heavy breathing. Lisa shook hard as the image crystallized in her mind. Like the college roommates in the author's story, her husband and his army friend were locked together in sex.
But in stark contrast to the gentle discovery of the pleasures of gay sex in the story Lisa just read, her memory of her husband was harsh. The two men were engaged in primal fucking, their bodies glistening with sweat, spit and semen. She watched her husband's familiar post-climax shiver after he exploded in orgasm into his friend's mouth, only to then watch as his friend flipped him over and entered him hard. Even years later, her ears rang with her husband's moaning and squealing as his friend bitch fucked him. In her mind she saw clearly the friend's fingers digging deeply into her husband's hips as he slammed his cock deep. And her mind burned with the image of her husband's muscles straining, the veins standing from his neck and his face bright red, as he begged his friend to cum inside him. While witnessing her husband fuck another man was just one more part of the failure of her marriage, Lisa knew that she had never seen such raw animal fucking ever before.
Lost in the juxtaposition of the sweet erotic story and her raw memories of her husband's gay lust, Lisa did not even realize that her own fingers were rubbing across her pussy lips, smearing her wetness, and circling her clitoris. She rubbed herself furiously, her legs trembling. She parted her own lips with her fingers and pushed inside herself. She curled her fingers upward against the upper wall of her pussy, pressing hard against the spongy flesh of her G-spot. Lifting and lowering herself onto her own hand, Lisa fucked herself to a fierce orgasm, feeling her insides twitch and spasm against her fingers. Exhausted, and breathing hard, Lisa opened her eyes to the sly smile across the author's face. Clearly, he enjoyed how much she liked the story and how the story triggered memories of her husband's betrayal and his passionate surrender as a fucktoy for another man. Lisa could feel her face burn with the heat of embarrassment at her obvious loss of control.
Before she could refuse to participate further in this twisted sex game, a new story flashed across her screen. In this one, a lonely mom and her restless son careened towards each other and a night of forbidden sexual pleasure. Lisa could not stop reading, devouring each paragraph as quickly as it was posted. A lonely mom asleep after a glass of wine and a sleeping pill; a son bored and stoned after his shift at the local burger shop. Lisa read with excitement as the son entered his mom's bedroom and began to explore his sleeping mother's body, lifting her nightgown, looking at the swell of her breasts. She could imagine as the author described the son exploring the warm folds of his mom's pussy. Lisa gasped as the son described in detail his own mother's scent, and she shook violently at the thought of this son rubbing his cock along his mom's slit.
