Terry was a genuine beauty. One of those women whose perfectly formed body would attract the gaze of men and the admiration of women regardless of what she chose to adorn it with, and Terry was very, very good at adorning herself in a manner that accentuated her many charms. It was therefore inevitable that, sooner or later, Terry would attract the attention of that most prolific of fornicators, the Dean of Lasciviousness, the bane of all those women and girls who would be "good," the Devil himself. It all began innocently enough, and Terry had no reason to suspect that she might be stepping beyond the bounds of normal human experience when she opened one of many emails that appeared daily in her dating site email from male admirers. (Allow me to note, dear reader, that Terry was not only a woman of enormous pulchritude she was also extremely talented and held a position of great responsibility with a major business concern. Her participation at showmesomebootie.com was purely a matter of convenience, efficiency, and control as it influenced her social life.)
The email in question was like none other she had ever received. There was no greeting, no list of attributes the sender might hope she would admire, and no signature other than "xoxoxo." The body of the email was the story of an erotic encounter between two lovers in which the woman of the story was referred to as "you," and Terry was so thoroughly drawn into the story by the pronoun that when she came to the end she realized that her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, her cheeks were flushed and warm, and she had shared in the orgasms so graphically depicted in the story, as evidenced by the soaking wet crotch of her panties. Fingers shaking slightly, she clicked "reply" and wrote the following: "Pls send more."
Over the course of the weeks and months that followed that first email story, a routine developed in which more stories arrived. Terry responded with praise and photographs of herself in various stages of dress and undress, for the delectation of her mysterious author. Then one day, the arrival of a package changed everything. The package contained a little, red, silk nightie, a manuscript of several pages, and a note which read, "Wear the nightie, read the story just before sleeping, and put the pages under your pillow, xoxoxo."
The hint of a frown creased Terry's brow as she thought back over her correspondence with the mystery author, wondering when and why she had revealed her street address. When, after several moments, no answer appeared she spoke aloud "it will come to me. There must have been a reason." With that she set the package and its contents aside and went about her day, promising herself that she would read the story later and decide whether she'd follow all the instructions or not. However, in spite of her resolve to let the matter rest, in the back of Terry's mind a low-level tug-of-war played just barely below the surface of her conscious routine. A contest between her sense that something was amiss with the new turn of events and her memories of pleasures derived from her author's stories in the past, which wasn't resolved until bedtime when she slipped into the pretty red nightie.
As the nightie slid fluidly down onto Terry's frame, covering her treasures just barely, she felt her flesh begin to tingle and glow. Her doubts of the day regarding her mystery author's instructions evaporated, and she found herself anxious to climb into bed, read the story, and do as she was bid with the manuscript. Terry's eyes hungrily consumed the first page of the manuscript, anticipating the waves of orgasmic pleasure that the author's words typically evoked from her. As she turned page after page, Terry began to wonder where the magic had gone. When she finished the story, she dutifully put the manuscript under her pillow and thought, "I guess he's lost his touch," and promptly fell asleep.
Terry dreamt and this was her dream:
