Group Connections

Group Connections II: Meeting Liz

Her screen name is LaFleurDuFeuRouge…The flower of red fire. My mind is suddenly flooded with complex visual images and base, sexually explicit puns. I’m as bad as the lone 30 year old single guy in a bar full of eligible college girls. My I.Q. immediately drops thirty points along with the swift decent of my brain from my head into more sensitive and less verbal parts.

Focusing in on the actual text, I quickly snap back to reality as she asks me about viewing the web page and if I enjoyed the content. Confronted with my acts of gross indecency, I feel more like a teenager with a tube sock than a 24 year old psychology grad student with a fetish for orgies.

“Definitely!!” I reply dumbly. I grope to find some solid ground in a sea of sexual rip tides that yank my functioning higher brain back towards primal urges. Managing to compose myself, I try again, “I appreciate real people having real sex.” Still lame, but at least a little more refined.

She asks me what I liked about the site, and pushes me into rebound thoughts of her fucking me with the strap-on.

Your effortless inhibition…considering the fact that my last girl friend had so many sexual hang ups I could have strung her up easier than made decent love to her. Yes, the idea of you and I pounding each other into excruciatingly exquisite climax kept my attention fully.

“I’ve always had an interest in group sex, but never the circumstances or guts to try it myself. The site is extremely…informative…and…enticing.”

“That’s all? After logging over two hours on the site I’d think you liked a bit more than the GangBang101 classes.” “Well, I’m sorry for not being a bit more blatant, but it’s not every day that I actually talk to someone that’s been in pictures I’ve masturbated to.” Somehow that didn’t quite hold the bite to it that I thought it did. “Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere!” she teased. I started to feel less and less good natured about the idea of my porn coming to life.

“How’d you access my screen name? I thought that information was kept ‘confidential’.”

If you show up on my doorstep, do I get to have free rule of you? “I’m the webmaster. I received your log in information while I was removing my pictures. I gave you access to the site. Usually I send most people packing, but I really liked your bio. I left my pictures up until you logged off.”

I struggle desperately to recall what useless information I provided that prompted such a gracious act, and instead settle to be berated with questions by the webmistress. Yes, I live in the city. No, I’m currently seeing anyone. Two sexual partners, no STDs. Two long term relationships, one with a man and one with a woman. I honestly couldn’t say which I preferred, I loved them both. Samantha, 24 years old, 5’4, brown hair, brown eyes, small, curvy build. Teaching basic classes and studying for my Ph. D. in Psychology and Education.

I feel like I’m filling out an employment application for a brothel. Of course, I can see the upside to this as well. I decide to return fire. Her name is Elizabeth and she’s 25, 5’9, natural red hair and green eyes. She’s been single for the same year or so I have, but unlike me her sex life hasn’t slowed down any thanks to the ‘gang’ as she calls them. Yes, they were all clean. No, she doesn’t think she’ll be participating again. Yes, she’s a lesbian. Guys are a fetish, not romantic partners. One long term relationship. She’s an artist, studying under full scholarship at one of the most prestigious art schools on the west coast. She is a nanny for a very well off, well known family and spends more time off than working. We poke and prod each other about family history, friends and hobbies, music and the mysteries of the universe…I start to stroke the sensitive lines of past, present and future; exploring the old emotional scars and fresh soul-deep wounds with as much passion and curiosity as I had previously imagined her exploring my physical body. She begins to pull me deep inside her, and before I know what is happening, I am lost with her, aching hungrily in my skin and soul to be a part of her. I feel as though I’ve built a relationship in the course of 20 minutes conversation, and I know that’s not a good thing.

The hours melt together and as talk of love and relationships mesh with harsher urges for the sexual and exotic I can see that I’m in over my head. There is a reason I haven’t dated in two years, and it isn’t for want of willing participants.

She offers to send me a few pictures of herself via e-mail, and when I notice that her pictures are indeed gone from my bookmarked page, I eagerly agree. Before she sends the photos, she asks me to come meet her…tonight. I grope for an answer, not sure of myself at all. Its one thing to play the flirt in text…but in reality it’s been a very long time since I’ve actually marketed myself in the flesh. Not to mention it’s now midnight. Using the ‘at this time of night’ card rather than the ‘I’m a hopeless loser who just wants pretty pictures of you fucking people instead of a real chance at being one of those people’ approach, I try to dodge what now seems inevitable disaster. Elizabeth is insistent, telling me that for all the time and effort she’s put in tonight the least I can do is let her buy me a mocha. “It’s just coffee, really! In a safe public place where you can run away if I turn out to be the boogey man. What’s the harm?” Without conscious thought, I find myself agreeing to drag my unprepared, destructive, and extremely exhausted ass to meet Elizabeth in about an hour. She asks if I know where the artist’s lofts are along the shoreline, and I painfully recount my rejection notice from the building she now resides in. There’s a café on the street level of the building where I’ve met for intense debates over the relevance of the Freudian Theory of Penis Envy in modern American lesbian culture with my fellow overachieving and undersexed graduate students. She and I agree on a secluded place near the back entrance to meet, and as suddenly as she appeared, ‘LaFleurDuFeuRouge’ is gone, leaving my own ‘SamanthaPanther’ hovering alone in the tiny window.

I check my e-mail, and sure enough I find the pictures promised. It looks as though she has just taken them. I save the files to my hard drive, and open the first file, kisses4sam.jpg. She’s blowing the camera a kiss and has all the adorable charm of a lioness in heat. It’s obvious that this isn’t going to be as simple as I wish it could be.

O.K. Sam, start with the basics; wash, dry, and dress.

I plod off to the bathroom, and pile my remaining clothes into the laundry hamper. I crank the water on as hot as I can stand, and lather myself into a jasmine fluff of scented bubbles. My mind races as the hot water stabs at my back, trickling down over my shoulders and burning little hot rivers down my breasts. Sleep is no longer an option tonight. I plan out my outfit in my head as I scrub and soap my way out of the mess I’ve made of myself with Elizabeth earlier tonight, simultaneously praying for and putting off the chance of her in reality. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this. I’ve gone to see people I’ve met on the internet, sure, but never without talking to them for quite some time and at lease speaking to them on the phone. And never someone I’d met from logging onto a porn site, forget about one of the ‘stars’. But something about Elizabeth made her feel safe…and after all we were meeting in a public place, right? How much that’s unsavory can go on in an upscale snob house?

I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, flipping my dripping hair back over my shoulder. As I trudge to the bedroom and pull my clothes from the closet, I think back over the evening. I head to the living room and drop my towel. I chew the edge of my lip and try to convince myself that I’m just meeting a friend for coffee.

In the middle of the night, at a clique-ish little coffee house hidden in the center of downtown, which is all but deserted at night. I pace the floor in the living room dangling the last clean pair of my ‘sexy’ underwear, a lacy red thong, from my hand. I pause with my hands on my bare hips, and stare down at my silvery white Siamese cat, now lazing on the towel from my shower, expecting wildly that she’ll have an answer. No such luck.

I stand in the middle of the room naked and nervous, debating with my sex and my logic. I glance over at the picture Elizabeth had sent me. She has beautiful long red hair, not the garish carrot color I’m used to but a softer coppery auburn. It falls down just above her breasts in soft waves, framing a face of smooth, flawless cream. Her lips are deep pink, full and shaped into a neat pucker blowing the camera a kiss; I can almost feel them brushing against my bare breasts, and my nipples harden with the chill of the room and the excitement of the thought. Above, a cute little button nose with a dusting of freckles that spread out over her high cheekbones. Her eyes are a mysterious mix of deep greens and light browns, framed by long, thick, lightly colored lashes. A stab of need digs into me, my body suddenly aching to be near this beautiful, mysterious creature and have those amazing eyes locked on mine.

Suddenly entranced, I click over to the next file on my desktop: ForSam.jpg. She snapped these just for me tonight, and I open the file to renew my sense of determination. Elizabeth is stretched out, a marvelous display of sexuality, on her small single bed. She’s fully nude and obviously aroused. She’s on her back, with one knee bent up and the other leg falling gently off the bed, dangling a finely boned foot to the floor. She has long, well sculpted legs. The delicate, thin fingers of her right hand are pressed lightly in between her legs, and the hint of a flame colored strip peeks out between them. I shudder hard and imagine my hand there, pressing into the warm wetness. My eyes follow the line from her hand up the curve of her belly, a very slight fullness lacking in her hips lingers there making her human, real, and all the more wonderful to see. She has large natural breasts that are pale and richly white, as though they’ve been painted with milk. Her nipples are erect, and only a slight pinkness defines where they begin. The tips are thick and dark pink, matching her lips. The nails of her right hand pucker the soft skin of her right breast, which overflows her palm. I bite my lip instinctively, almost feeling the cool skin of her tits flooding my mouth. Her shoulders slope onto the thick down comforter beneath her, and the light shadowing of her collar bone draws my eyes up to her soft, long, porcelain neck. My tongue slips past my lips and I can taste her sweet skin. The tangled mass of her hair dips over her shoulders, laps up at her face, and commands a space of the bed with curls and waves of deep red and gold. Her jaw is delicate, her face passionate. Eyes almost closed, lips slightly parted; blissfully needful, enticing and erotic. The low track lighting in the room casts a minimal light, making her body radiate in the false dusk.

Not only am I now ready to face her, I’m near the point of jumping on top of her on sight. I fight my way back to reality and slip into the thong. I grope around the room in the dark trying to remember exactly where I laid out my clothes and trying desperately and unsuccessfully to erase the images of Elizabeth laid out before me that dance in my mind. Tripping over my own feet I manage to fall flat on my face and land with my hand conveniently on my vibrator. I pull myself up to a sitting position on the floor by my desk, reach up and flip the switch on my desk lamp. I find the scattered double A’s and put them all back in place including the ‘cap’. I turn in on for a test, and the warm purr of it draws my mind back into complicated fantasies involving Elizabeth and various places in my apartment. I’m tempted to stay home and leave the real world and its possible disappointments behind, and to keep my fantasy of Elizabeth as fresh, pure, willing and inviting as I can imagine. Unspoiled by personality flaws and hang ups, complications of relationships, jobs, and grown-up life, she can be mine however I wish her to be. But looking back up to my monitor, I can hardly imagine that anything short of a disaster in person can be more exciting than a 17 inch rendering spread across my screen and my own wandering hands.

I turn off the toy and collect my clumsy body and lustful thoughts. Working my way through the clothes spread out on the couch, I start at the top and move down. I pull the lace-up corseted top around me and adjust my breasts to leave as little to the imagination as is acceptable in public. The naturally tanned skin lacks the luster of a sun-drenched beach baby, but it is still appealing, smooth and relatively new to the spotlight. My small dark nipples strain against the constricting fabric already. Grabbing a hold of the laces, I give a yank that sends my head spinning and the edges of my nipples peeking out of the straight cut collar of the corset. My breasts push up and out against the stiff hem at the top, and the straight thick shoulder straps pin them against one another, creating a deep, dark valley of flesh. I run my finger along my newfound cleavage and feel another tingle of desire trickle down my spine. I step in front of the large, long mirror that runs along the wall into my living room and survey the territory. The heavy red fabric of the corset hides my excited flesh well enough, and the boning accentuates a normally shapely but well hidden figure into a sleek, elegant hour glass shape. The lacy red ‘V’ that slips in and disappears between my legs looks as though it was made to be worn with the corset. I’m well aware the chic sophisticated store I purchased it from had no intentions of it being paired with slutty underwear from my favorite dirt cheap online adult store. But to see them together was to see the perfect combination of class and trash, turning the coupling into a uniquely sexy design.

I look at the overall effect in the mirror, debating whether or not to loosen the ties allowing myself to breath and the edges of my nipples to hide. When I see myself fully revealed, top to bottom, my reflection makes my decision for me. My lungs and ribcage will have to take one for the team. This is the best I’ve looked nearly naked that I can remember. I secure the laces in a neat bow at the base of my back, inhaling sharply as the boning pinches at my flesh. I turn around to examine my ass in the mirror, hoping that the corset has a similar positive effect on my backside. Sure enough, the fullness of my hips is smoothed and soft. My usually full ass is pushed into a heart shape against the back of my thighs, with the silky red thong tracing the curves and enhancing the soft brown tint of my skin. I ponder briefly the thought of slipping on a pair of fishnet stockings and sauntering into the coffee shop with nothing but a smile and my red ensemble on…but common decency dictates that I finish getting dressed, at least for a first meeting.

I snatch my skirt off the couch and step into it, pulling it snugly up underneath the stiff points at the front and back of the bottom edge of the corset. It’s an ankle length black silk skirt, with a thick weighted bottom hem that pulls the light fabric around me in etched and shadowed curves. The side seam is split up just above my knee, hiding the only tan lines I have from a summer spent in shorts. I slide my feet into the waiting pair of strapped black heels, rising myself a full four inches of the carpet. I’m hoping the effect of the shoes will bring me at least within lip height of my date.

I check the clock above my mantle; 12:30. I’m supposed to meet Elizabeth at 1:00am near the bookcases nestled by the coffee bar at ‘Kat’s Kups’, the trendy and exclusive drop spot for the well educated and philosophically inclined that is situated below her high-rise loft. I know it will take me at least 20 minutes to drive there from my little one bedroom apartment tucked in near the university, let alone the time it will take to park.

I trip back to the bathroom, cursing the cat and nearly falling out of the corset. I run my fingers through my damp, dark hair, tossing it around and trying out a few clips and pins. Ugh…the overall look is lost on the clips. I grab for the necklace I’ve already decided to wear, a very small rendition of the Chinese symbol for ‘love’ carved out of black onyx suspended on a delicate line of red and black silk. As I slip it on, I feel the charm nestle itself in between my tender breasts, now slightly swollen and sore from the pressure of the corset. A spark of inspiration hits me, and I bolt to my computer desk then charge back before the mirror. My pulse pounds in my ears and across my flesh as I wind my hair into a tight bun and secure it with my red enameled chopsticks. The few loose wet strands twist into soft curls around my face, and I feel a flood of adrenaline hit my system as I collect my things.

Once assembled with purse, keys, some cash and I.D., I step out onto the landing of my balcony. The night air is cool and clear, and I shiver with anticipation.

Down the stairs and through the garage, into my little green Bug, and out onto the scenic route that will drop me at Elizabeth’s doorstep. The streets are fairly empty, and the roar of the ocean replaces the usual roar of traffic. I’m at the corner of her building in less than 10 minutes, parked and panting in 15.

My heels click quickly on the cement sidewalk and my heart pounds. The cool breeze off the water mists across my bare arms and chest, sending goose bumps up and down my skin. The light material of my skirt flaps up over my thigh as I push into the rear doorway. Disheveled and already almost spent from the ups and downs of the evening, I fall heavily onto one of the overstuffed couches. One of the baristas looks at me strangely, but I barely have time to notice him before my eyes blur and I doze off, sinking into the velvety cush of the couch.

I hear the rustling of soft fabric near me, and a few murmurs between people in the background. My eyelids are heavy, and the couch has not been kind to my corseted torso, which aches of bruising and abuse. I feel chilled, and realize that my skirt is open up to my high inner thigh. The warmth of a gentle hand slides up over my thigh and tugs the slippery fabric back into place.

I force my eyes open and sit up abruptly, contorting my stiff neck painfully and pushing the stiff bottom of the corset into my thighs. The dark room comes slowly into focus, and as I recover from the thick sleepy haze I can see the woman sitting next to me, hand still resting protectively on my thigh.

It’s Elizabeth, and she looks amazing. She’s perched next to me on the edge of the sofa, and her long wavy hair fights with a pair of gold barrettes for the low shimmer of light in the room. She’s not wearing any make up, but her lips hold a natural gloss and her cheeks shimmer with the candle lighting. Her eyes and brow are set in a sad line of worry, and her lips pout slightly with concern. Her shoulders are bare save two thin, forest green spaghetti straps that lead down to a low cut, thin fabric of the same color. The lack of a bra makes her nipples point straight out, two little drops of emerald on the luscious, full globes of her breasts. The green silk clings to her waist and her crossed legs allow the bottom of her dress to slide into her lap, revealing almost entirely her pale, long, well toned legs. A pair of flat gold sandals cling closely to her delicate feet and lace up around her ankles.

I let out a heavy sigh, meeting her eyes for the first time. The dark green is astonishingly clear, and the flecks of golden brown are magnified by the candle flames. Breathlessly, I whisper her name, “Oh, Elizabeth.”