I was cruising through the Lit. Discussion Forum when I ran across a post by Skip. He mentioned that he would like to see a story about his wife getting laid by somebody else, but he didn't have the confidence to try it himself. He said he would supply an outline of some of his suspicions about his wife and hope that an experienced writer could make an interesting story from it. I dropped Skip a P.M. and told him that I had done some small amount of writing and that I might be interested in doing such a story for him. Maybe he would like it, maybe he wouldn't, but it might be fun to explore the idea.
He wrote back and agreed to the experiment. Then he sent me an outline about how he and his wife had met. I put together, "Debbie Does Skip." He liked the story and so did a lot of the Lit readers. I was surprised to hear that his wife had liked the story as well. I did several follow-up pieces, entitled, "Debbie Does Boris," "Debbie Comes Through, Finally," and "Debbie and Boris, 20 Years Later." They all met with varied feedback, being graded well by wife-sharers and down by wife-sharing haters.
The consequence of this ongoing communication was that I met Skip's wife -- in the cyber sense, only. He got us started on PM-ing, and we took it from there. Debbie was friendly and supportive, but rather tight-lipped. Her first condition was that I would not try to coerce a personal meeting in the flesh. She was well-aware of the potential consequences of meeting up with men she met on the internet. I fully agreed. My motive on Lit from the start was to learn a little about writing, and if I were very lucky, to meet a wife with whom I could correspond, with no intentions whatsoever of trying to set up a personal meeting. She also said that she was perfectly OK with me writing stories fueled by her husband's suspicions and imagination. She would read them and enjoy being the star of a series of cheating wife stories, but she would not verify or deny anything I wrote, nor would she make any suggestions. All his suspicions and speculations aside about her sexual history, the only thing that Skip knew, for sure, was that Debbie was a virgin when they met, and she still had had sex only with Skip. So, while Skip wished that Debbie was well-experienced, sexually, both from before they met and during their 25-year marriage, he could actually verify nothing -- and Debbie wanted to keep it that way.
"Go ahead and write the sexiest wife-sharing stories you can dream up," she said. "I won't dispute anything because I know they will be big turn-ons for Skip, but I have the prerogative to keep my lips sealed on the subject, and that's what I'll do."
So we did some stories, and we had some fun, but the series about Debbie's imaginary extramarital affairs had essentially run its course. It was time to move on, I thought. Then Skip told me about one final fantasy that both he and Debbie shared. They both had often fantasized about a sexy photo session of Debbie by a professional photographer. She would meet up with the photographer (in the fantasy), get the sexy photos taken, then give them to Skip as an anniversary present. Skip gushed about how good his wife looked in real life. The five-foot tall, blue-eyed, blonde-haired Debbie weighed in at 100 pounds with a pretty face and and the greatest legs he had ever seen.
"They go all the way to her pussy," he jokingly said. "You would love them -- and you would love to get into that nice, tight little pussy too. It's too bad she's not willing to spread it around a little. But that's Debbie: a lot of tease but no follow-through. That's been the story of our lives together."
I listened to Skip's description of Debbie again. He worshipped her and was always talking about how beautiful, how sexy, and how desirable she was. "You would love to fuck her," he told me for the 100th time. "She's beautiful, and she's a great piece of ass," he repeated again.
I mulled Skip's words over in my mind. He knew I was a professional photographer, so I guessed he would like to see maybe one more story about Debbie. "Would you like for me to do that story?" I asked.
"Yes, I would," he said. "It would be one final mutual fantasy for Debbie and me, if you have the time and inclination. I don't want to impose myself on you. I know you have lots of other things on your table."
"I don't need much convincing, you know," I answered. "As I've told you before: the better I get to know Debbie through our internet messages, the better I like her. I'll admit that even though we will never meet in person, I have a big crush on her."
"Of course you do. Who wouldn't? She's smart, beautiful, and sexy. I would be surprised if you didn't have a crush on her."
"OK, I'll do one more story. I'd love to insert myself into the scenario. I've fantasized many times about fucking Debbie. It would be fun to make up something along those lines, even though it could never happen in real life."
"Wellllll . . . , that's another thing I've wanted to talk to you about. Why not in real life? You could meet her someplace and actually take real pictures of her.
"Wait a minute, Skip." You know that both Debbie and I have made it a policy to never meet up with someone from the internet. It's just not a good idea. You never know what might happen. No, we've already agreed. It ain't gonna happen."
"What if she agreed? Would you do it then?"
"No. First of all, she won't agree. Secondly, we have an agreement. I won't go back on my word."
"Let me talk to her. Will you at least think about it?"
"I don't know . . . "
"That's good enough for me. I'll talk to her, and we'll see what happens."
The next day, Skip got back to me. "Wow," he said. "I've never seen Debbie so mad. She really tore into me when I suggested that you and she get together in the flesh."
"OK, that settles it," I said. "Just as I said, we both agree on no personal meetings. That's the end of that."
"Not so fast," said Skip. "I'm still working on Debbie. I asked her to think about it before she totally discounted the idea, and she said she would, but to not hold my breath. Going along with my fantasies on paper was one thing, but meeting up with a guy in the flesh, ready to take sexy pictures was a whole other thing. BUT . . . she didn't completely close the door. So now I'm back to you. If she agrees to meet you, would you meet with her?"
I hesitated. An actual face to face meeting with an attractive and sexy woman with whom I had already developed substantial rapport, was admittedly a very appealing prospect. Finally, I said, "I don't think so, Skip. While I admit that the thought of meeting sexy Debbie is a very intriguing idea, I promised her I wouldn't do it, and as corny as it may sound, I value her friendship more than I value a few nice cleavage shots.
Skip's response was, "You know I want you to get more than cleavage shots. I would like some nipple shots at the very least, and if you happened to get to feel a little bare tit in the process, so much the better. My top fantasy, as you know, is that you get a little ass in the end. So, what do you think? Will you take the pictures, if she agrees to pose.
I just laughed. That was not going to happen. I knew it, and Skip knew it, but we could both dream a little about it. I said, "Sure, Skip. If Debbie agrees, I'll take the pictures."
Skip just said, "I'll get back to you."
In our next chat, Skip said, "I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that Debbie has agreed to the photo session."
I was taken aback and sat, stupefied, without responding.
So Skip continued, "The bad news is that she insists that I have to be there."
Regaining a semblance of composure, I said, "Great idea, Skip. How am I going to take sexy pictures of Debbie as a gift for you, while you're standing there?"
"No problem responded Skip. I'll be in the next room. If Debbie needs me (which I'm sure she won't), I'll be right on the other side of the door. I'm sorry, Elvis. It's the only way she'll agree to it."
Still trying to adjust to the idea of meeting this thoroughly intriguing woman in the flesh, I said, "Great idea, Skip. Now, I don't feel quite so bad about breaking our mutual rules. We can do this without Debbie putting herself into a compromising situation. You set the time and place. I'll meet you there with my camera and studio lights. One more thing: I don't want to meet you. Knowing you in person might inhibit my ability to remain objective in my approach to this photo session. And there is one other reason which I will not explain here. But don't worry. It has nothing to do with Debbie's safety."
"You got it," responded Skip. "I totally understand. I'll stay on the other side of the door. You'll never see me. You can snap away and never have to worry about seeing me if Debbie doesn't call out to me."
Three weeks later, I was at one of the major Las Vegas hotels, camera gear in tow, knocking on the door. I knocked once and waited. Nothing. I knocked again. Still nothing. Feeling a little sheepish and just a bit miffed, I decided to knock again. After what seemed like another long wait, I cursed lightly under my breath and started to walk away. After two steps, I heard a soft female voice, "Elvis?"
I turned and looked into Debbie's face for the first time. It was easy to understand why Skip was so enamored of his wife. She was the real deal, the epitome of the girl next door: not particularly glamorous, nor full-figured, but just damned cute. Short: five feet tall, maximum. Narrow hips and slim, well shaped knees and calves, showing below her short denim skirt. Short blonde hair and blue eyes. She had an alluring smile with a blush that somehow conveyed both shyness and naughtiness. Holy Shit, I thought to myself. Nobody could be both so refreshing and sexy. If this meeting never went beyond this moment, I could never hope for a more all-consuming impression. I had really hit the jackpot this time. Try as I might, I couldn't recall anything I had ever done in my life to deserve this moment
As I stood there, struggling to regain my composure, I noticed another component to her smile that I hadn't picked up at first glance. It added just the slightest shade of confusion and curiosity to her disarming smile.
"What's the matter? I asked. "Do I have a spider on my nose?"
