My Secret Admirer

I have always loved to write. I've thought about writing a book, but I have yet to find a topic I was interested enough in to devote that much time to. Besides, I once heard that no one should write a book until they are over fifty—that they can't possibly know enough—have experienced enough of life to have anything interesting to say until then. At twenty nine, I have a long way to go, so I have contented myself with writing short stories—erotica to be more specific.

I found a website called Literotica, and I fell in love with it instantly. By obeying a few simple rules, one could upload a story, and others could read it, rate it—and even comment on it. After posting my first story, I became frustrated at how few readers actually took the time to rate it, and only a small percentage of those posted public comments. I thought, "How rude of them."

Still, I loved watching the number of readers roll by. Over the weeks after posting a story, the numbers were staggering—5K, 15K, 30K, 75K. I became addicted to trying to imagine so many people from all over the world, sitting in front of their computers and reading the words I'd written. Did they masturbate while reading it, or maybe afterward? Did their spouse enjoy the passion or lust my story invoked?

I had made the decision early on not to stick to the lighter genres like "Romance" and "Erotic Couplings". I wanted to explore the limits of my own imagination. I posted stories in genres that were so foreign to me, I could barely comprehend that it was me typing the words. I wrote about group sex, fetishes, incest, anal sex, exhibitionism and much more. I'd never experienced any of those things, but I loved imagining them and describing my fantasies of them in great detail.

While typing the words, I would feel as if I were actually doing those things. It always made me wet beyond my own belief. I almost always masturbated after writing a new chapter, sometimes for days afterward. On more than one occasion, I had to pause writing long enough to masturbate before I could continue typing.

I had chosen to let my readers see my email address—the Yahoo email I'd set up for the sole purpose of receiving feedback from Lit readers—PlainJane, the same as my Lit username. That username described me well. Very, very few took the time to send an email. I responded to those who did, thanking them for taking the time. And I gladly took to heart their criticisms and suggestions for future stories.

I was working on my fifth story when I heard the famous yodel. I was excited, knowing it was Yahoo notifying me that I had new mail. My excitement, though, was dampened quickly as I read it:

"Dallas:

If you write another story, you should give the main female character your real name.

Your Secret Admirer"

My jaw dropped and I struggled to breathe. No one on Lit could possibly know my name is Dallas. Hell, Yahoo didn't even know that. I'd used a fake name to open my Yahoo account. How could they . . .?

* * *

For the entirety of the following week, I could think of little else. I couldn't concentrate at work. As the manager of a national chain restaurant, I needed to be able to concentrate—to always be cheerful to both customers and employees. I needed my happy mood to infect them, and I'd always been great at it—until now. The customers didn't know the difference so much, but the employees surly did, more than one asking me what was wrong.

I couldn't write a word, couldn't think straight, and I barely ate. I did manage to sleep for two or three hours almost every night—with the help of alcohol and exhaustion.

I was tempted to call the police, but what would I tell them? I was sure they would blow me off once they found out I wrote and posted sexually explicit stories on the internet. I'm sure they would think to themselves, "Duh! What did you expect?" I could live without that embarrassment.

After eight days, I finally gathered myself and my nerves. I opened my Yahoo email, clicked on the message that had disturbed me so greatly, and clicked the "Reply" button.

I typed simply, "Who are you?" and hit "Send" before I could change my mind.

* * *

It was three days before I got a response. This time, the email was a bit more informative. I sensed that the sender somehow knew how much their email had disturbed me and was making a futile attempt to put my mind at ease.

"Dallas:

Two things: First, you have nothing to fear from me. It is very important for you to understand that. I am not a stalker. I don't follow you around taking pictures of you—spying on you. I don't need to do that. And secondly, I will never approach you—unless of course, you ask for a meeting. Again, please believe me. You have nothing to fear from me.

Your Secret Admirer"

Wow! If they were trying to put my mind at ease, they had failed miserably. Their words, "I don't need to do that", kept echoing through my brain. What the hell did that mean?

* * *

"What do you want from me?" And then I clicked the "Send" button.

Again, it was three days before I got a response.

"Dallas:

Conversation—that's all. All I want is an open and honest conversation with you, nothing more.

You Secret Admirer"

I responded immediately, "What kind of conversation? If you want Cybersex, you can forget it. I'm not into all that fake shit. I don't care how badly you need to jack off." Send.

I was surprised to get their response the next day:

"Dallas:

Lol, I don't need you for that. If I need to get myself off, I can manage that quite nicely without your help. I want to talk about your stories. You restrain yourself too much. You don't set your fingers free to type what is inside your mind. You are writing for your readers—not for you. Your readers need you to delve into your brain. Take a flashlight in there with you and shine it into the darkest corners. Sweep away the cobwebs, and then write about what you find there.

Your Secret Admirer"

What the . . .? How could anyone possibly know what was in the darkest corners of my mind? I didn't even know what was in there. I read that email over and over and over, shut off my computer, and didn't return to it for several days.

* * *

"Maybe I don't want to know what is in there." Send.

"Dallas:

We all have hidden fantasies. You need not fear them or be ashamed of them. You should embrace them—pursue them even.

Also, it would improve your stories greatly if not every female had perfect breasts. A woman can be very sexy without having a chest full of 38DDs. You are proof of that, especially since you rarely wear a bra in public. I'm sure you rationalize not wearing one as being simply because your breasts are too small to require one, but I know better. I know it's because you enjoy the approving smile of a male onlooker when he sees your taut nipples announcing their presence under one of the light sleeveless blouses you often wear. Tell me I'm wrong.

"Your Secret Admirer"

Wow! Wow! And Wow! That single email revealed so much, I had trouble disseminating it all. He just told me that he didn't know me from work. I always wore a bra at work. He also revealed that he knows what I look like, perhaps even where I live, shop, eat out . . . have my oil changed . . .

And he was spot on about my breasts. To say that I have two "fried eggs" on my chest would be an insult to fried eggs everywhere. I have nipples, and that is all. When I do have to wear one, I usually opt for a training bra or a tube top—anything to hide my nipples, which are quite long even when not taut.

As for the reason I go braless, he was right again. I do enjoy an occasional lingering glance. I always have. And yes, I do choose tops which I know will plainly show my nipples poking out from my otherwise flat chest.

"A woman can be very sexy without having a chest full of 38DDs. You are proof of that." His words echoed through my brain. I believed I could look semi sexy, under the right circumstances—to the right observer. I loved my slender legs and rounded butt. I kept my black hair cut short—very short. It barely covered my ears. I liked the tomboy look it gave me. Obviously, he liked it too and thought I looked sexy, "You are proof of that." He'd said.

"Mr. Admirer:

You are not wrong." Send

"Dallas:

Thank you for being honest. I know you imagine yourself being the female characters you write about. You imagine yourself doing what they are doing—feeling what they are feeling, but that isn't what excites you most to imagine. The thing you envy most about your characters is their boldness—their daring. Imagining yourself being just as bold and daring is what gets you the most excited—what causes you to slip your fingers under your panties and busy them. Tell me I'm wrong.

Your Secret Admirer"

Gawd! Whoever this guy is, he has me pegged. How could a stranger learn something so intimate about me simply by reading my stories? Okay, so he's seen me in public and knows I don't wear a bra—that I'm flat chested. Seeing me like that should have led him to just the opposite conclusion—that I am bold and daring. How could he know that I am anything but those things?

"Mr. Admirer:

You are not wrong. How do you know those things about me?" Send.

"Dallas:

It's less important how I know, only that I do, and most important that you know those things about yourself. Wouldn't your life be more fun and exciting if you somehow summoned the courage to find out? You could start slow—just dip your toe in the water.

Your Secret Admirer"

So he does want more than conversation. His last email confirmed it. If I were to try the things I write about, I couldn't do it alone—I'd need a partner—more than one in some cases. And I'm sure he'd be eager to volunteer. "I'm on to your game, Mr. Secret Admirer" I said aloud with a chuckle.

"Mr. Admirer:

I'm guessing you'd like to play the part of Allen Baxter—bend me over a stuffed chair and drive your ten inch cock to the hilt in my ass. Or, would you prefer to be my husband, David, who lost the wager at work and didn't have the money to pay. You want me to take turns giving all of your coworkers blowjobs at a party we host for just that reason? Or did you have one of the other scenes in mind?" Send.

The asshole made me wait four days for his reply. That's how I knew I'd struck a nerve. He knew he was busted—that I knew he wanted more than conversation—a lot more. It pleased me to feel like I was more in control of this whole thing now.

"Dallas:

You flatter me with the whole 'ten inch' thing. The scene you mentioned, the one with Gina and Allen Baxter is one of the ways I knew you'd never experienced anal sex. I assume you've seen such a thing in a porn movie, but what they don't show the viewer in those movies is the amount of preparation even female porn stars need before they can take such a huge cock in their ass. There's a lot more to it than the movies show.

You live less than ten miles from one of the nicest nude beaches in the US—the one you had Diana visit—but you described it all wrong. Obviously, you've never been there. Wednesday is your day off. It's supposed to be eighty-five and sunny. You should go there and experience it for yourself, and no, I won't be there, so you don't have to study every person who looks at you trying to decide which one is me.

Email me afterward and let me know how it goes. I know to a certainty that you will love it.

Your Secret Admirer"

My heart was racing even before I pulled into the parking lot. I couldn't believe I was actually doing this, but I wanted to. I'd wanted to even before his email—while writing about Diana, the exhibitionist in one of my stories. But since reading his email Sunday night, I could think of little else. I just had to do it.

I sat in my car for several minutes, watching the people come and go from the trail that led to the beach. It surprised me to see them strip naked beside their cars, and those returning from the beach were naked as well. I had assumed they would wear clothes to and from the beach, stripping only after choosing a place to lie in the sun.

"Oh well, when in Rome" I said aloud to myself. Then I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and exited my car. I left the door open, pulled off my blouse, shorts and panties, tossing them into the driver's seat. Towel and car keys in hand, I headed for the path.

I passed two couples on the path. The two men showed me appreciative smiles, and both women greeted me with "Hi" and "Enjoy". A slender single man passed and gave me a gentlemanly nod and smile. I kept my eyes on his, and if he glanced lower, I didn't catch him.

The first ten minutes or so was awkward and nerve racking for me, but I was soon stretched out on my towel and coaching myself to breathe. There were people everywhere, all shapes and sizes. Many were just lying out and taking in the sun, but most were walking up and down the beach at the waters edge. I finally gathered my nerve and, leaving my towel and sandals behind, joined the parade along the wet sand.

By the time I got back to my towel, I was feeling much more comfortable. I was able to relax and just enjoy the freedom of being naked without fear of being raped or arrested. And I'd received enough appreciative glances to have my pussy wet and tingling.

An early thirtyish blonde woman with a wonderful body approached me, "Hi. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all." I replied.

Her smile grew even wider, "Great. I'm Tina Wilson." She said, offering me her hand.

"Dallas Marshall", I said as I shook her hand.

"The reason I came over is . . . well, I just hate coming out here alone. My husband is with me today, but that's rare . . . our schedules and so on. So I thought perhaps you'd like a little company next time you come out here, if I'm free of course—which I usually am."

"That would be nice. Actually, this is my first time. A friend suggested I try it, so here I am."

"First time here, or anywhere?"

"First time anywhere. I've never done the nude in public thing before."

"Oh gawd! Don't you just love it? If I had my way, I stay nude twenty four seven, three sixty five. I hate wearing clothes."

"Yes, it's quite liberating, but you're right. I think it would be more fun doing it with someone."

Tina handed me a small slip of paper with her name and phone number on it. "Great." She said, "Give me a call anytime. Maybe we can come out together. Well, I'd better get back to Jay. It was wonderful meeting you, and I'm looking forward to getting to know you better."

"Nice meeting you too, and I will definitely give you a call."

* * *

I thought about reporting my experience to Mr. Admirer that evening, but I thought better of it. I didn't want him to think I was too anxious to follow his orders. I waited two days before emailing him.

"Mr. Admirer:

You were right. I enjoyed the beach experience very much. I even met a nice woman who offered to accompany me there in the future. I think I would like that, so I'll probably call her before going out there again." Send.

I heard the yodel only an hour later, so I went to my computer and opened his reply.

"Dallas:

I'm glad you enjoyed it. Of course, I knew you would. Now, about the woman you met, don't be shocked or offended if her motives prove to be more than simply not going to the beach alone. Not all of course, but there are more swingers in the nudist lifestyle than any other group I can think of.

Here's a little homework assignment for you: Go through your four stories and list out every sexual situation you wrote about. Then, rate them from one to ten based on how hot you found them to be—not the quality of the writing, but the situation itself. The ones which caused you to masturbate multiple times should get the highest ratings. The ones which you masturbated to only while writing it, or once afterward, get a slightly lower rating, and so on. And no, I don't want to see your list. I simply want you to put it in writing and then evaluate what you can learn about yourself from it.

Your Secret Admirer"

I was almost angry with myself for doing my "homework" that night. Would I walk off a cliff just because he told me to? But, he'd been pretty much right on target with everything so far, so I swallowed my pride and did it.

As I looked at the list of sexual situations and sex scenes after rating them though, I couldn't understand what I was supposed to be taking away from it. There were too many of them—almost a hundred.

My favorite story was one in which twin sisters teased their older brother, eventually doing everything under the sun to him and each other. My favorite scene from that story was when the brother was fucking one of them in the ass while she was eating out her sister. I envisioned myself being the one in the middle, eating my younger sister, Becky, while her twin, Josh fucked me hard and fast in the ass.

Ranking last was the scene from my "Fetish" story where two women took turns peeing in each others mouths. The scene where they knelt in front of a man and took his pee in their mouths ranked higher, but not that much higher. My favorite scene from that story was on a camping trip, and one of the women stood between two men and held their cocks while they peed. I'm not sure why, but I thought it was a very erotic visual.

Ranking very high on the list was a scene from the "Non Consensual" genre. That scene depicted a twenty something shy girl getting drunk at a college party. She was tied up in the middle of the room, spread eagle standing up. She was totally naked, of course, and everyone at the party, males and females alike took liberties with her. I masturbated often while fantasizing that it was me in her situation.

I thought I saw a pattern, but I wasn't sure. It appeared the scenes depicting things further from something I would have the guts to do got a higher rating. Finally, I made a drastic decision. For some very strange reason, I had come to trust Mr. Admirer's judgment on such things.

"Mr. Admirer:

I know you said you didn't want to see my list, but I can't seem to learn anything from it. I'm attaching it, so you can help me evaluate it." Send

* * *

The following Tuesday, I still hadn't heard back from M.A., so I placed a call to Tina. I got her voicemail. "Hi Tina. This is Dallas . . . from the nude beach. I'm thinking about going out there tomorrow. Are you available to go with me?"

An hour later, she returned my call. "I'd love to, hon, but have you looked at the weather forecast?"

I hadn't. "Ouch, no, I haven't. Is it supposed to rain?"

"There's only a fifty percent chance, so maybe we'll get lucky. But if it rains us out, we can always have lunch or drinks or something. What time were you thinking?"

"I'm off all day, so it's up to you."

"Let's try for ten then. Hopefully it won't rain until later."

"Great! I'll meet you in the parking lot at ten."

* * *

I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes early, but Tina was already there and waiting for me. It was cloudy, but not raining. When I parked and got out of my car, she came over and watched as I undressed, then moved in and gave me a tight hug, "I'm so happy you called."

I'm sure my face turned red when I felt her firm breasts press against my already taut nipples. She noticed, "Girl, if you're going to be a nudist, you're going to have to get used to getting hugged by others—males and females. It comes with the territory."

When we were lying side by side on our blankets, she let out a silly chuckle. We hadn't been talking, so I asked, "What?"

"I was just thinking about our hug earlier. It made me remember the first time I saw Jay try to dance with a woman at our favorite nudist camp. We were very new to being nudists, and she had a whole chest full of HUGE tits. It was a slow song, and he hesitated putting his hands on her. She just let out a laugh, grabbed his hands and put them on her sides, then she pulled him in. I have to laugh every time I think about it."