“Okay, before we go any further, go back to my profile and have a look at my photograph. Do I look like the kind of girl who enjoys going fishing?”
There was a pause, then the beep of an incoming IM. I’ve cleaned up the spelling mistakes and abbreviations. “That photograph makes you look like you enjoy a lot of things. I was just hoping that fishing might be one of them.”
I smiled and typed “goodnight”; hit Send, then fired off a line of kisses. Sheelagh was one of the first girls to e-mail me after I started posting erotic stories on a certain website and though her first letters were simply invitations to repeat the action at her place, they were written with a humor that made me curious to learn more about her . . . more, that is, than the admittedly impressive heights of horniness that she painted in another note. And over time, I did. She was an art dealer, she was single, and she traveled extensively – five foreign countries and 23 states in the last six months. I wondered whether mine was one of them?
Soon I was signing on at all hours of the day, just to see if she’d emailed me back, and she rarely disappointed. And one day, as she outlined her next scheduled trip, she asked where I lived. I told her the state; she mentioned a city. I sat and stared at the screen for a few moments. She was coming here? Careful not to give anything away, I typed, “When will you be there next?”
“This weekend. You?”
“I could probably make it. What are you doing there?”
“Fishing with some clients. And a reception Saturday night – a dozen or so people, out-of-towners like me, and some dear friends of mine, Debbie and Mandy, who just happen to own half the city. You should join us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I have one rule about online dating . . . don’t do it. Hell, I won’t even cyber with girls that I’ve slept with, let alone complete strangers. But did this really count as online dating? Okay, so we met online, but what if she’d written me via a magazine or a publisher? Then we’d be pen pals, and how harmless would that be? Plus, I’d have my own car, I’d let some friends know where I was going; and I did want to get to know her better. I hit the reply button. “Okay.”
We made arrangements. Sheelagh would be flying in Friday, and driving out to the ocean the following afternoon. She mentioned the hotel where she was staying – of course I knew it . . . it was only 15 minutes from my apartment. But I was still impressed when she told me that she’d have her secretary book me a room, and charge it to expenses. “How about if we meet up in the dining room for lunch on Saturday?”
“Great. See you there.” I signed off, and tried to decide what clothing would be the most appropriate for fishing in, but found myself spending more time in my underwear drawer instead. After all, if things did go well . . . surely I had at least one bra that screamed, “fuck me” from every fiber?
Yes, I did, but I don’t think Sheelagh even noticed it, not when I walked into the dining room; not when we sat chatting at the bar; not when she waved a few friends off and told them she’d catch up with them later . . . not even when we went up to her room, stripped down in seconds, and fell onto the bed.
She was everything she’d described in her e-mails . . . mid-40s, good-looking, well-rounded, tall. Her voice was soft, as though every word was a precious commodity to be drawn out of her with the most exquisite tenderness . . . and that is how she fucked me (yes, that was everything she said it was, as well); calmly and deliberately, her face and her fingertips flowing across my body, everywhere at once and one place in particular, testing and teasing my flesh before settling down to one spot for a moment and then, tantalizingly, flying away to caress someplace else.
Now I was crouching over her, my breasts just inches from her mouth. Sheelagh reached up, squeezed and then pinched each nipple, not hard, but just enough. Her tongue darted out and brushed them. I know what I was thinking, but I think I murmured it too, because she was sucking at it now, my nipple and a sizeable portion of my tit sinking into her mouth.
I held her to me, willing her to draw even more of me in, feeling her hands shift to my back and then down to my ass, stroking and squeezing my cheeks as a finger traced lightly between them. I felt the first stirrings of a distant orgasm, as she released my nipple from between her lips and we hung unmoving for a moment, as I wondered what next.
Sheelagh decided, grasping my hips and hauling me up, my pussy firm to her face. But I wasn’t going to let her have all the fun. Deftly I flipped, parted her legs and gazed down at her slit. She’d shaved and I wished I had – although she didn’t seem to care, as gentle fingers parted my lips and a tongue traced slowly up and down before nudging my clitoris for the first time, an electric shock that shook my entire frame.
I tried to concentrate on what lay before me, the sweet pink slit, the swollen clit that peeked out at me. But it was impossible. Her tongue was dancing between my legs and my body was completely out of my control. Her breathing was hard, her movements insistent and her rhythm was unchanging, even as I bucked my own hips, urging her to pick up the pace, bring me to the orgasm that was shuddering just on the other side of bunker-busting.
“Faster,” I hissed, and she raised her head.
“Not yet. You’ve teased me with your stories for months. Now it’s my turn.” And she shortened her strokes, her hands pushing down on my hips until I could barely move them, but increasing the warm pressure of her tongue, so that every breath I took had a sharp, audible edge of pleasure; an edge that only heightened her determination to keep me dangling – which she did. I had never known anybody to be so painstaking, so patient, so totally in control of her own body that, even with a hellcat screaming seven shades of lust beneath her, she simply stretched the ecstasy out even further.
Finally I came . . . there wasn’t a power on earth that could have stopped me; and as I writhed in the uncontrollable spasms of my own joy, I felt Sheelagh, too, pause . . . plunge . . . and then cry out as her lust blew up inside her.
We lay silent, shattered, sticky with sweat, and I think we must have slept. It looked darker when I opened my eyes, and Sheelagh now lay dead weight across me. I squirmed out from beneath her and crept to the bathroom. She hadn’t moved when I returned and for a moment, I stood there, wondering what to do . . . which of the two or three thoughts that were now racing through my mind I should act on first? But before I could move, she opened her eyes and smiled. “We really need to make a move. I have that reception this evening, remember? You will come along, won’t you?”
“Why not?” I threw on the clothes I’d arrived in, then headed back to my own room to shower and change. Half an hour later, she was guiding her hired car around the snaking bends that led towards the ocean, and the row of exclusive waterfront homes that were dotted along the coastline. “Dinner,” she promised me, “alcohol, some tremendous people – you’ll love Debbie and Mandy . . . and then, your choice. I can call you a cab back to the hotel . . . or else, we fish.” I laughed. “I’ll let you know.”