We had arranged to meet at a seafood restaurant close to my apartment. Rather than chance returning to a full parking lot, I elected to walk. Against the cool evening, I slipped a thick sweater over my tee shirt, and wore boots over my jeans.

Since I thought I'd recognize him (after all, his photo had a prominent position on his web page), I would seek him out at the restaurant. Sure enough, I had no trouble finding him. I introduced myself and sat opposite him. An attentive waiter came over and I ordered a glass of wine.

He was wearing a white shirt and burgundy tie. His suit coat was over the back of his chair. He apologized for the formality, saying he'd come directly from his day job.

We made small talk for a while. He seemed genuinely interested in my background, and I was far too nervous to broach the topic that I really wanted to talk to him about.

He was from Phoenix by way of UCLA, and I was from the Midwest. Not being able to afford college after high school, I had headed to the city to find a job, and was working as an executive aide. Within the last two years, I had finally had the chance to work on a degree, and was spending my evenings and weekends studying Computer Science at the university.

We ordered. My meal was light, mainly because my stomach was uneasy with nervousness - which I hoped I wasn't showing. Paul ordered salmon.

After we had begun eating, he asked me what advice I was looking for, and I started to ask him questions about his public web site. Which wasn't what I wanted to ask, but was all I had the courage to do. I hoped that I would feel more comfortable broaching the other topic later, before we went our separate ways.

We reached dessert, though, and I knew that if I procrastinated any longer, I'd lose the chance I sought.

"I have another question for you." My voice had become unsteady. I cleared my throat, and tried to be nonchalant. I don't think it worked. "Where do you get the ideas for your fiction?"

"Fiction?" he asked. He had a wary look.

"Yes, you know." My throat was getting rough again. "The fiction on your other web site."

"Oh," he said, nervously. "I didn't think anyone would make the connection between me and... that."

At least I now had the dubious satisfaction of not being the only one embarrassed. He looked around to see if anyone was taking an interest in our conversation.

"I've learned a lot in Comp. Sci." I had lowered my voice almost to a whisper. "You're not as well hidden as you may think. I really like your erotic fiction. I wanted to know who wrote it, so I tracked you down. Now I'd like to learn how you write."

Paul still seemed a little tongue-tied, so I continued. "I'm sorry. I didn't really want to put you on the spot. If I could have found a woman to talk to, I would have. But it's your work that I like. I really want to know: do you write everything from personal experience?"

This seemed either to bring him out of his shock, or possibly shock him to the point he didn't care. "Hell, no," he said, his nervous voice low. "I write because I like writing. A lot of what I write, I've only read about. You're not going to ask which parts are real, are you?"

"No," I replied in a small voice. "I just want to know whether it's possible to write like you do without having a hyperactive sex life. I'm sorry if I insulted you. I didn't mean to. I think I'd better go." I reached behind me for my purse, hands shaking.

"Hold on," he said. "I'm not upset, or insulted. Just a little surprised. Here, let's order some coffee and relax a little."

He flagged the waitress and ordered coffee for both of us. After she had left, he looked at me for a moment, and added: "To be frank, I'd be willing to bet that you have more first-hand knowledge than I. After all, you're a very attractive woman."

As he said this last, he colored slightly. I smiled automatically in response, but lowered my eyes immediately. I wasn't going to admit that I'd had a grand total of three sexual encounters, none of which had been a resounding success.

After a slightly difficult silence, I said "I guess there's some hope. Would you perhaps be willing to look over something I'm working on? Perhaps give me some advice on how to fill the gaps?"

"Sure," he answered, anxious now to show me I hadn't caused him too much upset. "When?"

"Now would be good, if you have the time," I responded. "I live close by."

"Let me finish my coffee," he said, "and you can draw me a map, so I don't lose you."

"I walked," I countered. "It's a nice evening, if you have a jacket, and by the time you've found a place in the parking lot, you could probably have walked there and back. Leave your car here, it'll be okay for a few minutes."

"Sounds good," he said. "My suit coat should be warm enough."

I paid the bill - I insisted; I had invited him and quizzed him. We stood. He was a little taller than I had expected. He held the door for me as we left the restaurant, and we walked away from the shore to my apartment.


When we reached my apartment, we were both feeling the cold a little. The temperature had dropped more than I'd realized while we were eating. The warmth of the apartment was welcome.

I motioned for Paul to sit on the couch. I went into the kitchen, started the coffee machine, and collected my handwritten manuscript. It took a few moments to get it into the right order, then I gave it to Paul to look over, and went back to finish the coffee.

In the kitchen, I caught myself looking through the open door at his fair hair, trying to catch a glimpse of his bright eyes, but they were looking down at the paper. I wondered exactly what it was I was trying to accomplish.

I took the coffee through. My nervousness had returned: did he hate the story? Did he think the writing was laughably amateurish? This had been a stressful evening, and I wasn't sure I could take his rejection of my work. Inviting him over had been a bad idea.

I sat beside Paul, putting the mugs on the coffee table in front of the couch. The sound startled him, and he quickly moved the manuscript to try to hide a pronounced bulge in his pants. I affected not to notice, but found myself amused, and quite pleased that my writing could have this effect.

"This is very good," he said. "Sensual. Even though it isn't finished, I really like it. I have a few ideas, do you want to talk about them?"

I did. I wanted to read it page by page, and talk about the changes. I wanted material to fill those gaps where my lack of physical experience didn't allow me to express myself. I found myself beginning to get aroused; turned on by what I was reading, by what Paul was describing, and by Paul's reaction to what he was reading and saying. He contrived always to keep one sheet of paper hiding his erection, but it was getting increasingly difficult. His voice shook occasionally, and his face was getting warm.

Most of all, as I read the manuscript, it wasn't enough. I wanted these things to happen to me.

Working through the story, my arousal combined with my heavy sweater and the heat in the room to make me feel far too warm. I pulled the sweater over my head, and dropped it at my feet. Paul's eyes grew wide for a moment, and he looked away. Looking down to where they had briefly rested, I saw that my nipples were distinctly shaping the tee shirt's thin fabric. When Paul looked up, I caught his eye and looked away, embarrassed.

Cooler now, but perhaps even more turned on, I took the top sheet from Paul's hands, and leaned back into him, so that we both could read it. He had to put his left arm behind me to remain comfortable.

We talked through a couple more passages, bringing out the erotic content. I had butterflies in my stomach, and a warm feeling spreading out through my legs and sides. My nipples had hardened almost painfully against the cotton of the tee shirt.

I was enjoying the feeling, but increasingly nervous. Writing the story had turned me on, but my pleasure had been mine alone. Now my arousal was turning to an uneasy desire, threatening to drag another into its orbit.

Desire was demanding intimacy, and that scared me. I hadn't planned to seduce, or be part of a seduction. I had wanted simply to make the act of creating more enjoyable. Perhaps eventually to publish my own work on the web. Sitting beside Paul, trying to ignore the call of his body and the response in mine, I realized how naive that was. I was in a state of arousal, alone with a man, a gentle and reserved man, it was true, but a man who was also aroused. I wanted him to leave. I wanted him.

I wanted... I wanted to run into the bathroom and lock the door.

Instead, I leaned further into him. Maybe, with luck, he'd get so embarrassed he'd ease my suffering by leaving. Or he wouldn't, and the soul-eating genie would be out of the bottle.

He didn't leave. He curled his left arm around me, and gently held my wrist. I snuggled closer. I wanted him. I had passed the point of no return. The spark within me wouldn't allow itself to be quenched now, it demanded to be kindled.

I reached over with my left hand and stroked his knee. I wondered: should I be disappointed? He was visibly excited (though still hiding himself with the paper), but it was by the story, not by me. I was certain I could transfer the results to me, but was that a cheap substitute for seduction? Could he ever want me for myself?

Desire subdued regrets, though, and if this were to be a one-night show, I'd just have to be sure to make the most of every act. "I have a question," I breathed. "Is my story better for reading?" I reached down and took the papers from him. "Or for hiding the results?"

Knowing then that I'd seen his erection, Paul looked somewhat sheepish. I tossed the papers onto the coffee table, and lifted my hand to his head. "Paul," I said, and moved his face closer to mine.

Our lips touched, and we were kissing. Gently, not yet deeply or passionately. Finally, he backed away a little, and looked into my eyes. "I want more." I said, and dragged him back. Our mouths met, and we kissed more strongly.

I lifted my hands to either side of his face, and pushed it away from me. I looked into those blue eyes. "I don't think I even know what more is. But I want it now, and I want it from you."

I pulled him back towards me, and we began devouring one another. He put his arms around me and stroked my hair while our tongues met. Tingling warmth replaced feeling in my thighs and stomach.

He moved his hands down my back, and underneath my tee shirt, to hold my sides. I reached up and pulled his tie partway off and started unfastening his shirt. His hands slid up to my breasts, and began caressing, caressing. Warmth flowed from his fingertips to every part of me.

I pulled on his tie to remove it, but succeeded only in tightening the knot. I pulled at his neck, and we broke apart. I laughed nervously in the adrenaline rush.

He removed his tie, and I took his hand and led him into the bedroom. I stepped out of my boots. Standing, I put my arms around his neck, and we kissed some more, deeply, hungrily.

We separated as he lifted my tee shirt over my head. His fingers drew gentle circles around my breasts, and his eyes feasted on the sight. I unfastened and removed his shirt.


I drew him onto the bed, and slipped off his shoes. I lay down alongside him, sliding up, so that my erect nipple stroked his mouth. I reached for the back of his neck, and drew his face to my breast. Cool fire streaked through me as he closed his mouth on my nipple and massaged with his tongue. He sucked, and small spasms took the butterfly feeling and moved it upwards and outwards.

I lay there, letting the energy build within me. I cupped the back of his head with my hand, welcoming him. My fingers meandered through his hair, and penciled designs on his ear.

I released his head, and trailed my fingers down his back and over his side to his navel. He gasped slightly as I stroked above his waistband. I brought my other hand around, and unfastened his belt and pants.

I unzipped his pants, and slid my hand within his underwear, freeing him. His breath against me became shallow and fast as I slid my fingertips down his shaft and cupped his balls in my palm.

I reluctantly detached my breast from his mouth, and rolled him onto his back. I slid the rest of his clothing off his legs. Running the fingers of my right hand through the thin hair of his balls, I nosed his belly button and kissed his stomach.

I slowly lowered my face to his erection, and planted small kisses all along it. I tongued his balls, then circled the base of his shaft with my tongue. I ran my mouth up and down, alternately tonguing and nibbling, and watching his reaction. It was hard to tell where he was sensitive, because everything I did made him shudder.

I ran my tongue over and over the spot just below the head where he reacted most strongly. He reached down and stroked my cheek and my ear with both hands. He was flushed and breathing quickly. I fancied I could feel his heart pounding. Perhaps it was mine.

When I felt that he could stand my teasing no longer, I ran my tongue across the head of his erection. He had become so hard, he was like pink marble, veined, glowing, and shiny with my saliva. I slid my mouth onto him and kissed hard, playing roughly with my tongue.

He gasped as I moved my mouth down, and slowly slid it back up, gripping tight with my lips. One of his hands stroked the back of my head, the fingers of the other played with my ear. I repeated the motion, taking in a little more. I gripped the base of his shaft with my right hand, and ran the fingers of my left over his balls and to the hardness behind them. This made his fingers caressing my ear tighten for a moment.

I sped up my movements slightly. Not too much, though. I could tell he was on the point of exploding, but I wanted to postpone the moment for as long as we both could stand it.

I was getting really turned on by his responses. Realizing that I had the power to make him come almost made me come myself. It was time for both of us to get what we wanted. I moved up and down faster, sucked hard and tongued relentlessly.

He asked me to stop. I actually considered it for a moment. His hand was still on my head, though, and he wasn't trying to pull me away. He was concerned that I wouldn't want him to come in my mouth. I didn't care. My pleasure had become dependent on his, and I was determined to please him.

I drove harder. He was powerless to stop me; I owned him. He gasped and moaned, then he spasmed and came. Still I didn't let up. He came hard, and I let the salty juices trickle back onto him as I kept moving, teasing out every last moment of his exquisite pleasure.


Finally he lifted my head. I slid up the bed and lay alongside him. He was breathing more regularly now, but though he was physically spent, emotionally he was alight. There was fire in his eyes as he fingered my breasts and watched me.

He cupped my left breast in his hand, and squeezed gently. He lowered his face to the swollen nipple and did something with his teeth and tongue that made me gasp as a shiver ran through me.

I was so transfixed by the thrill of his tongue that I didn't feel him unfastening my jeans and removing my panties. After sliding them down to my knees, he used his foot to finish prying them off without letting up on my nipples. By the time I realized what he was doing, I was naked.

He slid his hand down between my legs, and stroked my pussy with his fingers and palm. By now I was so sensitive that even this gentle contact made my heart beat faster. I wanted him to make me come; it was becoming an urgent need, and I arched my back, pushing against his hand.

Instead, he moved his hand away, and started placing kisses around my stomach and thighs. Then he parted my legs and slid down between them, probing my pussy with his nose and tongue.

Nothing in my previous sexual misadventures had prepared me for the intensity of feeling as he probed with his fingers and entered me with his tongue. As he brushed by my clit, I almost came. I tried to relax; I wanted this to last. Relaxing with his tongue thrilling me with every movement must be one of the hardest things I've ever done. He made me shiver in places I didn't think could shiver.

He settled into a rhythm, using his tongue and fingers. The intensity built within me, despite my best efforts to keep it controlled. I tried almost to ignore him, to force my feelings down to a manageable level, but my body betrayed me, arching into him and sending pleasure pangs into every extremity.

Then he started probing my clit with his tongue, and I lost any will to resist. He continued to stimulate me with his fingers, and every movement of his tongue sent me spiraling upwards, gritting my teeth to delay the inevitable a few moments longer. I had no control, though, not enough to delay for a moment the climax that coursed though my body, obliterating my senses, so that the universe had shrunk to waves of intense pleasure, forming in my groin and breaking against my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, my heart.

I don't know how long he sustained me, time was one of the senses I lost. Eventually I realized I had gripped his head tightly between my thighs. I don't know when I did that, but he worked his magic anyway. I released him, and as my need faded for a while in exhaustion, drew him back alongside me.


I laid atop him, my breasts squeezed against his chest, and sought his mouth. We kissed ferociously, hungrily. I tasted myself on him, and instead of being repelled, it excited me. He stroked my breasts and squeezed my ass. He held me tightly and we rolled over, seeking more, always more from each other, locked in desire.

Pleasuring me must have turned him on as much as pleasuring him did me, because as we rolled I felt his cock growing harder against me. He was completely hard when I broke away and sat astride his thighs.

I took his erection in my hands and rubbed him against me. Then I lifted up and lowered myself onto him, slowly.

We moved together, and I came almost immediately. The fires hadn't died down, and what we now did laced them with gasoline. I lay down on top of him, and we kissed urgently as we moved. I came again when Paul took my breast in his mouth.

We moved more quickly, more urgently now, and I could feel him getting close to his own release. This stimulated me more, and as he was about to come, I pulled his face back to my breast. He sucked deeply and grabbed my butt with both hands, pulling me hard against him. We drove violently against one another. This was no gentle move to inevitable ecstasy, this was greed; each of us using the other's body for our own satisfaction.

When he started to come, it pushed me over the edge into another sense-depriving orgasm. His body within mine was the only thing in the world, even as I drained him for my own pleasure. The thought of him within me drove me into another climax, even before he was finished, and after he was spent, he used his hardness to coax me into coming twice more, less intense, but still wonderful, before we separated.

At this point we were both exhausted, and we lay side by side on the bed, naked, holding hands.


I lay on the bed, exhausted, light-headed. Finally, still feeling a pleasant glow, I pulled back the now thoroughly-disorganized bedclothes, and climbed under the covers. I looked over at Paul.

"Do you need to leave?"

"Are you throwing me out?" he asked.

"No, I just wondered if you had to be back before the morning."

"Well, let's see," he said. "Which would I prefer to be surrounded by: the outside air at 20 degrees during a ten-minute walk to my car, or the most perfect breasts I've ever had the fortune to hold, and their equally beautiful owner?" He pulled back the covers and slid into bed. He looked at me and grinned: "Tough call."

"If you put it like that, I guess you don't have much choice."

"Lovely Lynn," he said, "I'm not capable of 'putting it' any way at all. Don't throw me out before the morning, and I'll 'put it' wherever and however you want".

I grinned, and snuggled up to him, my "perfect breasts" resting against his chest.


The next morning, he was true to his word. We began making love before either of us was fully awake, Paul riding me, moving gently, hardly changing pace even as we crested.

We took separate showers. I donned my underwear and slipped back into bed. I was beginning to feel depressed, as if the shower had marked the end of intimacy. Soon he would leave.

The good news was that I knew I was capable of giving and receiving real pleasure in love. The bad news was that I knew with whom I wanted to exchange that pleasure, and he'd soon be out of my life. Any improvement in the quality of my erotic stories, which were not more than a hobby, would not be worth the coming heartache.

As I was thinking these things, Paul came through. He sat on the edge of the bed, looked down at me, and asked if I was okay.

"Yes," I lied. "Just tired. Not surprising, all things considered."

"So, what do you plan to do next? Will you finish your story?"

"I think so," I replied. "I feel that I have a much better appreciation of some of the... umm, 'technical aspects'."

"What about afterward? Would you like to try a collaboration?"

I felt a thrill pass from my heart to my shoulders and arms. "I don't know," I said. "I don't think I'd be very good at collaborating." I could see the disappointment in his face. "But... perhaps we could collaborate on the research?"

He grinned hugely, and reached down to kiss me on the mouth.

"You should have put your pants on before making an offer like that," I said. He climbed back into bed, pulling the sheet over his partial erection. "Anyway," I continued, "I lied. I'd be happy to try a collaboration. As long as the research doesn't suffer."

"Let's do our research at my place tonight," he said. "Parking's better - and my bed is bigger."

"I can't refuse an offer like that," I said. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth. "I've been expecting all this time that you wouldn't want to see me again."

He looked slightly shocked. "Why would you think that?"

"Well," I said, "you weren't turned on by me, only by the story."

He turned serious. "Lynn," he said, "you turned me on the moment I saw you in the restaurant last night. When you introduced yourself and sat down, I took one look at you, and wanted you. I went to great pains not to show anything, because I didn't think you'd want me. When I was reading that story - which is great, don't get the wrong idea - but when I was reading it, the reason I got so completely aroused was, well, was because I was fantasizing it being about you and me."

I couldn't say anything to that. Not with words, anyway. I lifted myself up, over his chest, and lowered my mouth to his. We kissed, slowly but deeply, my breasts squeezed tightly against his chest, as we strove for the closeness our hearts demanded.

Finally I pulled away. "You mean that?" I asked.

"Completely," he said.

"Then excuse me while I conduct some follow-on research." I said.

I got out from under the sheets, so that I could get back in, head first. I slid my face down his stomach, and took his near-erection in my hand. I felt the hardness return as it almost instantly lost the "near-" qualifier. "Looks like you're telling the truth," I said, and took him into my mouth.

As I worked on him, slowly, but completely, taking every possible inch that I could, I felt him slide my underwear off. Then he lifted my thighs, and lowered them either side of his head. He wasted no time getting his tongue inside me, mouth around, manipulating my buttocks with his hands. I felt myself go instantly wet, becoming deeply aroused in far less time than I thought possible. I ground against his face while I took him down into the back of my throat, and back up to my lips.

I kept needing to let him go, to catch my breath, as he was bringing me on so quickly. Each time, I would go back down harder, and felt him gasp against me. Then he pulled on my clit with his tongue and sucked, and I flew over the top, and came hard, grinding into his face and tongue. Losing control, I moaned and sucked, sliding my teeth up his shaft. He gasped in pain, and then erupted within me. We dragged each other's orgasms on well beyond comfort, not wanting to let one another go, then we separated, and I turned around and laid on top of him, resting. His fingers stroked the edges of my breasts, which were all that separated our overworked hearts, and we knew satisfaction.


Paul was right: parking was much easier at his place. And his king-sized bed was wonderful.

Even for sleep.