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I’d purposefully not worn a bra. One reason being the delicious feelings on my full breasts and nipples from the lustrous, pale pink, pure silk blouse I was wearing. I’d just slipped that on and had slowly done up each of the four buttons. They were rather too far apart really for, as I moved, the blouse gaped and much of my breasts and occasionally my nipples were exposed; that excited me even more making my nipples harden and become such stirringly large indentations in the silk.
I was also wearing thin, track trousers. They were beige and loose at the bottoms of the legs with a double white stripe up each side. They had an elasticised waist band and fitted snugly across my tummy and bottom. Glancing in the full length, mirrored wardrobes in my bedroom and seeing the slight sagging of my breasts, the bulge of my tummy and the surplus fullness of my hips and bum, I grimaced a little, but overall the sight wasn’t too bad I thought, well not for a near forty year old that is.
I wasn’t wearing anything on my feet, but then you don’t need to if you have under floor heating do you? For some reason I found being barefoot sexy.
Under the trousers I was wearing a white, lacy thong. It was small, ridiculously small really for there was quite a lot of me to go in there. Not that I’m a BBW or anything like that, but at just over ten stones, which for our American readers is one hundred and forty five pounds, I’m, shall we say, nicely rounded!
I went into the main room of my, fairly large, apartment overlooking the Thames. I sat down at my desk in front of the PC.
Everything was ready; all that was needed was in place; I was prepared, emotionally and physically.
Pressing the key and moving the mouse I then typed.
“Matt, you can now fuck me.”
Looking back I often wonder how I reached that point. How I’d reached such levels of, depravity, I suppose some would call it? How I’d come to accept, no relish really, having cybersex three or four and sometimes more times per week? How I’d got to the state where I had three regular, electronic lovers, two male and one female? How I’d let myself so often be persuaded to finish a session in a chat room laying back in my large, black leather, office chair naked or almost. How I’d log off having made myself cum, often surprisingly strongly and now and then wonderfully satisfyingly.
But it was my only source of sex during that two years period between parting from Kevin, my husband, and being divorced. I couldn’t bring myself to start dating. No not whilst waiting to be a free woman
I’d found chat rooms by mistake. They seemed to be the answer to finding other females to talk to who were in similar positions to me. Recently parted women who found it hard to work out why an almost perfect marriage had gone wrong. Why a partner, who one thought they loved, needed to fuck other women?
Inevitably, I suppose, as the frustration of celibacy took over from the smug sexual satisfaction of orgasmic sex most nights, I found the rude rooms. I was slightly horrified, at first, that people could “talk” so openly, but that soon gave way to me finding a perverse sort of enjoyment at telling men, and some women, that I was celibate. I started to feel comfortable describing what I was wearing, particularly the colour of my panties, and my body to them. I even started sending copies of the glamour pics Kevin had taken of me “to perk up our sex life” to a few I became close to,
Chatting led to exchanging e-mails; steamy ones. That led to chatting about the content of the mails which, in turn, resulted in me one afternoon almost masturbating with a man. It was such a turn on to hear a total stranger telling me what to do with my hands, to hear him telling me that he was naked and hard and for us to tell each other that we were near to cumming. It was such a turn as I did that, but I felt such guilt I just couldn’t. So as I touched myself, heard him say he was near and as I found my climax starting, I reached out and logged off.
I felt guilty that I’d nearly climaxed. I vowed never to do it again and to stop visiting chat rooms. The sordidness and wanton nature of what I’d done got to me. I was amazed at how easily he’d seduced me, or did I seduce him I wondered? Maybe it was exactly what I wanted and needed? Maybe I did want to undo my blouse when he asked me, to stroke myself through my bra and to then lift each orb out from their cups and pinch and squeeze my dark, pink, swollen nipples as he suggested. Maybe I was ready, I know I was willing and clearly I was able to rub myself through my jeans. And I guess, really, I was eager to go along with his suggestion of stroking myself down there, of slipping my panties off and touching my wetness. Yes I guess I was ready to fuck myself listening to a total stranger talk to me via cyberspace.
But, somehow, I stopped myself. Despite the anonymity, despite the man having no way he could ever find me and despite there being an ignore beylikdüzü escort key I just couldn’t do it. My upbringing, my “respectable” persona, my positions as a mum, member of golf and tennis clubs, a, fairly, successful business woman and all the other conditioning that prevented me.
After that first, slightly worrying, well bloody scary really, episode I did stop. I didn’t visit a chat room for almost a month. But by Christ was I frustrated and did I give the batteries on my two vibrators a bashing? Yes two, which I used at the same time. There’s something ravishingly exciting at having one vibe buzzing away on my clit, or up me, while I used the other on my nipples and tits.
But my chat room avoidance couldn’t last. I was too hooked on the net; after all it had become my hobby and favourite pastime during my self-imposed, post parting and pre-divorce sexual solitude. And I actually enjoyed chatting. So I slipped back into the old habits easily and was soon logging on and chatting away to all and sundry. But I was a good girl, well at least whilst on line. I didn’t once come near to going off the rails for ages.
Then I met Matt.
He was all the good things I look for in a cyber mate. Articulate, bright and quick minded with a self-deprecating way about him and a great sense of irony. He could chat on most topics, was an avid golfer, had a worldly-wise approach to chat rooms and a wickedly naughty sense of humour. He was clearly up for anything on-line, but wasn’t assumptive or overly pushy. We were soon exchanging views on a wide range of topics including, of course, those of intimate and personal natures.
He was married and, unlike most men I meet on there, claimed to love his wife. True, he said things were a little difficult, but never pushed me to meet so I believed him when he said “I just like chatting to women.” I believed him, for that was exactly what I most enjoyed, well with men mainly.
We got on too well really. We were so easily able nearly every time we talked to turn the conversation to sex. Easy, comfortable, relaxed, non-threatening, flirty sex-chat. Not heavy, come-on, demanding stuff, but nevertheless stuff we admitted turned us on.
I’d explained earlier when we were talking about being aroused that I didn’t cyber
“Don’t or haven’t?” he quickly quipped back.
“I don’t now,” I replied feeling the need, as I so often did on there when with a man I liked, to be totally honest.
I changed the subject and like the gentlemen, as many I’d met on the net were, he respected that and didn’t mention it again, well not for some time that is.
We’d also started exchanging e-mails. He wrote well. Not with classically good grammar, punctuation and spelling but with clear, “picture painting” descriptions and forceful narrative. I enjoyed reading his mails and, increasingly, I enjoyed composing for him. And of course from both of us the writing became steamier and steamier. He told me in wonderfully graphic, but not pornographic, explanations exactly what he’d like to do to me. As I read them I could imagine him doing them to me so clearly that they became my masturbation material. Just as my replies that described my feelings as he did those things to me, became his wankfest as he termed them.
“Are you sure,” he typed back.
“Yes, yes I am.”
When we’d last spoke on a Friday we’d got very steamy.
“God I so want to fuck you,” he’d typed near the end of the session.
This wasn’t completely out of the character of our chats but was, probably a little more intense and direct than most.
“Don’t you feel it Mands? Don’t you feel that need?”
“Right at this moment,” I typed one-handed as I pinched my swollen nipple, “there’s nothing in this world I want more than to be fucked Matt.”
“Fucked by me?”
Smiling I teased him. “Fucked by anyone Matt, but especially by you.”
We both knew this was impossible for his wife was downstairs and my daughter was in the next room.
“Really? Especially me.”
“Do you really mean that Mands?”
“On here, yes I do.”
“Are you sure, are you positive about that?”
We’d spoken about “going all the way” several times, but either the time wasn’t convenient, we just talked about it so much we talked ourselves out of it, or I backed out. This time, though, I meant it. I wanted to do it, again. I wanted to do it with him. With Matt, my electronic lover, my soon to be cyber-sexpartner. Yes I wanted to fuck myself for him.
We rarely chatted at week-ends as it was difficult for both of us, but I received an email.
“Just once more my darling, are you positive about this? Tell me “no” and there’ll be absolutely no problem. Tell me “yes” and I’ll be hard and rampant until we meet at noon on Monday.”
We’d ended our chat on the Friday making a date for Monday. And once we’d done that it did feel exactly like a date. The very special beylikdüzü eve gelen escort date that couples often make; the date when they are going to consummate their relationship; the date when all the awkward kissing, the fumbling and furtive gropings, the touches, caresses and strokings all come together; the date when they do go all the way, when they at last make love, finally have sex and fuck each other’s brains out. That was the date we’d made for noon on Monday!
I typed back.
“Yes, yes, a million times yes. I want you.”
It was an odd weekend. I hadn’t got much planned; some shopping on Saturday and a couple of girl friends round for take away pizzas in the evening. Golf on Sunday that I played so badly, followed by a snack at the club and home early for an evening’s TV with my daughter.
But it wasn’t what I did that made it odd, it was how I felt. I did feel as if I was going on a real date, as if we’d agreed to make real love. As if Matt really was a new lover, a lover with whom my relationship had deepened to the point that we’d made this pact for Monday. All Saturday, more so Sunday and especially as I watched TV, alone as it happened for Sarah popped to a friend’s to do some homework, I became more and more aroused.
There was an, almost permanent, tingling in my tummy, a warmth that ebbed and flowed through me. An extra fullness and heaviness in my breasts and a pressure on my nipples that made them feel as if, at any moment, they could burst and let that fullness from each orb gush out. I’d washed my hair and showered. As Sarah and I often did on Sunday evenings, particularly in the winter, I’d slipped into a nighty and a dressing robe. The nighty grey and white silk. It was beautifully lacy, had a low neck and a slightly flare mid-thigh length skirt. It was partly see through and clung to me above the waist. It wasn’t really a nighty to sleep in, more one to be shagged in. The white robe was thin, but not silk. It was floor-length and had a tie round the waist.
Sipping my second glass of wine it was the easiest thing in the world for the robe to fall open. The skirt part of it did that naturally, so that as I sat on the sofa my feet tucked under my bottom, my legs were bare. As I’d moved around getting the papers, pouring wine or changing channels so it was nearly as easy for the top to gape, for the two lapels to fall apart and for the deep cleavage the tight nighty created to come on view.
“What will it be like?” I wondered, my mind continually thinking of tomorrow.
“Will I be able to do it, go through with it and finish off with him?” I asked myself.
“Will I,” it suddenly struck me like a charge of electricity, “be able to make myself cum as I chat to him? Will I be able to say and do the right things? Will I find the words to make love on-line? Will I be able to fuck myself to an orgasm as he tells me what he’s doing?”
I didn’t know the answers for sure, but at that moment they didn’t seem to matter too much. No, as the neckline of the nighty slid down beneath my breasts and as the lacy, silk skirt slid up my legs, tomorrow really did seem so much like another today. And as one of my hands found the soft fullness of my boobs and the hardened crinkleness of my nipples so the questions became irrelevant. And finally, as my other hand found the sopping wetness between my legs, nothing seemed to matter for I was writhing on my sofa in orgasmic satisfaction.
Monday morning was hell. I can’t begin to work out how many times I changed my mind. This whole idea was becoming an obsession and taking on an importance far beyond merely masturbating, for in reality that’s all it was, wasn’t it? In reality I was going to take my clothes off, touch myself then make myself cum. Just as I had last night on the sofa and last night in bed and the night before on the sofa and Saturday evening in the shower. In reality it was just masturbating, wasn’t it? Yes it may well have been just masturbating, but it wasn’t really reality was it? True, with Matt reading every word I typed and him typing back, it couldn’t be termed fantasy either, so what was it? I had no answer to that. Is there a state between the two? Perhaps rantasy or feality? Maybe what happens on the web needs some new terms like that?
I was wearing just a robe when I logged on and checked my mails. My heart pounded when I saw there was one from him. Glancing at my watch I saw it was 11.30.
“I’ll definitely be there at noon, naked and numb with hardness for you, my darling. I’ll understand if you don’t make it or if you have a change of heart when we’re talking.”
I quickly typed back
“I’m just getting dressed especially for you Matt, I’ll be there when you want you me.”
The silk felt incredible on my breasts; it was so smooth, cool, lustrous and caressing, that I was sure my skin on them was of a much higher temperature than normal. The image in the full-length mirror beylikdüzü masöz escort thrilled me. “What an arrogant, hedonistic vain woman I can be,” I thought as I looked at myself clad just in that pale pink blouse. The hem of it was around my hips the lapels were open. They were caught on my nipples, that I saw with a wry smile were almost exactly the same colour as the blouse. My breasts were full but had that sag that “older” woman who’ve suckled children have. My waist was nicely indented, but the tummy that should have been cosseted after the birth of Sarah or should have received many hours of attention in the gym, did bulge. Not alarmingly, not in a Christmas pudding like way of a pregnancy bulge, but was of size where being undressed by a younger men had to be avoided or done in the dark if possible. It did, fortunately, almost vanish when I was lying on my back naked or near so, but then the bloody tits flopped to each side, so as with woman my age, I couldn’t win could I?
“Maybe,” I smiled, “that’s the attraction of sex via the net, no peeping eyes?”
I’d promised Matt that I’d dress to excite him and that was what I was doing.
“Or was I,” I thought as I slid into the Agent Provocateur panties that were as ridiculously brief as they were ridiculously expensive, “£40 just to cover those thin lips and then be cast aside.” What women do to please and thrill their lovers, or themselves, perhaps?
“Again M, are you sure?” came up on my screen in, what seemed, a rather matter of fact reply to my invitation of, “Matt now you can fuck me.”
“Yes, yes I am,” my writing, looking to me far more assured and confident than I felt, came up on the screen.
“Oh God Mandy?”
“Yes Matt, yes I know.”
“I’m so excited but so nervous,” I told him truthfully.
“So am I and have been all weekend?”
“Did you make love to Fiona?” I asked referring to his wife whose’ photo I’d seen and who had been the subject of a story we’d written together.
“Yes I did, it was fantastic,” he told me.
It was that we could have such a conversation where we could discuss our own lovemaking that made my relationship with Matt so different to any other I’d had on the web. I’d told him practically everything I’d done in the past, including some dallying with other girls, and he’d told me lots about he and Fi’s sexual habits, likes and dislikes, which included some partner swapping and attending mild orgies.
“Good, I’m pleased.”
“But Amanda, not as good as how our fantasy lovemaking is, or will be. Not as good as how it’s going to be.”
“No that’s better M, ours isn’t real, that is.”
“No Mands, ours is real, just different.”
“Yes that’s true.”
“What are you wearing Mands?”
“A pink, silk blouse and tracky trousers, you?”
“Just the tight, white CK long boxers you like.”
Clicking on my picture gallery I brought up the photo he’d sent me a few weeks ago. Any doubts about my arousal vanished as I looked at him. He wasn’t that tall or muscular, just nice, with little excess weight and a, frustratingly to me given my bulges, flat stomach. The white, almost cyclist shorts length boxers clung to him like a second skin. They accentuated and emphasised his genitals making them, as maybe they were, I didn’t know for I’d never seen them naked, huge. Not the boastful type at all I’d had to drag out of him that he had a thrillingly eight inch and three inch diameter cock!
I was almost shivering with desire as I imagined him at his PC in that deliciously alluring underwear.
“Just them Matt?”
“Yes Mandy just my boxers, just those tight white boxers you like so much. Just those skin tight pants Mands that cling to me.”
“Mmmmmm,” I clicked feeling the surge of arousal at the words he was manipulating me with.
“The ones Mands that you said made my cock look big.”
“It does Matt; I have it on screen now.”
“Does it look big now? Would you like to see it right now?”
“Yes, yes Matt it looks huge.”
Suddenly the window in which we were chatting said,
“Matt has invited you to photo share, Accept or decline.”
I don’t usually like pictures of men’s’ erections. To an extent it’s “seen one seen ’em all,” well to me at least. Obviously that’s different when looking at the real thing. When near to a penis that you know you’ve made hard, it’s a totally different ball game. When close up and personal to something that’s shortly going to invade you, plunder your insides and do such amazing things to your mind and body, well then they look fantastic. But on a computer screen or a paper, no thanks not for me, usually.
Matt’s cock looked magnificent. It was big, it was long, it was thick and in the, about to be fucked, state I was in, it looked beautiful. Yes, though cocks, most of the time, have little going for them and certainly are low on aesthetic values, when hard, hot, nearby and are about to be shoved right up a girl’s pussy, then they can look beautiful.
“Oh Matt,” I whimpered, adding “thank you, thank you,” remembering that last week he’d asked if I’d like such a photo of him and I ‘d said I would.
“Oh yes,” I went on as several more of him in various naked poses lit up my screen.
“What’s under the blouse babe?” came up, making me tear my eyes away from his body and cock.
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