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Excerpt from Confessions of an On-line Affair

Short story By: Celeste Neumann
Erotica



DISCLAIMER! ATTENTION PLEASE!!

This short story contains EXPLICIT ADULT MATERIAL, and is only intended for readers who are at least 18 years of age. If you are NOT AT LEAST 18 YEARS OF AGE YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS READING THIS STORY and are hereby advised not to read it. Please close this window now and read something else.

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But if you are over 18 years of age your are welcome to read it. It's a short story about a "cybersex" adventure, which is pure fantasy.


Submitted:Dec 2, 2009    Reads: 3,965    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


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Excerpt from Confessions of an Online Affair
It is sometimes difficult to describe this, because I have to reconstruct it from memory, as I eliminated most of the chat records we had. In addition to this, translations do not do the proper justice to the language. It has something to do with Germans. You must think of it this way: If words of passion where a sweet desert you could eat; those the the Spanish would offer you would seem sicky-sweet like eating a piece of Baklava; those the French would offer you would be like ice-cream; those the Anglos would offer you would be like a piece of cake; and those words the Germans or the Danes would have to offer would liken a shortbread cookie.

You can form your opinion that the one form - say the Spanish - is much to overly sweet to even believe, while thinking the style which correspondences to a piece of cake is the proper amount. At the other extreme, you can think the shortbread cookie tastes as stale as cardboard - but it's a cultural thing, and once you immerse in the culture you can empathise and identify what had once seemed foreign to you.

The English-speaking would like to believe they have the ability to express themselves directly; as smoothly and glibly as beaus of the south, did they not seem to have that problem of emotional reservation or repression. Germans can do this less skilled than the English, for they have been taught word economy. What may sound blunt and over-confident is in reality, bearing checked emotions. Some poets who write in English have this ability - they convey so much using so little, but one would have to be a German to fully appreciate this minimalism, I believe.

Markus and I chatted more about one or two other topics, yet I could sense he was becoming more daring. He started to make fun of things he considered so typically American - things I had heard so often before, from countless other Germans, but I could sense he was saying them just to tease. He knew the truth, but he goaded me into taking offence.

"Tell me the truth. You are a true American, are you not? I mean, the Americans are so prude", he stated boldly.

"Oh, that is the best kept secret in America! The American men would love nothing better than you believe American women are frigid and prude so that you don't even consider they prey. Oooopss! Now I told you. The CIA will be after me now!" I replied.

"Oh, don't bullshit me! You can get arrested for sun-bathing topless at the beach", he replied.

"Yes, but that's only because our police officers are incredibly jealous wankers, who cannot stand the thought of just any guy staring at some girl they fancy for themselves. That is way only the girls with the gorgeous tits get arrested for sun-bathing nude. For the old fat ugly women, they just throw them a towel, and tell them to stop insulting them", I replied with zest.

"Yes, but they say there are towns where you become arrested for having sex without marriage…"

"Of course. They have to compensate for Hollywood Boulevard, because there it is absolutely mandatory to have sex there without marriage. Didn't you see the film with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts - everybody there has their own 'curb-stone swallow'" (their cute word for a whore)

"No, seriously. I never meet anyone who was uninhibited about this as much as you are."

"Well, you've never been to Florida, have you?"

"No."

"Florida is different from the rest of America. You can meet the extremes in our society there. Gay couples can live next door to Jehovah Witnesses. White extremists can live across the street from Black Muslim activists. Prostitutes live around the corner from anti-abortion activists. I have never seen so many extremes in my life. Only the so-called normal conservatives don't stand out because they don't stand for anything or anyone. You know the people who keep up with the Jones' and don't make waves. When I was in college I had a gay alibi-boyfriend I met in college. We were very close, but we never had a physical relationship. He liked me back then because he mistook me for a lesbian. I was anti-everything and didn't have a boyfriend, so he just assumed I was a lesbian. We always met up in parties. His family was worried he was gay, and he was scared to death to admit it. I helped him give the illusion to his family and his ultra-conservative sister I was his girlfriend. He helped me keep boyfriends away, because I couldn't cope with a real boyfriend and a father who was aching to shoot every son-of-a-bitch I invited over to dinner. Daddy liked Guantanomo-style interrogations. So our college friends thought we were a couple, and we had fun going out together. I waited for him in the car while he enjoyed his brief amorous encounters. I helped him sometimes, because the poor dear was so vulnerable, and he had a hard time dealing with aggressive older men. We shared many secrets - everything between a girl and a boy - everything except what everyone else was dead-certain we were sharing."

"How could you do that? Didn't you go wanting?"

"No. It was easier for us to play a double game like this for awhile that disappoint everybody. Of course having this bizarre relationship with Jason taught me much about tolerance."

"Do you never cast aside your consideration for others to satisfy your own yearnings?"

"Ach, Markus. That has to be something mutual, don't you agree? What is your own pleasure compared to the pleasure shared?"

"I could agree under those circumstances. Still, is it not true that American women won't… you know!"

"I cannot know if you do not say."

"Take it in the mouth"

I was laughing. Well, there we were, back in this box again. "I don't mean to disappoint you, but they do. Yet something tells me, this is not exactly what you wanted to know", I wrote with a smile curling on my face.

"So-so! You pretend to know what I want to know?"

"Nay! Never! By all means, do tell me what you wish to know from me!"

"You tease! I accuse you!"

"Nothing could be further from my mind", I lied, smiling, watching my fingers glide over the keys and licking my lips unconsciously. "Ask!" I commanded.

"Would you?"

"Would I what? I shan't fill in your blanks. I might. I may not. How shall I know?"

"Please… please, would you tell me how you would?"

"How I would what? File my tax return? Cut my toenails? Paint a door?"

He cursed my name.

"Come! You must be specific, O economist of words!"

"How would you take him?"

I should note that certain parts of the body have genders in German. Most of them are neutral such as heart or brain. Some are feminine, such as lips, breast and hip. And others are definitely masculine, such as hand, finger, arm, and the male organ. I could have stretched it out to making him say exactly what he meant by "him", but I felt the burning urge to write.

"You don't really want to know this! When I write you this, it will disappoint you. It may make you think me a woman who has no idea what to do", I hesitated.

"NO! I shan't think that! Such a woman would not be capable of such detailed description. I am certain other women are more obsessed with forgetting, and getting it over with, than possible enjoyment or pleasure of such an experience. I am certain they envision it as a farmer envisions how pigs will fatten his bank account. You would not do this. Of this I am certain. There is little I can be certain of. But of that I am."

Once again mixed feelings consumed me. It was difficult to discern if this was encouragement, or a confession of trust, or maybe a combination of the two.

"So-so… you may like to imagine this together with me. Very well, I shall lay you upon the couch of this imagery and hope it becomes you in warmth, comfort and pleasure."

"Oh, yes! So very much! Please, by all means, do!"

"Where shall we be? Paint me where it would suit your fancy!"

"Hmm… On a train travelling to Finland?"
"Does this suit you? This could be interrupted at any moment, by passers-by, the conductor, even innocent children. This idea does not suit me."

"You're right, of course. Let me think…"

"Come! Paint me someplace where you have the leisure to be idle, where you can relax, without being distracted. Is there no place in your memory where time seemed not to exist at all? Come! You know of such a place - and you shan't disappoint me by choosing the room where you are now! I won't hear of it!"

"Ohhhh! So you take the right to make demands?"

"I do! If you wanted a cheap trick, you can have instant satisfaction through dialling a phone number."

"Yours?"

"Oh PLEASE!"

"Sorry, just teasing."

"Don't vex me, or I shall terminate this conversation at once!"

"I beg of forgiveness, and now I remember this place called Tossa del Mar on the Costa Brava in Spain. Shall I give you this link to put you in the mood?"

"No need. I can recall this well, myself."

"Do you know what I speak of? Those rocks?"

"Yes. I know those gigantic dark black smooth cliff rocks, worn to a satin finish through the ages. One lies in the shallowest tide pools the Med makes when its waves break over the jutting rocks. There is no beach here, only secluded shallow pools in hidden angles, which only the sun and the sea can spy upon, and not passers-by, for you only find these sun-banks when you climb to the protruding caches. The rocks are hot on your feet, but the shallow pools make the warmest bathes to relax in. It is a favourite place for sun-worshipers to cast aside their clothes and sleep in the sun."

"Yes you do know this place! Exactly. You describe it par excellance."

"Thank you. And now I imagine, you laying here in the sun, stretched out upon your back, lying in the small mould of sea water which only slightly cools you from the merciless late spring sun. You lay with your arm thrown carelessly over your eyes, to snooze in the mid morning. As the waves wash against the rocks, the sound rocks you into a light sleep. Then you feel a light touch on your thigh. You awake with a small start, and slit one eye to see it is my hand on your thigh, but you are too lazy to take away your arm from your face. When I see that lazy smile spreading across your face, I am re-assured you know it is I who is stroking your thigh, in slow long strokes. You enjoy the firm pressure of my fingers pressing into your strong flesh. I watch you, and a slow smile spreads over my face as I watch you that part of you stir in slow motion.

Then I decide to flex my fingers so that my nails lightly scrape the length of your thigh, without injuring the skin - just enough to watch the slight hairs rise in unexpected pleasure. The sensation transforms you from lazy to aroused in a matter of seconds. The muscles ripple under the thighs I stroke as you tense and stretch in reaction. You enjoy this slow pleasure much to much to take away your arm from your head, as you quietly sigh in anticipated pleasure.

My thumbs circle about your protruding hip bones, and you tense as I lightly scratch around your lower abdomen, and I see a shiver run through your body. It tickles and thrills you at the same time, and makes you harder, yet you will not look at me. Too much you fear if you look now, I could stop. Besides, you wish to indulge yourself in this sensation of feel - skin on skin - warm, inviting, intimate.

I listen to the waves, and match their motion to that of my hands, as they rush towards the source of your pleasure, and before reaching it, they ebb away. Again you tense as I lightly rake my nails near your root, and then pull them away - forever almost touching, yet not. The slight sighs of pleasure, which grudgingly comes from your lips makes me smile.

By the next wave which washes over the rocks, again I move my hands towards your now thick cock, and as the waves wash away, I go to move them away, yet this time you catch my hand with your free hand and lead it to your swollen member demanding me to grasp it. Slowly, with careful dexterity, I wrap my fingers about your shaft, to hold it firmly, as you sigh in relaxation.

Slowly I move my hand back in forth, and you enjoy my grip - firm yet gentle, my warm fingers applying just the proper amount of pressure. You breathe deeply with relaxed satisfaction, slightly arching your back and tightening the muscles of your arse raising your shaft proudly towards me.
You are waiting for me to lead it towards my mouth. You anticipate it, yet have no wish to hasten it. It cannot happen soon enough, yet you do not wish it take place all too soon. The slight pressure building inside your loins is so infinite pleasant. When? you wonder. When will she take me?

Your smile broadens, as you feel my head dip. Without looking you know it has, for you feel the silky texture of my hair fall on your thighs. Light as feather, and so thrilling. It is only a slight frustration that my lips do not enclose you as you expected yet, but instead, plant warm lazy kisses everywhere but where you want it now. You sigh as you feel me kiss your nest just above where your shaft joins the rest of you body, and shiver as you feel my teeth bite against the inside of your thighs, next to your balls. I smile as I feel you catch your breath when my tongue snakes out, and you feel the tip lick your balls. It tickles you and thrills you simultaneously, as I nuzzle your balls, which have a scent which is so heady it makes me weak.

All of this makes you impatient, and now you dare to gaze down the length of your chest to lift my head. Now! You must part my lips now, for if it continues as such you shall go mad. You remember you are the man, and not part of the rock you lie upon. Gently you guide my head to your shaft, and again I tease. I only give the tip the gentlest kiss, which nearly frustrates you into losing yourself. Heavily you exhale and fight for control, and sigh as I give the tip a gentle lick.

'Yes' you murmur. 'More' you beg, and sigh in pleasure as you feel my lips close around the head. You nearly growl and thrust you hips forward, that you may finally plunge into the depths of my mouth. I hold my lips firm, and it feels so deliciously tight as you do this, and you sigh when my tongue holds you firm against my pallet. I open my throat so that you can plunge yourself to your hilt. The reflex of my mouth gives you an unexpected pulsating pleasure.

I withdraw, only to allow you to re-thrust a few times, exonerating in the sound of your breath growing now ragged. Time to slow down, to prolong your pleasure, and I stop to apply soft smooth licks to your head, running it over the top, along the furrow, over the eye, along the ridge, while gentle suckling upon it. It makes you grown with pleasure, and this becomes deeper, when you feel the cutting edge of my teeth gently trace the contours - never biting, but oh-so-gently scraping the skin, with the thrilling hint of bite. Will she hurt me? Or is this just another unbearable pleasure? Your shaft twitches inside my mouth. The pressure inside of you has become unbearable.

You gently take my head between your hands, and roll me to the side, where you can easily hold my head, while you thrust yourself into my hungry mouth. Faster now, and harder - you beg for this sweet release, my fingers hold your hips and urge you to thrust faster.

Your breath comes ragged now, as you moan, then I feel you tighten, and before I hear the next wave wash over the rocks again, I feel that warm tide flowing down my throat as a cry escapes your lips. You hope I will not spit you out in putrid rejection, and I shan't.

I will take your seed from you. I shall take it, like a gypsy thief in the night, swallowing every last drop. Rob the strength and essence of you to live forever inside my belly, and if I could I would feed upon your very soul for that moment to hope that in drinking the essence of you, I would at least know who you are without the burden of asking questions and fearing I could thus injure you.

And quietly you would roll to your back, sated at last, but still wanting comfort. I would think you kind enough to pull me to lay my head upon your lap while you stroked my hair, and I would hope you would not feel yourself weak or inadequate for not seeing to my pleasure. It would not be so. My pleasure would have been in giving. I should like to imagine that at this moment, no words would be needed to be exchanged, for we would have the idle luxury to simple exist, content with each other's company for the while."

As my typing fingers came to rest, I laughed to myself and thought , Top that! and I sighed, anticipating his reply. There came none.

"Markus?.... Markus?.... Markus, are you still there?"




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