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Welcome! All characters are over 18. Thank-you to my muse for inspiring this story…

As always, favorite, comment, rate…feedback if you dare.. thank you for taking a moment out of your life to read what flows through and out of me.

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It started with a story. It started with an email. It started with desire.

I often got feedback on the various stories I publish online. Comments went right on the piece for all to view, but feedback comes to my email. It’s meant for me and me alone. Most of it is nice, some a little disturbing, a few creepy and occasionally, one pulls at me. Tugs at me.

This is a very rare thing.

The email wasn’t even remarkable. Four sentences, three exclamation points. Maybe that was what spurred me to respond. All this time later, I’m still not even certain why I did it, but I replied. It started off simple enough.

‘Do let me know when you publish so I can read!’ was my reply back. Was adding my own exclamation point my way to maybe convey some interest I wasn’t even aware I had? Prior to that exact moment, I had only replied to one of the hundreds of feedback emails I had received in the six months since I began writing and publishing on the site.

The first real reply came…chatter about process. No exclamation points this time. A question on pre-writing and drafts. Questions were answered. Send was clicked.

I waited.

This reply was longer than the last. More process stuff, but more personal level information mixed in. Something about this other writer was keeping me on the hook. I wanted more. I searched inside myself to figure out why. Nothing was found. No explanation as to what significance a few exclamation points had in spurring a desire to keep writing to this person.

Maybe it was only the innocence of a shared interest in writing, along with working in similar fields, that kept us exchanging emails. That had to be the reason. The 1500+ miles between sent and received mattered not. Because right now, we meant nothing.

Slowly, small snippets of our lives started finding their way into each email. Dinner, family, life. Struggles. I saw some of myself in her story. Little thrilling bolts shot up my spine every time I checked my email and there was one waiting.

She told me her writings were more *porn-y* than mine. Was that supposed to be a bad thing? What’s wrong with porn? Hopefully nothing, or every night, lying in bed watching clips as I use my magic wand, must also be bad. I never minded being a little bad.

She confessed she had a dirty mind… oh girl, so do I. It was already going places every time I read my email. It had been less than a single day of back and forth, and I was hooked.

Sitting at my desk at work, my face would flush, and I would realize too late I was biting my lip as I read. This rarely went unnoticed by the college students who worked for me. I avoided eye contact and bossed them around, my cover to my own naughty desires.

Home was worse, the kids, the husband around, all woefully clueless about this other side of me. This person who writes lesbian erotica, who crushes on women, who feeds desires she only speaks of with select people. They are not among the selected.

Opening emails that made me swoon was harder to hide. The glaring looks from the spouse would only increase as time moved on.

I read her draft. More ‘porn-y’ for certain, not a genre I usually read, but hot. Hot not for what was written per say, but for knowing I was talking to the writer of those deliciously ‘porn-y’ things.

I proclaimed to her ‘I believe we are going to get along fabulously’. Did she read my underlying words? The ones that said I already want to rip your clothes off and taste you. That I already had in my prolific imagination.

Her reply *I’m getting a funny feeling you are correct*. Add that to the other feelings I was getting…

Somehow, it was still day one and we had already joked about not being at *dispose of bodies* level yet. I latched onto the word ‘yet’. Yet implied there was a chance we would be, eventually.

The first time she told me *home is a no bra zone* I almost went over the edge just thinking about what that looked like, did later that night with the trusty magic wand. I had a headache that even an orgasm couldn’t help. She promised me an email would be waiting for me when I woke up.

*Come with me…* sweetie, I already had. Once last night, and once before I opened that aptly named email. Inside were words that floated in the air, caused me to bite my lip and wish it was hers.

The reply to my reply made me laugh and smile wide. Nothing more than real life sprinkled with fairy dust. This person, so far away, was making my days better than anyone who was here could.

We both love the water. The connection grew deeper, richer.

My phone auto-corrected ‘fucking’ to ducking and hilarity ensued. *Two beautiful firefighters were ducking in a burning building*. I laughed. I casino şirketleri smiled, something I rarely did. More looks from those I lovingly refer to as 13th graders..

Lunch time. This email made me feel like I was right next to her, watching her eat her Cobb salad. The urge to suck her lip into my mouth was strong. The miles between us a daunting obstacle.

I told a friend of my new crush. Dead faced she says, “Lesbians will travel, that’s not an issue.” I told her she was crazy, then priced out a plane ticket.

This constant flow of emails, un-restricting our voices, letting us be as genuinely us as we were willing. She was my kinda person, in every way that mattered. Every way. She joked about coming for dinner. My heart fluttered at the thought. Then went to dark places.

Pictures exchanged.

Yep. I wanted to bite that lower lip. Fuck. Please and thank you. My attention was distracting to her, not in a bad way. Good. I was beyond distracted and loved every second of it.

I have *calm eyes*.

Another picture, just my legs up on my desk, my boots..black..high.. *my mind and my ovaries just high fived*. I swooned, I more than swooned. My brain didn’t know what to do with that comment.

*the devil on my shoulder told me to lick your boots but I don’t know what she’s talking about*. This one though.. that edge I was always on now, over it. At work…

She’s .. hot as fuck. *blushing all the way down to my neck*. Can I check if the blush goes further? Please and thank-you.

A joking..or half-joking.. or may not joking at all, *come hang out with me*. Yes please. Someone invent teleportation…NOW!

I have tattoo’s…she has freckles. Did she already know freckles are a weakness of mine? 36 hours in and *I’m already protective* Shit…did I mention someone needs to invent teleportation right now??

*devil on my shoulder whispering*. That devil of yours can keep whispering. Telling you to keep talking to me. Telling you whatever you need to hear.

Books… a shared love. Those pictures excited me almost as much as the one with the lips I wanted to kiss, and tug…and bite.

*I want to accidentally leave articles of clothing down in the covers of your bed*. My mind went haywire with that one. If I get to pick which articles, it would be all of them please and thank-you. Your warm body would be in there too.

My imagination was on overdrive. *does that include finding my socks in your covers? * actually, it includes finding all of you in my covers. There’s no heat in my bedroom. Sharing body heat naked sounds like a perfect solution.

My office is all glass and aluminum. I watch students en masse walk by… she offers to sit with me. I make room at my desk; we can share the chair. *when you make me laugh, I touch your forearm*. Heat spreads from the spot on my skin I imagined her hand on. The heat does not go unnoticed by the students in the same room.

She has a life that doesn’t include me. I get jealous, only a minor spark. *how can I make it up to you?* Just keep talking to me.

*You don’t have to ask me twice. You don’t even have to ask me*. Then what can I do twice? I want to do all the things twice please.. all of them.

How’s the work on teleportation going? Never have I prayed for the work of scientists as hard as I was right then.

*leaning over and whispering very very closely to you in your ear*. Fuck.. stay there…don’t move. Okay now move, but lower.

*Leaning even closer, almost touching your hair with my nose and whispering again, this time my voice noticeably deeper*. Fuck again.. stay right there… I can feel your breath on my neck. Can your lips come closer? Please.

*my heart feels melty*. Olaf? Is that you? Oh, it’s not. I’m glad it’s someone else… Maybe Elsa could use her magic and help a girl out? Send a wintery wind to blow one of us to the other..soon. Please. (Manners count when asking for magical help right?)

*drawing a simple flower on a post it note and sticking it to your coffee mug*. You can draw? Or “Draw”. It doesn’t matter. First flower I’ve been given in more years than I can count. It smells beautiful, just like you.

She can’t move, has a cat in her lap. So many naughty things are going through my head. Mostly, I just wish to be that cat, even for a moment. I keep my dirty mind to myself, then *unless you already know you like it drippy*. And I’m gone. Downstairs to my bedroom. I need a few minutes alone kids, and husband. Fingers work in tandem with the trusty magic wand.. I return to the family with a smile.

It’s cold. Here and there. Her nose will be cold. Can I warm it up for you? Anything else cold? I’m very good at taking care of people..let me take care of you. Anything you need taken care of, I’m your girl.

*sliding into bed next to you and peeling off my socks and squishing over next to you*. Yes, yes please. But take off more than your socks. Or is that my job? I’m a very hard worker. My work ethic is second casino firmaları to none.

*also handing you a bag of mini donuts I stole from the break room*. Theft. What level of friendship is this? Is it below disposing of dead bodies? Or above it. *virtual fist bump*. Wait what? From clothes and you in my bed to fist bump. What level is this? Did we go backwards? Or forwards.. are we crossing many planes of levels now? Can I just cross you, all your levels and planes please? Slowly. With passion. With ease.

My dreams were filled with you. Laying next to me, no socks on of course. Laying on me and under me. I woke up smiling, the details of the dream fuzzy but the feelings not. I was riding this wave of interest, of desire and lust for someone so far away. Someone I knew I could never reach. The waves propelling me through my days.

The juxtaposition of loneliness within these waves caused much inner commentary, turmoil and strife. Was this exchange helping or hurting? Both for certain. Was I willing to stop the word flow? No. Not an option.

The next email thread was more about writing and such than anything else. Then you said *bottom lip protruding* and I leaned forward, in my imagination of course, and tugged that pouty lower lip, holding it hostage gently between my teeth. A long suck before I released it.

Your reply…*Mmmm…I love being kissed. Especially when my bottom lip is pulled. This is an effective strategy. ;)*. My imagination kicks into overdrive again. I’m stuck at my desk though, no place for the imagination to go.

Long days at work for both. Details spilled sporadically through the day. Then.. * You are so my type*. And I think. I am? That’s a thing?

Then I think, once upon a time was someone’s type. More than one someones. Had I changed so much in the last nearly two decades that I had totally forgotten that? Or had I been so caught up in surviving from day to day that I lost sight I was still a person. Being trapped in this marriage.. I had stopped driving my own life. But now.. I’m your type? So, wait, does that mean I can still be that for someone else? Someone closer.. someone somewhere sometime… my mind races with the possibilities.

To hammer home your point.. a few emails later came, * Yeah, you’re the shit*. The shit. The whole shit? Can not lie.. my ego, usually hiding, avoiding, sheltered from potential rejection, smiled. The shit.. maybe some day.

*Leaning over and stealing a kiss*.

You would never have to steal anything. I volunteer as tribute to you, your lips, hands, body. Whatever. If I am the shit, you are the sun in my dark sky.

*You are distracting me in such a delicious way*. Same. So very much the same. And it’s not going unnoticed by those around me.

*Thank you for being my friend! warm kisses…lots of them*. Oh, there’s another exclamation point. You are thanking me? No need. I am thanking you.. for whatever this is.

Don’t worry though, I’m not going anywhere. Unless it’s on a plane.

*I’ll just rush up and put a little envelope in your hand with a Valentine that says, “Be my Valentine.” Then I run and hide in the bushes in case you hate valentines*. I don’t, but I do hate attention. Hiding in the bushes would be good, at least until I get over those waves of self doubt. The ones that tell me I don’t deserve that valentine. That I should never be the recipient of anything so loving. Shhhh give me a minute to collect myself then I’ll come find you in the bushes and shyly kiss you.

Late night for you. A comment about being surprised you could dress yourself that morning. Do you know what those comments do to me? I’m certain you do. I will help you get dressed… but first, let me undress you fully, my mouth is aching to feel your warmth. My roaming hands would probably make certain you didn’t get dressed for hours.. I hope you have sick days left at work.. you’re going to need at least one.

*Purring. God I want that*.

I’m writing.. writing the story of us. I want your approval. *I want you to have fun with me*. We want the same things. You read the first few pages.. confess that the first night we ‘met’ while I used my magic wand, you just used your fingers. I licked my lips, wished I could have licked your fingers when you were done.

Then this, after I sent a new picture.. which is hard for me. I don’t like me, the way I look.. my hair that used to be pin straight but the more kids I had then the older I got, the more these wild do-whatever-the-fuck-they-want-to-do curls and waves started ruling my mornings. I recently hacked off 12 inches of them, now they sat just above my shoulders… slightly easier to tame. Easier to straighten when they didn’t behave.. which was more days than they did.

My breath hitched as I clicked send. I hedged a bet with myself that I would never hear from her again. We would never reach *dispose of dead bodies* level.

*But I am SO attracted to YOU! It is not just you being pretty, sexually smoldering and güvenilir casino really powerful looking to me, but that you are so good for other people*. Well fuck. What do I say to that? Nothing.

I messaged my friend, who’s poly.. who told me ‘lesbians will travel’. She told me yet again, it was real. But is that what this was? What I was? No. I was married. To a man. I wasn’t getting on a plane…

Then she told me to go live my best life.

Was my best life not what I was living? The American dream, well except instead of 2.1 kids I rebelled and had 4. Married, house, minivan, kids. Wasn’t this supposed to be my best life?

If it was, I wanted a refund. Would it be enough money to buy me a plane ticket to Middle America?

Laying in bed I wished for a twister to sweep me up and plop me next to her, because apparently no one is actually working on teleportation technology. Where the fuck is Scotty to beam me up.. then down? All those years watching every version of Star Trek had me believing that by now, this would be a real thing. Stupid Sci-Fi muddying up my reality.

*A gentle kiss and Goodnight*. I hope it’s followed by a less gentle kiss.. or 100. Please and thank-you. If I’m polite, show you my good manners… can I get what I desire?

*You’ve swept me up since the beginning*. No. That’s not possible. I am not someone who sweeps up anyone. Right? Apparently we will both get swept up and land on an island. I could do that, just us.. I’m decent at fishing. And I can cook. We can live on love. Lust. And everything in between.

We ‘disagree’ on crying. On being vulnerable. I say the usual lines I have been spewing as to why I am the way I am. Shitty childhood. Shitty parents. Abusive sisters. Abusive ex. Shitty marriage. Shitty friends. Maybe just shitty me. But really.. I just don’t like being weak. Maybe it’s all those reasons that created this mindset. Or maybe it’s never having a safe place to land when I do cry. Crying alone is okay once awhile, crying alone daily is soul sucking. Soul crushing. Wall building. Anxiety controlling. Panic attack resulting.

Weakness is not an option. Has never been. I crave a safe place to land, to be weak and vulnerable. Would I die without ever knowing such a place?

I’ll drink to the shame that made me this way. You don’t drink. I do. But I don’t have to.. I won’t for you. Maybe coffee, I know you drink it, me too. I like tea also, but a student of mine just did a presentation on the amount of micro plastics in tea bags, which are then in the steeped tea. I need to get myself loose tea…writes that on the shopping list on the fridge. Let’s stick with coffee for now.

*break out the grass skirts and coconut boobs*. Well there’s the image that will get me through my long hard day ahead. Thank you. Did you sense today was going to be the hardest day in years for me? I’ve known many hard days.. this would just be hardest in a new way. Thank you for the levity. Are you a soft place to land?

I price out plane tickets again. What would happen if I showed up? Would all these words we had traded be anything when met with real bodies?

Another picture, finally. *I look liked I told a dumb joke*. Are we seeing the same person? I want to be told the same dumb joke all day…and night.

*

New England was 1500+ miles and 6 hours away. The plane landed. I drove. I was here. They were there. I needed a weekend away…

I stood on a dark street in a state I had only heard about, seen on a map. Never seen in person. Never dreamed I’d see, never mind step foot in. My return ticket was for 48 hours in the future. What would those 48 hours hold for me?

My only possessions, a small backpack with a change of clothes, toothbrush and travel deodorant. Oh, and cash, debit card and my ID. I had no intentions of using the debit card attached to my joint account.

No location services on.

I didn’t walk up to the door. I stood there shivering, on the sidewalk, in the cold. Not cold like I’m used to, but cold, nonetheless. Maybe it was just nerves, not the cold that had my body vibrating.

The speed my cells were pulsing at, made me wonder if I was even visible. Invisible was how I preferred myself.

My brain was still trying to rationalize my being here. In this spot. With someone I’ve never met, but felt like I had known a lifetime, inside the house I stood in front of.

Did she know I was here? She knew I was coming; also knew I may chicken out and not show. The money spent on that plane ticket was moot at this point either way.

If anyone looked out their windows, what would they think? Would they peg me as ‘other’? Know immediately I didn’t belong here. Smell my fear and anxiety in the air?

Suddenly I could feel every ‘extra pound’, see every stretch mark and flaw. The sag in my breasts from nursing four babies. The size of them. The only *no bra zone* in my house, was the shower and my bed.

My nose that has been broken more times that I can count with its weird bump and flat spot. The dark circles under my eyes from life, and age. Shit, I had forgotten I was older than her, by three or four years, I wasn’t even sure. I moved to step backwards. To flee.

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