A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

Archive for December, 2012

7. Horny Redhead (Adult)

I awoke in the morning with my laptop closed between my legs. I hadn’t even been able to close things down before falling asleep.

Charlie sent me an email with her twitter handle. @hornyredhead91

I clicked to follow her.

@hornyredhead91: has discovered a cure for insomnia. Thanks Eirica. Luv ya!
@ClanGoddess87:  can't wait for an encore.

She could discover my true feelings about Arlen now, but I didn’t care. I suspected she already knew them and shared them. It was time to push Arlen further, so I emailed him a nude photo of Nipples, who knocked on the door just as I clicked send.

“Did you hear all the ghosts last night?” she asked, still wearing her nightdress. “They were rather noisy.”

“Were you doing anything?” I asked. “Were they interested in you?”

“I think all the commotion was in the hallway. Didn’t you hear it?”

“I must have slept through it,” I lied. “What do you want to do today? We could put up a Christmas tree. There are some for sale in the village.”

“That’s a great idea! I forgot that Christmas was on Saturday.”

“I don’t usually bother when I’m on my own.”

Finding a suitable tree in the village took a short time, during which I obsessed about Arlen. I couldn’t wait for him to say something about Nip’s picture. It might be the closest I could get to talking dirty with him. My mailbox was empty when we arrived home, and again after dinner.

@ClanGoddess87: Why doesn't he say something about her picture?

My following was quick to respond. Several said that I should give him more time. Some said I’d gone too far, and the smart-alecs wanted me to post the picture for them to decide.

@hornyredhead91: Maybe he would rather see you! I would.

Her reply filled me with dread, not for what she said, but because she said it. Should I tone down my tweeting until after I achieved my objective? I couldn’t. That was part of the fun. It was part of my exhibitionist nature: the buzz of the risk.

During my Facebook crawl, I discovered Charlie was online. I desperately wanted a repeat, but I withheld my approach. She didn’t, not entirely.

Charlotte Weeks: You there?”

She didn’t request a video chat.

Eirica Johnstone: Just going to bed. I'm not sure I have the energy to stay up 
late tonight.
Charlotte Weeks: Me, too. I've been thinking of you all day.
Eirica Johnstone: I've been doing the same.
Charlotte Weeks: You've been thinking of Arlen.
Eirica Johnstone: Are you jealous?

I was. As his student, she saw him regularly. My access was limited to his intermittent emails.

Charlotte Weeks: No. Last night scared me a little. I don't know 
what got into me.
Eirica Johnstone: Do you regret it?
Charlotte Weeks: Not in the least. Do you?
Eirica Johnstone: No. What scares you about it?
Charlotte Weeks: How much I want to do it again. I'm definitely a het, 
but this was so exciting.
Eirica Johnstone: You were right, though. I needed it.
Charlotte Weeks: I don't think Arlen is going to reply to your email 
this morning. That's not like him. He's never that overt.
Eirica Johnstone: What will he do?
Charlotte Weeks: Nothing. He will go on as if it never happened.

Charlie was right. I heard nothing from him until the next night, although another gaggle of his former students sent friend requests. These were mostly British, but much like the previous crowd. Most were successful musicians or composers, and had one or two children and an apparently absent husband. Did Arlen break up marriages?

As I checked them out, his email came in.

Arlen Stewart:
Dear Eirica,
I have another fantasy for you. I know you want something more explicit, 
but this is all I can muster. It is another that began as a dream and 
is structured like one, repetitive, as usual.
I am teaching a class, but only four students show up, all former ones 
of mine, but one current undergraduate. I won't say their names, as 
they will be meaningless to you. All are nude except one, who is wearing 
only a man's unbuttoned dress shirt – one of mine. “Are you good in bed?” 
she asks.
“I don't know,” I replied, as if such discussion is normal in a music 
class. “I'm not sure I am qualified to answer.”
“We could find out,” replied another, who stands and lays down on the 
table in front of me. It is only then that I realize that I, too, am 
nude. I decline the offer, but the first student insists. The student 
prostrating herself on my table is like a tiny china doll, and I am 
afraid to hurt her.
“We just need to get you started,” suggests a third woman, possibly 
the least attractive of the three, although I might be most attracted 
to her. I've never known why. She, too, stands and accosts me, 
dragging her hand down my chest to find my sex standing at attention.
“I think we need a survey,” the fourth comments.
“Yes, we must be scientific about it,” says the first. “You fuck 
the four of us, and then we vote on whether you're a good lay.”
The second woman squeezes me and insists on being first, requiring 
me to say what I'm doing as I do it. It happens quickly, and I take 
her roughly, standing against the wall. Meanwhile, the second woman 
waits patiently on the table. She wants me on top. “It's more traditional,” 
she explains. She is from a conservative Chinese family. She kneads my 
buttocks, as I squeeze myself into her. A very tight fit, I doesn't 
take long to climax, and I can't take much more. The fourth woman pries 
me off her and drags me to the floor before climbing on me. I find her 
more satisfying as she rides me hard.
The first woman was the youngest, and has a filthy mouth, yet she was 
the most cunning. As I roll out from under the fourth, she sits in her 
chair and waits … and waits. Meanwhile, I sit on the floor shivering. 
At first, I just want her to get it over with, and I become impatient 
as she plays with the button on her shirt – my shirt. She buttons it 
up to her breasts, which are small but fine, yet their enclosure balloons 
them within my mind. All I can think of is burying my face between them.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.

“I haven't seen anything worth getting excited about yet. I might as 
well not bother.”
“Please?” I beg. I needed her.
“Why should I,” she asks, tossing her ruby-red ponytail over her 
shoulder and un-crossing her legs just wide enough for me to see 
her ...” I can't say that. It is also a deep red.
“It's my pussy,” she says as though reading my embarrassed mind. 
“It isn't so bad if you say it aloud. Fucking is another word. It's 
just a bodily function. She swears a lot, and I try not to look 
at … it.”
“Say it!” she insists.
“I can't.”
“You won't know what you are missing if you don't speak to her.”
“Speak to her?”
“Come closer,” she bids, spreading her legs wider, but the shirt-tail 
covers it. “Say, come out to play little pussy.”
“Come out to play little pussy,” I oblige.
“She's a little deaf,” the woman says. “Come as close as you can.” 
I say it again, only a few inches away. I can smell her musky 
fragrance. “Why don't you release the lowest button so she can see 
you? But don't touch. You'll frighten her.”
I do it. Meanwhile, I ooze a drop of semen, which slops slowly to 
the floor.
“Blow on her. You might get her attention.”
At the touch of my breath, the little pussy convulses. The woman's 
legs spread wider.
“Taste her,” the woman bids. She leans back on her chair to let 
me closer.
I taste. It is bitter at first, but then I try deeper where it is 
sweeter. Her thighs close around my head. My greedy member drips 
more, leaving a dark wet spot on the floor. I can't see it, but I 
know it is there. She clasps her legs around me, pulling me deeper 
into her. I can barely breath. The spot on the floor expands. I'm 
kneeling in its slippery pool. The whole floor is covered an inch 
deep with my semen. Finally, she releases me, inviting me to unbutton 
the rest of the shirt with my teeth, tasting her, as I go.
The chair is gone and she is laying in the pool, my shirt, soaked, 
clinging to her torso. She rolls me over, so that both of us are 
gleaming with semen. I can't wait any longer, but I ease myself 
into her. She accepts me with a moan, whispering my name quietly 
in my ear. I glide in and out easily, faster and deeper, deeper 
than I have ever been into a woman. Her hair has come loose and 
floats freely in the pool, now three inches deep. Again, she locks 
her legs around me. I clench and then release as we float freely 
in the buoyant pool of semen.
Suddenly, all is dry, and she is laying on top of me, playing with 
the hair on my chest. “You get my vote,” she whispers, then I wake up.
I'm sorry that is so crude, but I couldn't describe it any other way. 
That took a lot out of me. I'm not sure I can give you any more of my 
fantasies. It does my head in. Charlotte told me she wants to play my 
trumpet sonata with you. Is that OK? She wants to write one for you, 
too. She's very good, and writes well for her own instrument. You might 
want to coach her on writing for piano, though. She writes difficult 
music at the best of times. Knowing you are a virtuoso might tip her 
off into oblivion.
I can't stick around tonight. Sandra is over for a late dinner, and I 
must be social. I've spent too long here as it is. All has gone ominously 
quiet in the other room. She is staying for Christmas, and I'll have 
lots of duties, so I won't be around until Monday or Tuesday. As they 
say, don't wait up. Enjoy your Christmas with Nicole.
Happy Christmas,

Damn! It was just getting me going. Why did he have to fade to grey at the end? And why did it have to be about Charlie? That must have been about her, but what could I do? She was there and I wasn’t. No more messages until Boxing Day either. How could I change his mind? Another fantasy? And Sandra was there! Now I was seriously jealous.

Charlie was still online.

I clicked on her link and typed,

Eirica Johnstone: Fuck me, please.
Charlotte Weeks: Why so sudden, sweety?
Eirica Johnstone: Arlen fantasizes about you and I am very jealous. 
Fuck me hard up against the wall. Be as dirty as you want.

I waited. No reply.

Eirica Johnstone: Please?
Charlotte Weeks: How do you know he fantasizes about me?
Eirica Johnstone: We send each other fantasies, The one he sent me 
must be about you: 'a current student with ruby-red hair' and a 
foul mouth. Speak dirty to me.
Charlotte Weeks: May I see it?
Eirica Johnstone: If you promise not to get him in trouble. I still 
need him.
Charlotte Weeks: I promise. Need him?
Eirica Johnstone: I plan on seducing him.

Could I have been more blunt?

Another silence. I took the opportunity to excerpt the fantasy portion of the email and forward it to her. I waited as she read … and waited. I was about to give up and log off, but she stopped me by replying.

Charlotte Weeks: Interesting. Can I see you? Are you naked?”
Eirica Johnstone: Of course.

I positioned my computer so she could see all of me before opening the video link. When her picture came up, she was touching herself. I watched until she swooned, flopping back onto her pillow, leaving me a close view of her soggy bush. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” I pleaded, lightly aroused by her demonstration.

“That was your punishment,” she said.


“I didn’t want to know that he fantasizes about me, although I hoped he did, and I wouldn’t have wanted you to know. It’s your turn, and you must let me watch.”

Suddenly, I felt self-conscious that she was watching. I massaged myself lightly. I was already damp, but I waited. “Tell me why we all want to seduce him,” I said, sighing. I was going too slowly, yet slower hurt so good, not in a painful way, but through self denial.

“There is something we all get from him,” she replied, shrugging. “Favouritism, I guess. Maybe professional approval. His students win all the contests, and he puts us up for performances. He has a reputation.”

“A … reputation?” I wheezed.

“The boys have to earn it, but each year, a new person catches his eye. He does nothing, but we always know when it happens.”

“How … do … you … know?” I gasped, searching for that spot, flinching when I found it. I couldn’t hold off much longer.

“I think it is different with each of us. I knew when … keep going …”

Keep going? I couldn’t stop.

“Well,” she continued, “we run together sometimes. If I wear lycra, he gets at erection before we start. If he wears cotton shorts, and I wait long enough, he’ll have a spot, sort of like in his dream.”

“Don’t you …” I sighed, inserting another finger. “Don’t you just think he’s a perv?”

“He’s a straight as you can imagine. He’d never touch me, unless I touched him.”

“Sex … ual … ly?” Not long now.

“No, just normal touch. I don’t think he does sex. He’s asexual.”

“His fantasies …” I couldn’t continue, tensing, panting, moaning, groaning, tensing, wound tight like like a clock. My vision blurred as though I was losing consciousness, then I felt it, an intense warmth at my core, then the spring broke, and I convulsed in ecstasy, not as good as the previous night, but good enough for now. “… aren’t.”

She giggled. “I didn’t tell you I was a voyeur, too.”

“I thought you said you’d never had cybersex before,” I groaned, relaxing on my back, hands still working, trying to prolong my orgasm.

“Not over the Internet.”

“You mean … in person?”

“I have a room-mate, and she fucks her boyfriend at least twice a week. It doesn’t matter if I’m in sleeping in the room or not. Once they start, it’s as if I wasn’t there.”

“Is she there now?” I asked, finally stopping.

“No, I’m at my parents. They’re asleep.”

“You sure?”

“What’s it matter? I’m locked in my room now. They don’t know what I get up to. I’m not sure they care that much. Do you want to fuck on Christmas day?”

“It depends if I can get away from Nipples. She’s still here.”

“Maybe we could make it a threesome.”

“I’d feel uncomfortable.”

“You mean her seeing you naked?”

“She already has.”

“Really? Have you had sex?”

“Not with each other … with the ghosts, but not at the same time.”

“The ghosts touch her, too?”

“They do now. I taught her how to open herself to them. She’s not afraid of them any more.”

“I want to come visit you. This sounds exciting.”

“Not while she is here. She’s very insecure, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charlie shrugged. “When, then?”

“I don’t know. Sandra is staying a few days when she leaves. After that, your term starts again.”

“How about for your concert?”

“I’m hoping Arlen will be here.”

“I’ll stay out of the way.”

“I want at least one night alone with him,” I stipulated, “but I may need more.”

“I’ll only be able to stay the night of the concert anyway. I have a seminar the next day. I’ll have to drive back early in the morning.”

“How do you know the date?”

“Arlen’s posted it outside his office. We may need to hire a bus.”

“I have plenty of room, but I won’t have the time to take care of everyone. Besides, I will probably stay on campus that night.”

“Arlen can’t stay there anyway. I can bring a sleeping bag.”

“We’ll see, once it gets closer to time.”

“Please? Just the two of us? Separate beds, no physical contact?”

“Maybe, but let me just see about my schedule. Nipples may want to stay with me, too.”

“Fair enough. I’d better get to bed. We have family arriving early tomorrow, and we are going to a carol service in the evening, so I won’t be on until late.”

I closed up and shut down. The ghosts were restless during the night, perhaps jealous that I didn’t need them. I fell asleep reminding myself that I was not Charlie’s lover, nor was she mine.


6. Fantasies and more of the harem (Adult, swearing)

In the morning, we decided to spend the day hiking in the grounds, as the weather had become more benign, a light snow replacing yesterday’s sleet. I managed to make her promise to spend the night in her own bed, so I would be free to email Arlen.

Arlen Stewart: Dear Eirica,

I'm really bad at this. Why would a woman want to hear a man's fantasy? 
And how can I tell you the fantasy in such a way that it doesn't sound 
ridiculous? What makes it worse, is that it is about a person you know, 
at least by reputation, if not personally. She may have contacted you.

Amelia Solent is the source of many fantasies, I'm afraid, and none are 
particularly complex. My foot fetish can be traced to her, as well as many 
other peculiarities. When she was a first year, she caught my eye immediately. 
Having her as a supervisee put me in regular contact with her, too. I've told 
you about her dress sense, and I began to dream of her regularly, wearing 
clothing with a variety of open spots, often centring around her breasts. I'm 
not a breast man, but they were magnificent, just the right size and shape, 
pert and firm. I suspected that the cleft between them was a natural phenomenon, 
unaided by a bra.

After a while I started dreaming (perhaps daydreaming) of her modelling bathing 
suits, again with portions missing, or portions that went clear when wet or 
dissolved in chlorinated water. In one fantasy, we modelled suits in tandem, 
each becoming more risqué. An exposed breast on hers was an exposed penis on mine. 
Some suits were various-sized mesh, through which nothing was hidden. We appeared 
from the changing room, embraced, swam a length of the pool to display each suit's 
special properties, embraced at the other end, and then debriefed before trying 
the next. The suits became progressively more risqué, and each phase of the fashion 
show more laden with the desire. The language of the debrief became more intimate 
and sexual.

One final, innocuous pair of suits, was plain white at first, but was laced with 
an aphrodisiac. We almost couldn't tear ourselves apart after the first embrace, 
but the chlorine converted the entire suit to the aphrodisiac, which absorbed 
into our skin immediately upon contact with the air. Our second (nude) embrace 
was laden with desire. We couldn't separate ourselves as I was on her, in her, 
throbbing, thrusting until both of us were satiated. In the debrief, we had to 
describe what we felt throughout, and as the discussion became intimate, so did 
we, repeating our sex with a full commentary.

The first time I had that dream, I awoke with a wet dream. Since then, I've 
tried to invoke the dream, but that never has the same result. Abandon is instead 
replaced by a refinement of detail, attempting to increase the passion. I never 
know at what point dream gives way to fancy, but trying too hard leaves me wanting.

My dreams are generally like that: repetitive, like a theme and variations. 
Running becomes running through a forest, which becomes running to save Amelia, 
transitioning to having sex with her – endless variations until some facet of it 
wakes me, possibly an attempt to take control and push myself to the point of orgasm.

Is that what you wanted me to write. It probably sounds childish to you. Or you think 
I'm a pervert. I just have an over-active imagination … but you already knew that. 
I'm sorry.


I wanted so much more. I wanted him to talk dirty, to savour crude words, to bring me to orgasm. I wanted him to describe every detail of his fantasy, but he stopped when he got to the good part. I wanted to share a piece of that orgasm. Begging for more wouldn’t work, and being crude myself might turn him off me altogether. And he didn’t mention the photo of Nipples. Disappointing. He was still a work in process.

Eirica Johnstone: Dear Arlen,
That was fascinating. I would have been interested in some more detail, 
perhaps like the debrief at the end. What was it about that that turned 
you on so much? You say you aren't a breast man, but it seems like 
everything you have told me about your attractions centre around breasts. 
I don't have Nicole's erect nipples, nor Sandra's large aureole's, and 
you already know that mine aren't as large as Amelia's. You must find 
me so disappointing.

His reply was almost immediate.

Arlen Stewart: Nothing to be sad about. I enjoy our discussions, and 
I don't find your breasts disappointing. (Forgive me fore being blunt.) 
I suppose they aren't what I find most attractive about you. That is 
your wit and your honesty. Physically, I find it hard to make a choice … 
your arse, maybe, your hips, they … no I should stop there. I like when 
you flip your fringe out of your eyes, and maybe the way you play with 
a lock by your right ear when you are bored. I shouldn't say more. That's 
too personal, and not what this is about.
About the intimate details, I find them embarrassing. The language of 
explicit sex is a major turn off for me, and it is even worse when one 
replaces it with euphemism. It's not my cup of tea.
Eirica Johnstone: What's wrong with personal?
Arlen Stewart: Nothing, I suppose. It just seems a little strange for 
someone old enough to be your father to be telling you what he likes 
about you. A
Eirica Johnstone: It doesn't matter to me.
Arlen Stewart: Nevertheless ...

He was quickly reverting to short choppy messages. I needed to open him back up.

Eirica Johnstone: You may tell me what you like about me. I won't take 
it wrong, or think you are a pervert. You may be a dirty old man, but 
never a pervert. What about me would send you spinning into your fantasy 

His answer took a long time to come.

Arlen Stewart: I don't really know. Those moments catch me off-guard. 
Maybe a short skirt, or bare feet. English women don't have ankles. 
Scots are much nicer. Your friend Sinead has nice ankles, unlike most 
Irish women. They remind me of Aoife's. Amelia's are exquisite. French 
women have sexy ankles. Sandra's are very English, but she makes up 
for them in other ways. Enough of that. It's your turn. You promised 
a fantasy. A

I was avoiding that subject, hoping to distract him. Coming up with something was a chore, so I went with the truth:

Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, I have never been good at concocting fantasies. 
Every one is different and, unlike yours, do not burn themselves into 
memory through repetition. The ghosts of this castle provide many stories, 
and some are of a fantastic nature. That is what motivates our interaction, 
One of our ghosts is a girl. I've never seen her, but I have felt her stroke 
me with her hair. She is the first to come when I am aroused. Even now, I 
feel her hair bristling on my bare shoulders. (Remember that I often sit in 
bed naked typing on my laptop between my legs.) If I allow her to distract me, 
I feel the hair slowly drop down between my shoulder blades lower and lower 
to the base of my spine. She was the playmate of the daughters of a Laird, 
and taught them this method of seduction. Soon, her soft hair caresses my hands, 
discreetly tickling the inside of my arms as she aims for my breasts.
I'm very ticklish under my armpits, and she is now making it almost impossible 
to type. I let her continue, as I know tickling me isn't her fancy. My breasts 
swell with her tender follicular caresses, and I want more, knowing that soon, 
I won't be able to resist her desire. My feet are also ticklish and I can feel 
her no matter what position I am in. I have never felt the caress of her skin, 
but her hair soon becomes my fetish as she slowly traces up the insides of my 
legs, aimed directly at the euphemism that I'll now avoid in your honour …
She trained the daughters well in this art, but I don't know what became of them 
as the Laird married them off young. Her hair tangles in my now-sticky pubes 
before she parts my … that's the embarrassing stuff, which you clearly don't wish 
to read. I feel it all, and she never fails to leave me unsatisfied. I've had to 
resort to moving my laptop onto my duvet as my legs are too sweaty and moist, 
dangerous for an electrical appliance.
To quote you, what she does to me is exquisite, but it is the same every time, 
as she is cursed to repeat her crime to eternity. The Lady of the Castle caught 
her seducing her husband in this way and battered her to death with an iron poker 
while the Laird watched in ecstatic horror, paralysed by his orgasm.
… paralysed, as I was on my soaked duvet. Unlike the other ghosts, she brings me 
to a soft squeal during orgasm, hopefully not loud enough to wake Nipples.
Speaking of her, we shared my bed last night. I could feel her nipples hard against 
my chest even through her thick nightdress. The ghosts scare her, but I think I have 
tamed them for her. My nocturnal nudity doesn't offend her, fortunately, and we are 
becoming quite comfortable with each other. More soon.
Love, Eirica

Love. I had to add that. He had to think of love, to connect me with the idea of it, even if had gone to bed waiting for my story. He replied after a short interval.

Arlen Stewart: I hoped you would like Nicole. She has a neediness about her that is 
endearing, but she is strong in a way that I can't describe. She could be a true, 
loyal friend to you if you let her. I'm sure she and I will correspond long after 
she graduates.
I must go to bed now. I look forward to more of your ghost stories. A

He didn’t comment on the story. Had it gone too far? Was I too graphic? I tweeted my dismay and poked around a number of my friend’s Facebook pages. That was when the barrage started. I received a number of new friend requests, all of whom were friends with Arlen, Amelia, Nips and Sandra, as well as each other, as the list accumulated. Four were in America, and one was in Hong Kong, Laura Liu. She was beautiful, with clear perfect skin, lovely eyes, and discreet, but well-formed breasts. She was young, too, perhaps a year or two older than Nipples. Her photo album was filled with arm’s length self-portraits, some seductive, many featuring those breasts while she lay on her bed in a variety of poses. As far as I could tell, she was unmarried, but was pregnant.

I Googled her, tracing her past her composer website to another site, one clearly dedicated to a man. There, the poses became more intimate, her breasts bared, a couple of full nudes. Her nipples were tiny purple circles gracing breasts that were firm but not large. Whoever the site was meant to impress must also have liked her tiny hands and feet. She couldn’t have been more than 5 ft tall, but one picture showed only her hand pressed against that of a man’s. His was large and hers barely extended past his palm, like a child’s hand.

If she was one of “us,” there had to be something that inspired Arlen: the feet, hands or eyes? Maybe. Certainly, she was obsessed with someone. Did she carry that same obsessive nature to other relationships? Is that what had snared him?

The Americans were all older. Several had families, but few exhibited a consistent set of traits that I could link to Arlen’s fetishes. One, Elizabeth Lamm, reminded me of a rough Amelia, with similar features, but dark hair like mine, shorter than me, but not overly thin. She played double bass in the Boston Symphony. There was nothing elegant about her, but I knew immediately what Arlen saw in her. She reeked of talent. I couldn’t think of another way to describe it. She was that block of coal that hid a diamond at the core. She had two children a few years younger than me. Her son reminded me a little of Arlen, being tall and blond. She clearly doted on her offspring, but her husband was remarkable in his absence, although she listed herself as married.

One of the others appeared matronly, with large breasts that she was unashamed to emphasize. She lived alone with her daughter near a beach in North Carolina. She had recently had a première with the Atlanta Symphony, so she was at least moderately successful.

As it was after 3 am, I decided to shut down, but there was one last request, one of Arlen’s undergraduates, Charlotte Weeks. I had to investigate. Like Laura, she was prolific with her camera and one-armed self-portraits. Otherwise she was the opposite of Laura: tall and gangly, quite flat-chested, with curly long red hair, often gathered in a ponytail. Less hung from her chest than from mine! That, I gathered, was due to her running, clearly her most avid pastime, and one to which she devoted another photo-filled blog. One of those was of her, scantily-clad, running beside who? Arlen. Yes, Arlen, who featured in many blog posts:

Running Lincoln with AS this year. He’s asked me to pace him this time, aiming for 47 min. That’s not much more than a jog for me, but I’d do it for him. Surely, he’s done enough for me.

She was what Arlen would have considered an exception. An English girl with ankles. Perhaps that was what attracted him. She swam, too. The site had a number of pictures of her in bathing suits: a wet suit (from a triathlon), a red backless racing singlet, and a red skimpy bikini, the last taken by Arlen in Nice. The caption explained that she was there attending a performance of Arlen’s Trumpet Concerto. In addition to composing, she also played trumpet. Was she the soloist? I couldn’t tell. Despite being under-endowed in the mammary region, she looked great in a bikini.

What disturbed me most was that she was awake and sending out friend requests to strangers (or friends of friends) after 3 am. She was still online, too, as she popped up in a chat box requesting a video chat.

Charlotte Weeks: You decent?

I hasn’t sure how to reply.

Eirica Johnstone: Not exactly.
Charlotte Weeks: Doesn't matter to me. Wanna chat for a little while. I'm an 
insomniac. You must be, too.
Eirica Johnstone: BRB. I need to put something on.
Charlotte Weeks: Cool. You sleep in the nude?

I slipped my robe on, clicked on video, and adjusted the picture. “Yes,” I replied, whispering. “I’ve got a friend sleeping in the next room, so I can’t speak loudly.”

“Cool. I do too – sleep in the nude, that is,” she said as her video fired up. She was dressed much as I was, in a silk or satin robe hastily draped around her – red, in contrast to my deep purple one. When I said hastily draped, I meant barely covering her – her cleavage open almost to her belly-button, the shadows making it look like she actually had some.

“I live alone,” I explained, “and don’t usually have anyone around to watch. I’ve gotten used to it over the years. What’s your excuse?”

“I find it sexually liberating,” she replied bluntly, the left shoulder creeping off hers as she typed on her computer. I wondered what she was typing. “I hear you live in a castle. You’re some kind of Laird, or something.”

“Lady, technically. A Laird is male.”

“Cool. I hear you are an ace pianist, too.”

“I’m fairly good, I guess. You play trumpet, right?”

“I guess I’m fairly good, too, but I’m more interested in writing music.”

“I figured, since you are studying with Arlen.”

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“I assumed that’s how you knew him. He’s one of your Facebook friends. That’s why I accepted your friend request.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Sometimes I think he wants me to stick to trumpet, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I think he feels uncomfortable teaching me.”

“Why do you say that?” Of course, he felt uncomfortable around all of “us.” Why should she be any different?

“I think he’s afraid to look at me, and he’s a little concerned about my philosophy of music.”

“In what way?”

“I often discuss my music in sexual terms. He’s a bit of a prude in that way, so I lay it on even thicker. You should see him freeze when I hug him.”

“You hug him?”

“All the time. He hates being touched, as if he is worried that the slight physical contact with a woman will give him an orgasm. Wouldn’t want that to happen!” she laughed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He could stand a good screaming orgasm. He needs to let out his frustrations.”

“What frustrations?”

“He just holds so much in. It’s cute. I think he would relax if he just had a good wank every once in a while. It’s healthy. I don’t think he’s getting any from his wife.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She just seems frigid to me … and she hates me.”

“She hates you?” I liked Charlotte already. “What makes you say that?”

“She refused to attend my première of his trumpet concerto.”

“Maybe she had some other commitment.”

“No she made a point of leaving just before I played, to go over some poetry with the dyke.”

“The dyke?” Again, I had to feign ignorance.

“Sandra, one of Arlen’s postgrads. I should have said fucking dyke. She tried to nobble me once, the bitch.”

“Nobble you?”

“Yeah, fucking tarot. She tells you that you have an unusual admirer, someone who can smooth out the rough road for you, that it is a mystic, and once she has you by the short and curlies, she implies that the person might be very close by. She prefers to read her cards in the nude, and does her best to get you to take yours off, too. Before I knew it, she had one hand on my breast and the other between my legs.”

“What did you do?”

“I told her to go have a fucking wank with someone else.”

“That stopped her?”

“Screaming it at the top of my lungs in the digs helped, too. Fucking dyke.”

“You like that word, don’t you?”

“She shrugged. It bothers Arlen. My friends used to swear a lot, so I don’t even know that I do it. I think it secretly turns him on, though. I use as much explicit language around him as I can. He’ll complain once, but after that, he gets quiet. I think he is picturing it in his head. I like getting in his head, and that is why I keep studying with him. You should have seen me when I played his concerto in Nice.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I described to him his concerto as a series of sexual positions. The first is a riding cowgirl, and he’s a bucking bronco, trying to bounce me off him …”


“I always explain it as being between us. That’s what the act of creation is. Anyway, he bounces me into a howling feral climax before we relax into the second movement. It’s a placid reverse missionary. I picture myself on top of him, as he throbs, accelerating to a delicate squeeze of an orgasm. The last one is him seeing me in a bikini, and he has to fuck me hard up against a wall. After the rehearsal, we went to a beach, and I wore the tiniest bikini I could find and demanded he take pictures of me.”

“I saw that one on your blog,” I chuckled.

“No you didn’t, wait just a second.” She sent a .jpg through. That one was topless.

“How’d you get him to do that?”

“It was a topless beach. Most of the other women there were topless, so I stood out until I took it off. That’s the best one, although it isn’t the one I sent him. That’s this one …” She sent it through, then four others. The first was her sitting across from him in the sand, legs spread, knees up, her right foot touching his ankle.

“I don’t think he’ll ever forget that one,” I admitted. This girl was playing the game better than I ever could.

“I won’t either. It’s the background on my laptop.”

“Can’t others see it?”

“I change it when I’m out of the house.” Her robe finally slipped off her shoulder, and she left it, barely concealing her breast while just clinging to her nipple.

“Do you ever forget?”

“Once in a lesson. Anyway, after the concert, he smelled of sex.”

“You mean he had his long-needed wank?” I asked, using her language.

“No. I meant immediately after the performance while he was giving me a congratulatory hug. He smelled as if he was sitting in his own soup, but there wasn’t an obvious spot. He hugged me again off-stage, and I could feel his penis firm against my abdomen. I wouldn’t let him go until he was rock hard and was forced to hide it behind his jacket for the next ten minutes as a queue of audience members shook his hand. I get horny just thinking about it.”

I was thinking the same thing as her robe released her nipple. Still she left it. I’d never before considered sex with another woman, not even Nips, but now I was feeling the caress of hair down my spine. My ghosts were assembling, but Charlotte wouldn’t know that. “Me too,” I whispered, unable to control my tongue.

The corner of her mouth curled slightly. “Do you ever accompany people?” she asked, drastically changing the subject.

“Um, not u-usually,” I stammered. “I’m more of a soloist.”

“Would you consider accompanying a trumpet if the piece was written for you?”

“By you?”

“Or Arlen. He’s writing a trumpet sonata right now. Would you perform it with me in London?”

That, I couldn’t refuse. “I guess, if you put it that way.”

“I would like to write you one, too,” she added.

“Arlen’s writing one for me?”

“That’s supposed to be for me, but he keeps talking about this young Scottish pianist who is so amazing. I think he means you. This piece is for both of us, even if he doesn’t admit it. What I’ve seen of it so far reminds me of the concerto.” She reached up and scratched her right shoulder, dislodging her robe again, so that it hung just at the edge of her shoulder-blade.

“It’s about the two of us having sex?”

She chuckled, glancing down at her keyboard. “No. It’s about honesty. It’s about intimacy. He doesn’t know that yet.” The robe slid off her shoulder. “It’s about nudity and naked desire.”

“At the same time?” I asked, trying to ignore the video stream. I couldn’t believe how lovely she appeared in the glow of her computer screen. She was seducing me … and succeeding.

“That’s the second movement,” she asked, slipping her robe off her torso completely.

Still ignoring her, I asked, “Is there a third movement?”

“Yes, and maybe a fourth, but I haven’t seen either.”

“Do you know what they are about?”

“I suspect that the third is about giving.”

“And the fourth?”


“Did you plan this?” I whispered, hardly able to breathe.

“Have you ever had cybersex?” she asked, ignoring me.

“No. You?”

“No. Want to try it?” she asked.

“Yes,” the word was out of my mouth before I could even think about it. “I thought you weren’t a lesbian.”

“I’m not, but we aren’t doing it to each other – we are doing it with. I know you want it. Your nipples are showing.”

I chuckled, “Guess who’s in the next room.”

She cocked her head. “Who?”




She scowled, and then laughed, “I’ve never heard her called that! Thanks to you, I’ll never look at her the same again. You aren’t a lesbian, too, are you?”

“No … but you think she is?” I asked.

“Can’t tell for sure. My gaydar goes haywire with her. The dyke most definitely isn’t, although she thinks she is. She just wants to get laid by Arlen, and his wife is going to get him for her.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. Nipples, on the other hand, likes boys, but I think she loves women. Take your robe off. I want to see you.”

“You might be right,” I replied, slipping my robe off my shoulders, baring my breasts. “I’ve heard that from elsewhere, too.”

“Who?” she asked licking a finger. “Do as I do, and I’ll do as you do if you go first.”

I licked the same finger and traced it down my sternum, following her. I could feel my ghost’s hair on my shoulders again. “Amelia.”

“You know Amelia?” She licked again, wetter this time, and circled her hardening nipples.

“Yes, just on Facebook, but I met her several years ago. I played a piece of hers at a competition.” I sucked until my mouth was full of spit and let it dribble out of my mouth.

“Cool. I just sent her a friend request. Arlen thinks very highly of her.” She followed my lead, and again, letting it drip down between her breasts.

“I know. She studied with him soon after he took his post at Leeds. Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.

“Yes, why?” she replied, dipping a hand in the river of spittal running down her chest, and lathering her breasts with it.

“There are several here watching me – us. I would invite them to join in, but they can’t touch you there.”

“What do they do?” she asked, playing with her wet nipples again.

“They touch me,” I replied, pulling my robe off completely.

“Where?” she asked, doing the same.

“Everywhere. There is a woman who caresses erotically with her hair, and a few men who do other things.” I sat back, so she could see my bush, setting my computer down onto the bed between my legs.

Doing the same, she asked, “Why does the light dance around you? Is that the ghosts?”

“No. I have a fire in the fireplace. That’s the only light in the room other than from the computer screen. Generally, if you can see the ghosts, you can’t feel them.” As if on cue, I heard the heavy breathing of lovemaking emanating from the hallway.

“What’s that?”

“You can hear it?”

“Yes. Sounds like a woman, perhaps on top of a man.”

“Oh yes!” the ghost rasped loudly. “Don’t stop.”

“What makes you say that?” I hadn’t considered it.

“She’s gasping, but it isn’t laboured. What do they do to you?”

“They gang up on me when I’m horny. Sometimes I have to do something about it; sometimes they do it for me.”

“Are you horny?” she asked, lightly stroking her thigh.

“Very. They do that to me. One is stroking the other thigh right now, too. Like this …” I mimicked the ghost’s movement, so Charlotte would do it and feel it, too.

“What else do they do?”

“They lick me along the bottom of my pelvis.” I took another slimy lick of my finger and traced my pelvis for her.

“Eirica!” gasped a ghostly voice from the corner. That was the first time they had called me by name. The couple in the hallway increased in intensity, the woman moaning for more. “Faster,” she pleaded.


“Yes, I heard it,” she sighed. “You can call me Charlie.”

“Charlie, are you wet?”

“I’m so wet,” she gasped. “I have been since the moment I first saw you.”


“I don’t know why.”

“Charlie!” The voice in the corner moaned louder.

“Did you say that, Eirica?” she asked nervously.

I can’t describe the feeling of hearing her say my name: goosepimples, a rush of blood, a flutter of the heart. “No, Charlie. It was a ghost.”

The racket in the hallway progressed to a loud pleading, “Oh, yes, that’s it!”

“I want you,” hissed a different voice.

“Who?” she asked as we parted our bush in unison. The couple screeched in the hallway. They would climax soon, but I knew that was only half of it. The copulation would kill him and she would wail, but hopefully not until after we lost track of ourselves.

“Who?” I echoed for the ghosts, penetrating with a first finger, testing the waters.

“You!” came a chorus of ghosts. “Both of you!” breathed a clarifying hiss.

“Ah!” sobbed Charlie. Two fingers, deeper, faster, parting her legs wider.

“Ah!” I echoed. Deeper!

Charlie grasped her screen between her knees, and panted, her sweat glistening on her abdomen as she leaned back. Her tiny breasts seemed enormous, heaving in the dim light.

“We want you!” the chorus breathed louder.

“Charlie!” pleaded one. “Eirica,” gasped another.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Charlie as she pleasured herself. Deeper. Faster. Three fingers. I’d never pushed three in before.

“Oh yes!” screamed the woman in the hallway, unleashing the chorus into murmurings of our names, proclamations of desire, of need, even of love.

“Eirica … you’re … cheating!” Charlie grimaced.

“I’m a voyeur,” I panted, confessing my pleasure. I was as close as she was, and I, too, clasped my laptop between my knees.

“Eirica … Eirica … Eirica …” she panted, as if she knew what it did to me. She looked up, fixing her gaze on me.

“Charlie … Charlie … Charlie …” I wheezed in reply, faster and faster.

The woman in the hallway screamed in horrified terror, as we together convulsed in ecstasy. The man in the hallway was dead, but Charlie was still chanting my name, interrupted only by waves of pleasure. She had rolled aside, so I could only see her face and breasts still heaving, her mouth breaking into what she could manage of a smile. It was a disarming smile. I knew instantly why Arlen averted his gaze from her. It wasn’t her candour, her explicit language, her sex talk, or even her nudity. The smiles in the photos were nothing compared to the real thing, her sheer joy, and her love of life.

“Thanks,” she wheezed, finally. “I so needed that.”

“So did I.” It may have been my second orgasm of the evening, but it felt like my first ever.

“Was that you screaming?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied. She didn’t want to know the truth. I hoped she couldn’t hear the ghost sobbing in the hallway.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?” Charlie asked.

“No.” I replied. “It won’t be as good if we do it too often. Besides, I don’t want Nipples to hear us. She’s a light sleeper, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we woke her. Why don’t we do it again after she leaves, after your term starts. Maybe you could talk dirty to me. I would like that.”

“If I say I love you, don’t take it as me actually loving you,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“I love you, Eirica.”

“I love you, too, Charlie.”

“But I don’t love you.”

“I understand.” I didn’t have the heart to say that I didn’t love her either.

“Goodnight Eirica,” she sighed.

“Goodnight Charlie.”

I closed the connection, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to wait two weeks to tell me her dirty stories. I couldn’t wait to hear them either. The sooner the better … but long enough to keep it fresh.

This would never be repeated in the flesh.