I’ve never given it any consideration simply because the relationships that I have, intimate or platonic, are predominantly online. I know that, should I ever enter a relationship with another women in real life, I would never consider such a thing without explicit consent, perhaps even with her taking part, but online, the cyber-world, Internet, that’s different isn’t it?
I had other plans for today: I was going to clean my apartment from top to bottom, shower and make myself pretty and then spend the afternoon at the funfair. My experiences yesterday, which I might relate another time, had shown me that the annual event is worth visiting on every one of the five days, either during the afternoon or, on Friday and Saturday nights, late in the evening until the early morning. So I set my plans for the day and, having changed into cleaning clothing – white panties and knee socks! – I was about to get down to the business of cleaning up and tidying, packing away and sorting through my few possessions when something made me quickly check the Internet for anything new. Perhaps I wanted a diversion: perhaps cleaning is not something which really inspires me on a Sunday afternoon; perhaps I was hoping for a little something to add a sparkle to my day before beginning the mundane work and bring more expectations for the afternoon, for the evening.
It started with a little blinking message on my StumbleUpon toolbar: someone had sent me a share, and these shares are usually the start of a good conversation, a little bit of flirting and an increase in those videos and photographs which I mark as Favorite on my StumbleUpon page. It certainly was a little bit of a flirt, and it escalated into something much more serious, much more enjoyable, much more time-consuming than just that. I had a share from P, a woman I have hardly corresponded with so far, but who has a firm place on my favorites list (following) and is allowed to share with me. Don’t ask me what she sent, I can’t remember and I couldn’t possibly publish it here, it’s enough to say that it awakened my interests, in a sexual sense, immediately and pushed all thoughts of cleaning and anything else I might have planned firmly out of my mind.
My fingers began to dance over the keyboard and, as I am sure you can imagine, elsewhere. I answered what she wrote in her short messages and composed my own as I sought out more photographs to send her. It was fast and furious: one photograph followed another; one message came running behind the last, and my juices – creative and sexual – began to flow.
I sent her photographs of what I enjoy, of what I would love to do with her were we together. There were images of one woman licking and kissing another: deep kissing. Fingers and toys sought out their targets and brought continual pleasure. My fingers played on and in myself. I found myself trying to type, move the mouse, search for new arousing photographs with my feet up on the table, my legs spread apart and one hand concentrating on the pleasures they brought to my pussy.
I must have been aroused from the memories of all the beautiful, sexy young women I saw at the market last night; with their short skirts and tight shorts; long flowing hair and flirting attitudes, I lost myself so quickly to the pleasure of playing. I had my first orgasm, long and satisfying, within the first few minutes of our exchange and, because our shares went on, I simply couldn’t stop. One gave way to another with scarcely a breath between. My clit was inflamed with passion, my pussy throbbing with major and minor orgasms and I soaked myself through and through. The pleasures were so intense I had to constantly stop to catch my breath, to let the shuddering and spasms of my muscles subside. I could feel the muscles of my pussy, of my bum, contracting and rubbed all the harder to increase the intense pleasure, inserting my fingers; rubbing my clit; stroking and delving, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes simply losing control as the sucking and smacking noises added to my lust, to my passion.
I lost all sense of time and place. My thoughts were exclusively with her as I imagined myself licking her bum hole; sliding my fingers into her pussy; licking the juices that ran from her across her open thighs and down her legs. I imagined her licking, touching, fingering and delving into me. I lost count of the number of times I came; of the number of spasms which racked my body, caused me to arch my back or crunch forward; caused me to close my legs trapping my fingers, my hand inside me; caused me to lose my breath and then, in spasms, resurface from the continual sexual pleasure only to slip back under as a new photograph, a new message appeared on the computer screen.
When P asked me whether I wanted her to cum in my mouth, across my face, I licked my soaking fingers and smeared my own juices across my body. I tasted her on me, I tasted her in and around me, I tasted us together.
When P told me of her own orgasm, how her juices had soaked her completely and were still running down her legs, I was still working away at myself. The thought of her cum, of her orgasm, brought me right back up to that special highpoint of ecstasy. I laid my hand flat across my pussy and felt it opening and closing, felt my lips undulating, felt my clit throbbing. My legs trembled and shook; my whole body was weak from the exertion: I was shaking all over. It was all I could do to answer the last few messages before falling back on my couch and enjoying the continued throbbing, the continued spasms of pleasure: the small earthquakes which follow the major shake; the spasms as my thoughts replayed each moment; the wonderful feeling of total relaxation, of exhaustion. I lay there, one leg towards the floor, the other straight out, my hands on my stomach and pussy imagining the two of us lying together in our sweat, in our juices, in one another’s arms satiated and content.
I might have slept for a while, I don’t know for certain how long it was, it could have been an hour or more. Perhaps I dreamed, perhaps I was merely so exhausted my brain couldn’t bring any more images into my mind. I was aware of the delicious scent of sex, of my orgasms, of my most intimate juices permeating the apartment. My own personal scent, intermingled with the imagined scent of my lover, covered my skin, my hands and face, my legs, my very being.
I have two online lovers both of whom I love dearly for the experience they have brought me; I love them both – from this great distance – intensely and equally. I can be faithful to them both in my own way, as they would be to me with their other lovers, with their own lives. I can share them with others but, for those minutes or even hours when we are together, when we share our innermost intimate fantasies with one another, they are mine alone.
Love & Kisses, Viki.