© 2003

I've always been a pretty liberated woman. I least, I always thought I was.

I lost my cherry at thirteen, to a twenty-eight year old guy. I'm afraid that was entirely my fault: He would NEVER have thought of having a torrid love affair with a WAY under-aged girl.

But what do you do when you end up with an adorable blonde girl in your lap, rubbing her small, available breasts in your face and dry humping you with her very hot and hungry pussy?

So I've had my share of experiences. But nothing like the past six months.

I been seeing a porn writer.

Well, seeing is not exactly the right word. I've never met Oliver. I found one of his stories on line, on a free porn writing web-site.

It was called MESSY WEEKEND, and it was the sexiest thing I ever read. Oliver just launched into the coolest fetishes, with the guy pouring melted butter over the girl's braless breasts, soaking her t-shirt and soaking her boobs, now visible through the soaked fabric, in the oleaginous (it means oily) liquid.

I came in my pants just reading about it.

So I sent him a anonymous note, telling him how much I enjoyed his story. And that, if he wrote a sequal, I wanted to see the couple try Golden Showers (yeah, I'm a little perverted. Nothing wrong with that, is there?)

I should explain that I am a college student, living at home while getting my degree. So I have my home computer all to myself. No one knows what I do with it.

It's my own private world.

Well, two weeks later I went to the site, and there was MESSY WEEKEND TWO.

And the girl gave the guy a golden shower!

That was so cool! I had to wonder if Oliver (his pen name is Oliver Clothesoff) had actually taken my suggestion and used it.

I read the story and masturbated. A lot. Oliver seemed to really know my sick little mind and there was even some romance involved.

So I started to send him another anonymous note, thanking him for the golden shower scene and asking him if it was my note that prompted it.

Then I realized he couldn't tell me, even if he wanted to. It was anonymous!

Damn, was I torn. Part of me wanted to let him know my email address (there was a box to check to do that) and maybe even hear back from him.

But another part of me said, "Dakota, do you really want some pervert who calls himself Oliver Clothesoff having your email address?"

Well, two days later, I wrote him an email, and I checked the box so he could write me back if he wanted to.

I kept it short. I just told him how much I liked his second story, that I had mailed him anonymously and suggested a Golden Shower scene and was that why he included one in his new story? I tried to make it simple and chatty.

That evening I checked my mail, and my heart (well, mostly my pussy, but my heart was involved too) jumped! I had an email from oliverclothesoff@Eroticsmut.net!

My "nice" side winced. "For Christ's sake, Dakota," it said in horror. "You're a nineteen year old college student, studying pre-law, and you are getting email from some sicko smut writer! What in the hell is wrong with you, girl?"

But my other side, the part connected to my now moist pussy, said, "YES! Open it, NOW!"

Well, my other side won out. It usually does. And I clicked on Oliver's email.

"Thanks for the great feedback," it read. "Yes, I took your suggestion for the Golden Shower scene. I hope you enjoyed it."

But he went on to say, "I love to get feedback. If you have any personal fetishes or ideas you'd like to see in print, please feel free to share them.

It was signed, not Oliver, but apparently his real name: Mark.

My pussy was so damp! I went and locked the door and lay on my bed.

I had on sweats, with nothing on underneath. I began to feel my body through them, my small but firm breasts (I'm an A cup), down over my flat stomach to my crotch. I spread my legs, imagining Mark had tied them to the bed and I was helpless to close them, and slid my hand down into my crotch.

My pussy was really awake, and I slid my fingers down into the moist folds (Oliver often spoke of "moist folds") and found my clit and rubbed it gently.

I imagined telling Mark my deepest secrets, my most private fantasies, and then reading them on line, where everyone could see them.

My pussy was so wet my pants were getting damp, and that really turned me on. I imagined reading a story where the girl was tied down by a friend, and he felt her and drove her insane with desire, licking her small nipples and playing with her pussy through her clothes.

"Oh, god, I'm going to come," the girl tells him.

He smiles and keeps working at her. She orgasms, her small body trembling and pulling at the bonds that restrict her movement. She can feel the wet coming from her cunt, dripping down her crotch and puddling beneath her (I like wet, a lot).

Now that the bed was wet (and it really was, which really turned me on) Oliver began to suck me through the damp fabric, his lips and teeth finding my pussy and expertly bringing me up to a higher level of passion. I groaned and moaned.

"No, please," I begged. "Please untie me!"

But Oliver ignores my pleas. I know about the code word to make him stop (that was in one of his other stories) but, of course, I don't want him to. I writhe and moan as he eats my pussy.

Then there is a ripping sound, and I realize he is tearing my sweats.

I slipped my hands down my sweats, imagining him reaching through my torn pants and finding my wet, available, hot pussy, touching my clit, my slit, sliding his fingers deep inside my vagina and fucking my cunt with his strong, knowing fingers and...

"OH!! SHIT!!!" I yelled, as a hard orgasm hit me. I held my pussy tight, putting pressure on all the points that...

"FUCK! YES!!" The second orgasm hit, harder than the first, like an explosion in my pussy. I could feel my wetness soak my fingers and the inside of my pants.

"Son of a bitch," I said quietly. I lay, feeling the waves begin to dissipate. God, what a good orgasm!

Later, having showered and put on new clothes ("We always seem to be washing up in this relationship," Oliver had one of his characters say in WET WEEKEND) I sat at the computer and wrote Oliver (or Mark: I thought of him as both) back.

"Thanks for the letter," I told him. "It really turns me on to think that the Golden Shower scene was written especially for me. You will be happy to know I masturbated over that scene as I read in at the computer.

I was only wearing panties, and they were soaked when I got done."

I looked at the words. I was both excited and a little self- conscious about being so explicit.

"Dakota, you can write it and not send it," my carnal side said pragmatically. "If it turns you on, go ahead and write it."

Of course it did turn me on. So I went on to tell Mark about how I masturbated on the bed while thinking of him. And that I had lots of nasty little fantasies I would love to see in print.

"It's almost like a form of exhibitionism," I told him. "Letting people see my nastiest and most private imaginings, while keeping my anonymity, is really exciting to me."

I was going to share some of those imaginings, but realized I had already told him I had masturbated, twice! I didn't want to inundate the poor guy.

So I signed it Dakota, (my name is part of my email address anyway). And, after a few moments of conflict, ("Damn, girl, you talked about masturbating! You told him you have 'lots of nasty little fantasies!' Are you crazy, or just stupid!?") I hit the SEND button.

Nothing. Not for eight days. I just knew I was way too open and slutty, and that had scared him away.

Then, one night, I checked my email and there was that familiar address: oliverclothesoff@eroticsmut.net.

"Dear Dakota: I loved your letter," he started off. "Imagining you sitting in front of your computer and masturbating, your panties wet with excitement as you read my story, was extremely exciting to me."

He went on to explain he was out of town (he didn't say why) and that was why it took him a while to reply to my letter. He said he loved the fact I was masturbating while thinking of him, and was I into bondage? (I had mentioned imagining being tied up while I beat off on the bed: I am terrible, aren't I?).

He invited me to share whatever I was comfortable sharing with him, and said he would try to include scenes about those things in his upcoming stories.

"Dakota was just plain hot," I read.

"She was quite small, just over five feet, and weighed 95 pounds soaking wet. But her clothing belied her little girl looks. Her running shorts were so tight they slid up into her pussy, and her tight T-Shirt with the Tequila logo showed her hard little nipples, erect against the soft fabric.