Chapter 1

My head was on a lace pillowcase. Lavender satin sheets caressed my pink naked back as the handsome young Beemer salesman suspended himself over me, his supple frame supported by his hands alongside my head and his knees between my legs. His bedroom was nicely decorated. The Sticker Price of a new car was long forgotten as he concentrated on getting his Sticky Stuff into me. My ankles crossed behind his ass as my legs pulled him into me in unison with each stroke; one of my hands played with his balls while my other hand tweaked my clit, something he wasn't bothering to do. I was hoping to cum first or, failing that, to come at the same time as he did, and so my experienced fingers worked his balls very carefully. If I let him cum first, I might very well be left high and dry.

I can't remember the bastard's fucking name.

Sex to a man is just that: plain uncaring fucking. All he wants is for some source of friction to rub against the sensitive head of his cock until his balls and prostate, I never can remember which one does what, until they mix his sperm and semen and send it pulsing, shooting out of his piss hole. He may have his preferences, but for the most part he doesn't give a shit what the source of that friction may be. In theory, his first preference, the traditional Biblical preference, is the warm and wet cunt, which I was at the moment supplying, but it could be a mouth, male or female, an asshole, likewise male or female, someone else's hand, his own hand, a pair of pink panties, a blow-up doll, even his cat for the real sickies. It doesn't matter so long as it helps him shoot that white creamy cum out of his body. If he thinks about anything, it's about some other person or thing that he once used to get off.

(Look, if you really do like cats, any time you want to cum, go right ahead. The story will wait for you, and it'll be right here when you come back. Just wash your hands.)

Women have some similarities but some major differences. Oh, sure, we love to fuck, even the poor sisters who can never achieve an orgasm, and we'll use whatever is necessary. A big hard cock is my personal weapon of choice, hopefully black, rubbing back and forth on my clit. A tongue will do, and fingers, either gender. Dildos work, as do various items from the fruit bin. According to some of the stuff on this web site, a dog may do the trick, but that's beyond my imagination.

The difference is that when we're trying to reach that screaming moment, we're not thinking about the mechanism that's getting us there, but about being in some other place, with this person or with someone else. We think about holding hands across a table, of walking barefoot with him or her in the sand, of looking up at the stars with that person, of lying next to each other fast asleep. You see, it takes some sort of romantic thought for a person, let's say a guy, to get one of us into bed. I don't mean love necessarily, but it will at least be the possibility that someday there might be a future for me with him. Most of us will not fuck a guy just for the orgasm; my hand can do the job with a lot less mess. We've got to a least like something about him. He's going to have to convince me before I let him stick his cock into my cunt.

'As long as I've got one of these, buddy, I can get all of those I want.'

As a result, while we were in the showroom, with this salesman telling me how great the car was and sloughing over the cost, I knew he was surreptitiously looking over my body, which is pretty damn good for a thirty-nine year old, if I must say so myself. At the same time, I was looking over Mr. Young Stud, nice smile, good build, late twenties, lots of jokes but nothing risqué, a firm handshake with soft hands. He was dressed well but not elegantly. It was near closing, and I accepted when he suggested we go have a drink somewhere. I admit it; I had gone in there half looking for a new car and half looking for a new cock. I did not fantasize a love affair, but a handsome man would make great arm candy for all the cocktail parties I had to attend.

I need those cocktail parties to network; I run with a very influential crowd, also damn rich, and forget talent. It's not what you know, it's who you know. And also knowing what they like to look at. I mean me. I'm five foot eight, a little short of 'statuesque'. My chest is 36C, which alone can get their attention, but you have to couple that with the fact that my dear Daddy, the General, always insisted that I maintain proper posture. As a result, my tits stuck out farther than on any other 36C. I can feel the eyes following me as I move through a group, staring first at my chest and them warming my ass with their x-ray vision, straining to see a panty line. I can feel their imagination as they picture themselves fucking me blind. Sometimes, a lot of times, the evening winds up with me getting a mouth or pussy full of cum from one of the executives at the party. Once in a while, I let some asshole fuck my asshole. The rest of the guys go home to jerk off or, even worse, to fuck their own wives.

But as the Beemer man shoved it into me, as his tongue probed my mouth, as his grunts echoed in my throat, as my tits shook in the bouncing bed, I could only think of Sean.

Sean, the man of my dreams; Sean, the man I've never met and will probably never meet, never even speak to. I don't even know his real name; more about that later. Is he tall or short, is his hair flowing or long gone, how old is he, is he black or white, where does he live, what does he do in real life, is he married, does he have a mustache to tickle me when he eats me, will I ever meet him, should I ever meet him, how big is his cock? Is he maybe really a woman? I doubt it, but that wouldn't be so bad. That particular thought kept my pussy wet for the Beemer man.

Let me tell you about me. I'm a writer, what this web site calls an author. I don't mean just this stroke stuff, but real novels, romance novels, where the sex part just mentions the kiss and the closing door and you have to imagine all the rest. You ladies know my work, and my name, but for sure it's not maryjane. My agent arranges for book signings at Barnes and Noble, where they also stare at my tits, and for the all too infrequent one minute publicity gigs on the six o'clock news. He fucks the producers to get them, but denies that he loves it. I live alone in an apartment overlooking Central Park, and I am by no stretch of the imagination the most famous or affluent apartment owner in the building. But I certainly make enough to afford a Beemer, as well as the company of a Beemer salesman when needed.

I work about three or four hours a day, dictating into a recorder. My secretary transcribes it and she also eats me when I'm horny; I would kill for her. Actually, I'm horny right now, but she's not here, so its time for my flaming red vibrator with the Energizer bunny inside. Now where did I leave it?

As I lay there being fucked by Beemer boy, let's call him Dick, because that's what he really was, I was rethinking the idea of using him for arm candy. He would have loved it, because the people I hang with can afford his brand of cars and can afford to upgrade to the latest model every year. This Dick of course didn't know what I had in mind, how much money he could make from those people, and maybe he never would. The problem was that after we were in bed, when I tried to push his head down between my legs, he wouldn't accept the hint. Rather, he just began to fuck without making any real attempt to get me wet. As I said, it took my dreams of Sean to get me wet.

And then, just when I was getting close, he just let go, splashing his cum into me without warning. Sure, that creamy goo oozing around in me felt good, but nothing like the Big O I was after.

"Don't stop, baby, I'm almost there."

"I can't, maryjane. Once I cum, I've had it." He rolled off me.

I had no choice; I rolled on top of him and humped his shrinking twig until I finally got off. then I crawled up and straddled his face, offering my cunt to him to lick clean. He turned his head to the side, refusing my offer. I thought to myself, 'Damn right you've hid it, Dick, you prick.' I dressed, promised to call him again, walked out and tore up his card. I left it on the front table; he would get the hint then. No one just uses me for a cum Dumpster.

But this is not about him, it's about Sean.

See, when I'm not writing my money making stuff, when I'm alone at night with no one to warm my feet, I sit in front of my computer and pound out this stuff, sometimes randomly flipping through this web site for ideas to steal, for flowery adjectives to put in my stories, for hot combinations to get me and my readers off. That's how I 'met' Sean. You'll see when you get to the end of any story a statement that your emails are our only payment, which is true. I read mine avidly, and I'm sure all the other authors do also.

One day I received an email from Sean. By the way, that's not his real web name; I told him I wouldn't use that without his permission, and I won't. Anyway, his note was very complimentary, about a story I posted called Unemployment Insurance. That story concerned a woman named Pat who quits her job because her boss puts his hands all over her. She stops at home on her way to the Unemployment office and finds her daughter-in-law Debbie in bed fucking some stranger named Bud. It turns out that Pat's son and his wife have been swinging with Bud and his wife, and the two couples had swapped for the weekend. Pat joins them in bed for the weekend, and when her son returns, the fun continues as she enjoys his forbidden cock. I just looked at the story again and got hot, as usual, though I didn't need a vibrator break.

In that email, Sean mentioned that he was one of the authors who posts on this site and I immediately went to look at his work. I found two stories, both in progress. The shorter one got me excited, but the longer one had the juice pouring out of my slit and made me give myself a screaming orgasm. That longer one was about a not quite eleven year old boy carrying on an 'affair' with his not quite eight year old cousin. While I personally never sucked a cock when I was eight years old, what I liked most about the story was the fact that Sean, for it was written in first person style, was not just fucking his little cousin, but that they were actually in love with each other.

We had a few emails back and forth, no personal information, though, and I began to wonder what kind of guy Sean really is. That wondering got me to the point that he would be the person in my mind whenever I fucked someone or took care of myself. I emailed him that I was going to write this story, and if he gives me permission to use his real pen name, I'll put it in at the end of this story.

Meanwhile, I decided to fantasize who Sean really is and to fantasize what would happen if we ever met.

I'll just assume his name is Sean; it's as good as any other. One story mentions Chicago; no harm in accepting that. In one story he describes himself as Catholic, in the other as Italian/Catholic. That's fine by me, though I'm not Italian; the Church teaches me that the only proper method of birth control is abstinence, and if Sean knocks me up in my fantasy, I will carry the baby to term. That was actually part of the history in Unemployment Insurance. Don't misunderstand; you can tell from my actions that I am by no means a 'good' Catholic, just that there are one or two rules I obey. His Italian/Catholic persona makes me assume he's white, though I would love to imagine him with a big, black cock in my ass.

As for his physical appearance, I have no clue, so let's just say he's in his late thirties, never married, successful in his own business, tall, well-built but not muscle-bound, handsome, charming, soft-spoken, well educated, hung like a stallion. A nice bushy head of hair to use to pull his head into me while I'm being eaten. Being an Italian, there's no assurance that he was circumcised, but that's the way I choose to imagine him. Don't shake your head; it's my damn fantasy, not yours.

I sat in front of my computer. We had previously learned how to Instant Message each other, and I found him on line.

'Sean, I must meet u. :) mj'

'That would b nice. :) :) s'

The two smiley faces made me leak even more than the idea of meeting him.

'Next Wed. Four Seasons, Maui. 6pm, bar. Can wire $ if u need. :) :) :) mj'

'No need. C u then. :) :) :) :) s'

I logged off and ran for my vibrator. 'Big Red' was up to the task.

The next week was a blur. I had received a large advance from my publisher and my deadline was fast approaching. My agent went ballistic. The poor man is gay but still in the closet, and I do believe him when he says that he has trouble keeping it up to fuck the female producers who control my television appearances.

"Howard, please. If I let you fuck my ass like I was a boy, will you let me go?" I was going to go anyway, and he knew it, but it gave him an excuse to give in gracefully. He wasn't even angry when I made him use a rubber.

My secretary was pissed because she gets a good bonus when I turn in a completed book. She volunteered to go with me so that we could work on Maui, reminding me how much I love her tongue inside me, but deep down she knew it was a lost cause, that I was going to meet some guy and wouldn't need her tongue. Grudgingly, she reserved a suite for me at the Four Seasons and got me the last first class seat available for the flight, actually two flights, since I had to change planes at LAX.

You know those flights; you leave at the crack of dawn from New York, after already having been awake for several hours, then fly forever to Hawaii and still get there in the morning. Oh shit, three flights; I forgot the puddle jumper from Honolulu to Maui, plus the limo to the hotel. If he had made the same plane change as I did at LAX, we could have met much sooner, but it was not to be. I checked in and slept the entire afternoon, until after four.

I hoped Sean slept also; I wanted him wide awake when we met.

I showered and, for the first time in my life, shaved my pussy, I don't know why. It felt funny, and I knew that in a few hours someone's fingers, his or mine, would be enjoying it. I use Chanel No. 5; call me old fashioned. I didn't overdo it. I had brought a white strapless cocktail dress for this meeting, and I'm objective enough to know that I looked good enough to eat. To facilitate that, I wore no underwear. What the hell, I can afford the cleaning bill. My only affectation is stiletto heels; they were the last thing I put on before leaving my suite.

In the bar, a tall man was about to sit down on a stool. As he turned back to look toward the door, our eyes met and then parted, each checking out the other's body. I saw a custom made blue blazer, silk shirt, slacks with a knife edge crease, probably thirty-five hundred dollars cut perfectly to his frame. If that was him, he sure as hell didn't need me to wire funds for the trip.

"Sean?"

"maryjane?"

His face lit up like a Christmas tree; I'm sure mine did also. I walked to the bar and extended my hand. He shook it, then leaned forward and we touched cheeks, kissing the air next to each other's face. Wordlessly, he led me to a table. As we sat, I noticed that my pussy was still dry, had not begun to leak, but that my heart was pounding.

He held my hand on the table in the arm-wrestling position; we didn't hear the waitress come up until she cleared her throat. Sean looked up at her.

"McCallum 18, straight up. Twice?" He looked at me, I nodded, he nodded, the waitress nodded and walked back to the bar. We stared at each other while we waited; his eyes twinkled and that's when I began to leak. The drinks came back and we lifted glasses to each other. He spoke.