An Innocent Mistake
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2021 by Mat Twassel
Fiction Sex Story: Callie knows it's against company policy to use her computer for personal emails, but she has to tell someone about the hot guy she just met at Starbucks. One innocent little email shouldn't hurt anyone ... Should it? Illustrated.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Illustrated .
It was an innocent mistake. Callie knew she shouldn’t use the computer at work for personal email, but technically work hadn’t started yet, and she was so excited, she just had to tell someone. She hurriedly typed out the email.
Dear Pam,
Just a really quick note—I met the cutest guy. I was sitting at Starbucks nibbling the last of my muffin, and there he was in the mirror, staring at me, a big serious smile, like he knew me, like he knew all my secrets, and like ... I don’t know, I just know. I think he’s the one! Crazy, huh? We kind of have a date for tomorrow after work. Speaking of work—gotta run.
Love,
Cal
Now, technically, the workday had begun, but Callie quickly typed in Pam’s email address and hit send. There! That taken care of. With a guilty glance over her shoulder—her cube was out of anyone’s direct sight—Callie brought up the PowerPoint presentation on running socks she’d been working on this week.
It wasn’t until an hour after lunch she got Pam’s reply. Callie was surprised. Nervously she opened the note and read:
Dear Cal,
This guy does sound hot. But can you trust what you see in the mirror?
Gil
Callie did a double-take. Gil? Who was Gil? Her eyes went to the email header. GilFriend679. Oh oh! Right away, Callie saw what the trouble was. In her haste to send the message, she’d left out the r. Pam was GirlFriend679. Damn computers. Now what? Callie took a deep breath. Maybe the thing to do was to write Gil, let him know not to send her anything else.
Hi Gil,
Listen, there’s been a mistake. You sound like a nice guy and all, but I didn’t mean to write to you. As I’m sure you realize, I forgot to type the r in girlfriend. The first r. Otherwise you’d be girlfiend. I’m being silly. Anyway, I apologize for the email. It’s been a crazy day. But I’m at work and we’re only allowed to use the computers for work stuff. But it’s been nice knowing you.
Callie
PS Why shouldn’t you be able to trust what you see in mirrors?
Callie knew it was silly to write this Gil Friend—she supposed that was his name—but her presentation was stuck. And what was the harm? Plus it was the polite thing to do.
The answer came a minute later.
Dear Callie,
What kind of work do you do? Probably not road construction, if you use a computer. So I won’t imagine you wearing a hardhat and sitting on a big orange bulldozer knocking down some decrepit building or firetrap nightclub. Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Fashion design. Am I right?
Gil
PS You know that mirrors get things backwards, don’t you? Or at least reversed.
Road construction! The funny thing was that Callie’s older brother was in road construction, working for their uncle back in Illinois. It was true, Tom wouldn’t know a computer if it fell from the sky and bopped him on his hardhat. Callie felt suddenly guilty for neglecting him. Maybe she’d call him tonight. Life would be so much easier if he had a computer. Or if no one had computers.
Dear Gil,
You’re right, I do work in fashion. I guess my email domain name gave that away, so don’t think I think you’re clever. I am in design. Right now I’m working on socks. Really, how much can you do with a pair of running socks? Colors, pompoms, stripes. Patterns or plain. Plus padding, of course. That’s about it.
I do know about mirrors, thank you. And now we should stop writing. Despite the industry secrets I’ve revealed about running socks, this isn’t really business. I could get into trouble.
Callie
PS What do you do?
Callie found herself waiting for a reply. When nothing arrived at her computer after twenty seconds, she got up and took her Winnie-the-Pooh coffee mug to the break room. She rinsed it out and microwaved a cup of water for tea. When she got back to her desk, a message was waiting.
Dear Callie,
Thanks for sharing the secrets of running socks. But aren’t you overlooking something? Pockets!
I’ll take pity on you and not make you guess what I do. I’m in art. Hm, now you’ve got me talking like you. You’re addictive, Callie. I’ll try not to get you into too much hot water.
Gil
Callie unwrapped her teabag. She dunked it in the hot water. Hm, she thought. Interesting coincidence about the hot water. She watched the little air bubbles rise to the surface. She started typing.
Dear Gil,
Pockets, huh? And what would these pockets be for? And what kind of artist are you? A painter? A musician? A writer? Have I ever heard of you? Have I ever seen any of your stuff?
I’m brewing some tea. I don’t know why I told you that. I can see the steam coming up. Soon it will be time to take out the soggy teabag. Then it will be time to take the first sip. No, I’ll wait another minute. I don’t want to burn my tongue. Which do you like better, tea or coffee? Beer or wine?
I’m thinking about those pockets. Are you a runner? Do you have any foots-on experience with running socks?
Callie
Callie pressed send, then eased the teabag from her drinking mug. She let the teabag dangle. It twirled but didn’t drip. The teabag reminded her a little of a man’s scrotum, except smooth. Maybe some men’s scrotums were smooth, but the only ones she’d had any experience with had been wrinkled. She touched her fingertip to the teabag’s bulge. Warm but not hot. About as warm as the one scrotum she’d ever held in her hands. Gil’s email came in.
Dear Callie,
For a key, of course. Or a condom. Or one of each. Good that we wear two socks. It’s such a pain having to tie your key into your shoelaces. Yes, I run, but not with any World Class Speed. But I’m not a plodder, either. My best 10K time is 41 minutes. I’d like to break the 40 barrier. Do you run?
I like coffee and tea. Beer and wine. But mostly I drink plain old tap water.
How was the tea?
Gil
Now the teabag reminded Callie of a condom. One with just the head of the penis inside it, plump and snug. She smiled. She squeezed the teabag with her fingers, and the amber liquid drizzled down. She had to wipe her hands with a Kleenex before she could type the reply.
Dear Gil,
Your pocket idea has possibilities, but I’m not sure it’s really practical. The socks I’m working on have almost nothing exposed. No cuffs to speak of. Nothing sexier than ankle skin, right? So I’m afraid you might have to keep your keys tied to your laces and your condom stashed safe and snug in some other private place. Would these be house keys or car keys? As for the condom, why would you need one for a 10K?
I confess, I haven’t tried the tea yet. But I like the way it looks. I like to watch the steam rise up. I like to see my reflection in it. Maybe I’m addicted to mirrors.
You didn’t tell me about your art.
Callie the Plodder
Callie pulled up the running sock design. Maybe a little pocket could work. With a button? A snap? Velcro? Surely not a zipper. Maybe just a pocket for show. Style. Callie knew most running shorts had little flap pockets on the inside for keys. Or condoms? Callie grinned and shook her head. If Gil didn’t know about the pockets in running shorts, maybe he wasn’t a real runner. Or maybe he ran nude. Now why would she think of that? Gil’s penis flopping as he loped along. Callie grinned. She wondered if Gil had a big penis. She imagined Gil jogging along the beach, a black and white collie running alongside him, bounding in and out of the surf. And then the guy from Starbucks was there too. And they were racing. And their penises were flopping side to side as they ran. Synchronized. And then she had the back view. She could see their powerful tight butts. “Hey, come back,” she wanted to yell. But the surf was too loud. And the dog was barking. And there was new email.
Dear Callie,
The key is to ... Why don’t you guess? I’ll make it multiple choice. My motorcycle. A mansion. Your heart. Which turns you on more? I think you know what the condom is for. Are you trying to tease me? That could backfire. Two can play that teasing game. And don’t worry about the cuffs, I have plenty of nice clean rope.
What you could do, when you get done with socks, is move up to panties. Panty pockets could be the next big thing. Put the pocket right in the sweet spot. What would a key feel like there?
Did you learn anything from looking at your tea reflection? Or did you drink the tea all up? Is that sort of like swallowing yourself? Was it good?
You may have noticed there’s an attachment with this email. It’s an example of my art. This one is called “The Prince and the Peeper.” Let me know.
Gil
Callie studied the picture for several minutes. Abruptly she closed the attachment and clicked reply.
Well. That was pretty naughty. But pretty, I admit. I could block you, you know. I should block you. Was that a photograph or a painting or what? It looks too real to be a painting. But how did you get the frog to stay still? When I was little my family went camping in Michigan, and by the lake we found a whole bunch of tiny frogs. I caught a lot of them and put them in a yellow plastic pail and my dad put an old piece of screening over the pail so the frogs couldn’t get away. (Not that my frogs would want to escape!) There must have been fifteen or twenty of them and I named them all. I named them after the kids in my first grade class. My dad teased me that I couldn’t possibly keep all the frogs straight, but I insisted that I could. “That’s Julie and that’s David and that’s Kevin and that’s Krissy and that’s Ronald and that’s Melissa and that’s Pammy,” and so on and so forth. Then my dad asked me which one was me, and I said none of them were me because I was me. “How could I be me and a frog, silly,” I said to my dad. “Lucky thing,” my dad said, “or too bad, because I’m going to use one of those little froggies for bait, and I’m sure you’d hate not to be the one who catches the big fish.” I knew he was teasing me, that he wouldn’t use any of my frogs for bait.
But the rest of that day I made sure my bucket of frogs was never out of my sight. One at a time I’d let my frogs out of the yellow pail for exercise. I let them hop about a little bit, and sometimes I’d let them sit on my palm. Their little feet tickled. I guess some frogs are called peepers. Spring peepers? That’s probably what you meant by your title. But peeper is what my brother used to call my – let me put it this way. He had a peener and I had a peeper. I shouldn’t be telling you all this. But anyway the painting or photograph or whatever it is reminded me of those good times at the lake, so thank you for that.
Callie
PS What was that about the rope? And no, I didn’t drink the tea. It’s cold now, probably.
After Callie sent the email, she opened the picture back up. The little pink nipple looked truly kissable. She wondered what the nipple would feel like in her mouth. She knew what the frog would feel like on her chest. She held her breath—if she breathed it would hop away. Her nipples stiffened.
Dear Callie,
I’m glad you liked the little frog. Cute little guy! Or did you prefer the nipple? Did you know that if you pinch a frog it feels just like a nipple? And if you pinch it hard enough ... Well, I won’t say. (And it’s not because I have a frog in my throat.)
But go ahead and block me if you like. Did you know that block used to be a naughty word? (I’m full of that kind of useful stuff.) But you didn’t answer hardly any of my questions, and here I am, asking you more. Am I overwhelming you?
Amazing you can remember the names of all your first grade classmates. Is Pammy the same as who you thought you were writing about the Starbucks stud muffin? Do you tell her all your secrets and secret desires? Does she tell you hers?
Enough questions. I’ll give you a breather. A chance to catch up. And here (attached, haha) is the answer to your question, the one about the rope. I call it “Doing the Laundry.” What do you think is missing?
Gil
Callie gulped. Her eyes went from the feather to the woman’s sex and back to the feather. The feather was wispy but came to a sharp point. The quill. What was it some people called a woman’s ... quim, that was it. Silently Callie mouthed the word. Quim. The Quim and the Quill, maybe that’s what the painting should be called. What was it? Dirty Laundry? No, Doing the Laundry. Inside Callie something resonated. Doing the Wash. Back when she was a senior in high school, on the phone to Pam after school, Callie asked Pam if she had a date for Friday night, and Pam said, “Nope, I’ll just be staying in doing my nails. How about you?” Callie replied, “Me neither—I guess I’ll be doing my nails, too, and if that’s not enough I’ll be doing my wash.” Pam, in a jokey tone, said, “Well, if you need any help, let me know.” Callie laughed and said, “Thanks, but I guess doing your wash is one of those things a girl has to do for herself.” Then there was an uneasy silence, and then they both laughed. After that, whenever one of them didn’t have a date, or was disappointed by stupid boys, or was just lonely, she’d say, “Back to doing my own wash again.”
Callie shook her head. This Gil was going too far. Still, she’d asked him about the rope. She’d asked him about his art. The feather was a nice touch. It made you want ... Yes, that was it—it made you want. Callie could almost feel it—the frilly end—brushing, whispering.
Yes, what she wanted to do was take that white feather and run it under the woman’s feet. She wanted to tickle those tender toes, and when the woman writhed and squirmed, she’d take that feather and slide it up her legs, behind her knees, up her inner thighs, lightly, lightly, lightly caressing her innermost thighs, lightly, lightly, lightly caressing those soft outer sex lips, lightly lightly lightly rowing the feathery tip along the inner lips, again and again and again, until it was time to touch it, the slightly moistened tip, to the woman’s clearly erect clit.
Even more than that, she wanted to be that woman, to...
Stop this silliness, Callie told herself. About to click off the picture, she stopped. The kitchen chair. It was just like the kind her parents had. Ordinary. Serviceable. Must be millions of them in kitchens all over the country. And ordinary clothesline, coiled so neatly around the slim ankles. Callie crossed her legs. She squeezed herself. She took a deep breath.
Dear Gil,
I didn’t know block was a dirty word. What does it mean? I’ve heard of block and tackle. I’m not even sure what that means. It sounds innocent enough. Maybe a bit rough and tumble. Something to do with football? Anyway, I don’t know what’s missing. The laundry?
Callie (who probably needs to do her own laundry as soon as she gets home ... if not sooner)
Dear Callie,
The more we write, the less you answer. No, not the block of block and tackle. And that’s not football stuff, either, that’s construction stuff—a system of ropes and pulleys for hoisting. Jeeze, girl! You must have had that in fifth grade science. Speaking of grade school, you didn’t say if it was the same Pammy.
I really shouldn’t have to tell you this, but no, no, no, it’s not the laundry that’s missing. It’s the clothespins! Shouldn’t you have learned that at your mama’s knees? Two types of clothespins, you know—the peg kind and the pincher kind. I bet you can guess where the pinchers go. Oh, those poor dear little frogs. But what about the pegger, the big fat pegger?
No new picture, naughty Callie, because you’ve been bad.
Love,
Gil
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