Triptych, An Erotic Adventure Read Free Page A

physical expression of his love. The way his balls tightened and his hand on his cock quickened and then the sight of it, the thick semen spraying up onto his stomach.
    She was certain she had conjured it. His orgasm coincided perfectly with her words. She watched as the pre-come leaked down over his fingers and suddenly it was more than that, ejaculate spurting higher than she expected, splattering up onto his chest, spraying pearly drops onto his tight black nipples. The little aftershocks, the dying spurts leaking down the length of his still-hard shaft. She watched, shifting in her chair, uncomfortable in her state of arousal.
    The screen dipped to black, the connection gone. Her love’s namesake disappeared forever. Then, before she had time to reach out and close the computer, the words, those fateful words flaring up onto the screen.
    Another partner is waiting for you. Would you like to play?
    Her clitoris hummed, her own juices had begun to leak out from between the lips that were already swollen with excitement. The words flashed in a rhythm that she could easily settle into.
    Would you like to play? Would you like to play?
    Susanna checked that her scarf was still securely fixed over her webcam. She reached out to the keyboard and tapped lightly with her index finger. Yes.
    Yes. She did want to play.
    The combinations were endless. Their conversation was mostly the same, Female? Turn your webcam on. How old are you? Please turn your webcam on. Are you touching yourself?
    Susanna did indeed touch herself, and she always answered yes.
    It is difficult to type with one hand. Susanna soon realised that the mistakes of her first headless man were common ones, letters misplaced or repeated, no capitals or punctuation, vowels dropped, a sentence broken down to its most simple form.
    She preferred to give the conversation the benefit of both her hands, pausing between sentences to slip her fingers under her skirt. Mostly she remained clothed. Occasionally she loosened a button or two to comply with the more realistic requests of her blind lovers: oh I wish you would squeeze your breast for me. I want you to pinch your nipple.
    She did not, of course, accede to every ham-fisted demand: are you fingering your arse? stick your fist in your cunt. Often they didn’t request anything at all, happy enough to read her account of what she might be doing, or might do with them.
    She found her repertoire for sex too easily devoured by the hours she spent at the screen, and learned to become inventive, to amuse herself as much as the headless torsos endlessly stroking themselves before her. She invented scenarios that had never occurred with her first and only lover.
    She described a kitchen not unlike her own, high stoolssimilar to the one she perched on, the laptop open on the kitchen bench. She bent herself over the stool in this particular fantasy, drew for herself a picture of her own buttocks raised high, the lips there parted and gleaming with a dewy moisture. She had the idea that he—this headless torso of one man or another—might slide his penis up against the moisture of the lips, taking his pleasure from this external friction. She had once, she told a faceless stranger, had her lover use the space between her generous breasts to find his joy. She squeezed them tight around his cock and encouraged him to aim at her chin. He coated her cheeks when he came, a drop of semen lodging in the corner of her eye. This was the only reason that they never used this position again, she said, bringing the focus back to the game at hand. Bent over the kitchen stool with the moisture from her cunt providing a slippery kind of pleasure, she had found that spilled seed could shoot up and out over the buttocks. And if he were to gently rub this into her skin then she might enjoy a slippery pleasure of her own.
    His name was Aaron Fitzgerald, although of course that may just have been the name he used in this private part of his life. He