Misinformation: the great www swindle. #erotica # spshow

It's easy to spread misinformation online. Indeed, it is estimated that around a third of all the stuff out there is, either intentionally or unintentionally, misleading. We all know that Wikipedia, though a wonderful idea, is a chaotic, often hilarious place to frequent. Wiki and Yahoo Answers are more often than not someone's uneducated and not very carefully considered opinion. So where does this leave us? And what is it all for? Schools, I know, are more often to get kids searching and researching online rather than using textbooks specifically written for the subject, and, with all the world and its mother posting laughably inaccurate nonsense on just about every subject under the sun, you can rightly imagine the results are not always edifying.

What is perhaps more worrying - or perhaps more exciting, depending on your point of view - is the ability to make your online presence whatever you want it to be. In the sexually charged sphere that is the internet, it is no longer just about the anonymity, it about character creation. A granny can relaunch herself as a voluptuous sex siren. A granddad can do the same. Thirty-somethings become twenties, forties become thirties, and sixties can smooth out the wrinkles and trim off the flab and become sex-hungry teenagers. For the advocates of such deception, the www is a virtual world, and, as such, can never cross over into reality. The fantasies lived out there will never transmute into anything more than a sad and pitifully lonely obsession with sordid self-stimulation.

A little while ago, I wrote a story of an online fling - I have written several such stories, most of which are based on some very rewarding flesh-fumbling heart-pumping experiences - in which the characters are not quite what they pretend to be. Unlike much of online reality, the differences here are subtle, though enough to put a happy outcome in serious doubt. Fire the story in question, is included in my A lifetime in thirty minutes anthology, and can be found here:

A lifetime in thirty minutes

Have fun online. But be careful. And stay safe. And remember: the people with whom you correspond will - consciously or unconsciously - pick up cues and clues as to what you want them to be and become the object of your desire. It has been proven to be true. If you do decide to meet up, do so only after lengthy face-to-face Skype sessions where as much doubt as is possible can be erased and as much bodily fluid as is possible can be produced. :)

Fire

There were, over the years, many sparks in the darkness, sporadic flares that momentarily lit up his dull existence. Most were bright and brief, burned themselves out in a single brilliant burst, but a handful glowed on, their embers waiting to be reignited when need once again synchronised with opportunity.

She was one such spark, excitingly anonymous at first, merely a happy, heavy-breathing coincidence. The second and third times she illuminated his life, she burned with even greater intensity, a positive correlation previously unknown to him. On the fourth and fifth occasions, her fire was greater still and he began to long for her, fascinated by the effect she had on him. Over time, their flame shifted from fervent red through fiery orange and fierce yellow to a dazzling, searing white. On the tenth time, she raised literal blisters on his prick, a fact so raw its disclosure made her laugh out loud. When their couplings reached an unprecedented baker's dozen and continued to rise, he realised his life was irrevocably changed.

Sometimes a fortnight would pass without a sniff of her then she would demand multiple combustions in a single day. Their record was six. He logged each one in his diary as a tiny cartoon flame and kept a careful count. As their illicit activities approached then sensuously slid by a double century he became increasingly uneasy. He saw their flame floating on a broiling ocean of uncertainty and suddenly found he needed solid ground. On occasion two hundred and thirty-four, by the monitor's dim afterglow, he asked a tentative question.

'Lover?'

For that was how he always addressed her.

'Yes?'

'Will you always be there?'

'As always as a human can be, yes.'

'And will it always be like this?'

'I hope so.'

For once, he feared she had misunderstood him,

'I mean, will I ever touch you?'

'You always touch me. My hands become yours. Do you not feel it?'

Her words, like these before you, were merely black on white, yet the pixels somehow harboured a camouflaged fleet of disappointment. He thought quickly and made adjustments.

'Yes, of course. You know I do. But I mean... really touch?' He found the next words almost impossible to type. 'Will we ever meet?'

A perfect pensive pause was suddenly a teeming screen.

'I'm sure I can't say. And yet I am sure we will. It is the possibility that fuels our fire and the probability that fans it. Don't you see? It is why our flame lives on whilst all others quickly go cold.'

It was his turn for disappointment, though his words displayed something more, something he neither felt nor intended.

'You think that is all we are?'

She typed nothing for seven minutes and he feared she had gone. The single word and accompanying upper-case cross that meant she hadn't, meant she would.

'Later X'

*

Three silent, worry-filled weeks passed.

'There is a window.'

Her opening words were often cryptic though invariably led to a direct graphic simplicity that had him pumping his crotch between equally direct graphic replies. He would have said he loved her for it, if he believed such a complex emotion could be engendered by simply feeling one's own cock. Unsurprisingly, all he felt today was joyous relief.

'Hi! You ok?'

'A window through which you can sneak.'

'Oh. Ok, lol'

'It is open, though requires a wedge of commitment for it to remain so.'

Her metaphor was suddenly unbelievably transparent. His response was instantaneous.

'I can supply all the commitment you need.'

'I know. I just wanted to see you say it.'

Blood thudding, he joined in her game.

'Where is the window?'

'At a place of your choosing.'

'When is the window?'

'In the near future.'

'What is the window called?'

'April eighteenth.'

His heart thumped his ribs. He opened his diary, counted the weeks and converted them into a matchbox full of days. One by one, he saw them strike and die and his head spun as the box quickly emptied.

'So soon?'

'Not soon enough. I want you now.'

Thirteen minutes later his eyes were once again full of her expletives and his palm was once again overflowing with his shameful sticky secret.

The window glazed his days and sweetened his nights, yet try as he might, he could never see what lay beyond it. Dreams gave him glimpses, blurry obfuscated couplings that squeezed the contents of his balls onto crinkled sweaty sheets; however, as in real life, though he knew he touched her in myriad intimate ways, he never saw her nor heard her voice. On waking, he was often reminded he did not even know her real name.

Anxiety smouldered, polluting his mind with its grimy particulates.

'I'm skinny.'

'So?'

'And greying and thinning.'

'The relevance is?'

'I'm nervous. You might not fancy me.'

'While I'm touching your body, I'll still be fucking your mind just like I always do, so relax! How can it not be better?'

In the real world, his insecurity invariably led to doubtful passivity.

'I'm not sure...'

'Well, I am. The hotel is booked. My lies are in place. So are yours. It's inevitable.'

Doubt still consumed him.

'Can I send you a picture? Just so you're not, you know, disappointed?'

'And will you then need one from me? To make sure I am everything you imagine?'

'No.'

'Then shut the fuck up, get your cock out and shove it down my throat. I have ten minutes till he gets home and I want your cum.'

It took less than five for her to type his favourite words.

'Holy fuck! Cumming!'

*

Time played her familiar trick; her flickering candle shortened then vanished.

Thursday morning, he set off for work, but never arrived, a cough-punctuated call telling them all they needed to know about his imaginary illness. The map was etched into his mind, burned into his iPhone screen, and he found the hotel with ease. A surprisingly empty car park and a welcome unmanned reception greeted him. He took the stairs, avoiding machinery and all its nightmare trappings - he'd risked all to be here, had told too many lies for a broken lift to snare and expose him.

A door.

A knock.

A wait.

Movement.

A click

A waft of perfumed air.

'Hi.'

'Aw, Baby! So good tae see ye at last.'

The husky voice and broad brogue were a pleasant surprise to him; as was the white silk full-length dressing gown that hugged her curves like cling film. She was smaller and slighter than he'd imagined, a little older too. Her hair was shoulder-length as he'd guessed, but red, not blonde. He'd pictured the hazel eyes, knew her preference for turquoise nail varnish, but would never have guessed the asymmetrical smile, the imperfect teeth and cute turned-up nose. She reached out, took his hand and led him inside. A slight limp syncopated her gait, but he moved even more awkwardly, robotically, as though he had somehow never walked before.

Marvin Gaye was singing quietly in the corner. Sexual healing. Make-up and a hairdryer littered the dressing table. The morning sun streamed through the third-story window, spotlighting the pristine bed. Festooned with a cream quilt and myriad multi-coloured pillows, it dominated the room, demanded their attention with its silent rhetorical questions and filthy innuendo.

'You both know what I'm for. You're going to do it on me, aren't you? You're going to fuck on me. Naked and sweating. Fluids leaking and spraying. Well? What are you fucking waiting for?'

She stared at his sleeve and abstractedly stammered the habitual.

'Cup o' tea?'

'I'd love one.'

Letting go of his hand and quickly turning away, she shuffled towards the obligatory tray of cups, saucers and carefully rationed sachets.

'Milk and sugar?'

'No sugar.'

He watched her carefully as she clinked cups and rattled spoons. She leaned forwards and the outline of her dangling tits transfixed him, while the appearance of a black-stockinged knee excited him. Her fingers were deft and agile and he was already pulsing, imagining their soft tips and hard nails exploring his intimate flesh. The kettle purred, fumed and clicked. She poured and stirred then passed him the steaming brew. Her bottom sank into the bed and she patted the quilt beside her in invitation. As she crossed her legs, the dressing gown peeled back exposing her stocking tops and a pale thigh. He settled next to her, his grey suit, blue shirt and navy tie suddenly starchily incongruous. Toes levered against heels till his feet were freed from their black brogues.

'I'm supposed to be at work.'

'So am I.'

He laughed.

'I know.'

They had cybered for what seemed like years, imagined they knew all there was to know, so sipped in nervous silence, both apparently happy to delay the inevitable. The void helped him to focus. Why were they here? He loved his wife, but she had strayed, needed something more than he could give her. Lover was separated, but - for the sake of her kids - still lived with her cold, cheating husband. More known facts lay out like corpses. They had histories, houses and debt and had accumulated five children between them. Before the accident, he'd been a fireman. She was a primary headmistress, a job title containing enough lexical ambiguity to always make him smile.

When the first spark had ignited their unquenchable flame, he'd been wary, knowing he was vulnerable. He'd endured both domestic strife and sexual frustration and was already familiar with the heady vapours that rose from that volatile mix. Despite his cool understanding of both the process and of his needs, their conflagration had quickly grown to an intensity that constantly reduced his fear, guilt, and common sense to ash.

He downed the dregs, the cup engaging with the saucer in his lap one final time. She placed her half-finished drink on the dressing table, brushed the hair from her cheek and turned to him. Her face was suddenly unreadable, forcing him to turn inwards and create his own story. This was it. Here at last. Past pains would soon be salved, their scars smoothed by her loving touch. Suddenly cognisant of the moment's singular importance and its need for pristine perfection, he uttered words he'd only ever heard in films.

'I just need to freshen up. I won't be a moment.'

He kissed her hair, took four strides and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Buzz, buzz.

He slipped his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. The text punched his solar plexus.

'I can't do this. I thought I could, but I can't. I'm sorry.'

'Is it...'

'No. Never. Please don't think that!'

Despite the crushing disappointment, he knew her well enough to forsake argument. Shaking fingers typed his submission.

'Ok. I'll leave the cash for the room on the sink then just walk out.'

'Thank you. That would be best. I'm sorry. It's not you. It's not... You're lovely. It's...'

'And so are you. More lovely than I ever imagined. Quirkily, achingly beautiful.'

'Is that supposed to be a compliment? Lol'

'Yes.'

He pulled the flush, washed and dried while gazing at his phone, awaiting her farewell words. What arrived confused him.

'Please do me. Like we always do. It's all I have. All I can give you.'

'How?'

'Stay in there. Text me. I need what we have. Can't afford to spoil it. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'Take him out for me.'

'Ok.'

'Is he hard?'

'Like me, he's a bit deflated, but he's getting there.'

Under the door seeped a creak and a rustle like leaves on grass.

'My dressing gown is off and I'm naked but for the stockings and undies. I bought them for you. Oh God, I'm sorry, I...'

'Don't apologise, Lover. I want you. Just like this. I always will. I wouldn't change a thing.'

'Thank you. You are so lovely. Stroke him.'

'Touch yourself through your knickers. Are they black silk?'

'Yes. I remembered.'

'Fuck.'

Pointing his cock into the sink, he pumped his hardening flesh. Sudden unexpected tears streaked his cheeks; tears of anger, of frustration, but most of all of loss. He knew things would never be the same, knew their flame was all but extinguished. The hot iron in his fist turned to tepid jelly and he clasped his temples. His phone buzzed.

'Are you near, baby?'

He lied.

'Oh god yes. Cum, Lover.'

The drone of her battery-powered pleasure machine, the one he knew she loved to slip into her ass just before she climaxed, penetrated the door and bounced round his cold hard space like an angry mosquito. He strained his ears, heard her gasps and sighs above the buzzing silver bullet and knew she was near.

'Knickers and bra off. Wrapping my legs around you, pulling you deeper.'

'Fucking you fast and hard. Balls slapping against you. Sucking and twisting your nipples. Driving my cock in deep.'

'Are you close?'

'I'm ready. Tell me when.'

'I want you inside me. Fuck me! Now!'

'Oh, yes! I'm cumming baby. Take my cream. Take my cum in your tight cunt.'

'No. Stop! Stop! I mean fuck me. Really fuck me. I was wrong. I want you.'

Her spoken words, though baffled by the wooden door, overflowed with immutable certainty. He wiped away his tears, turned on his cotton-clad heel and twisted the lock. The door swung slowly open. Shock manifested in his frozen face. What a fucking mess. Meticulous make-up had run, smudged and smeared; hair stuck to her face by a flood of tears. He absently noted she was naked, but the observation had no physical effect on him. Tits swung low and full, while her nipples were pale and flat; her rounded belly was etched with faded stretch marks and, beneath a faint Caesarian scar, her shaved pudendum looked somewhat ridiculous. Black stockings wrinkled on her ankles and calves, yet stretched around her thighs causing the lunar flesh above to bulge. Ignoring his fixed stare, she glanced down at his crotch and gasped at the shrivelled sliver of flesh that shrank into his flies. Her voice was a hoarse incredulous whisper.

'I thought ye...'

'No. I couldn't even get it up. You?'

She shook her head and forced a bitter laugh.

'I was nae even wet enough tae get the vibe inside me. What a fucking disaster. I'm sorry.'

'Please, don't be. It's all my fault. What we had was fantastic. I pressed you into this.'

She shook her head again then reached up and gently kissed his nose.

'I wanted this as much as you did. Maybe more. Please don't blame yerself.'

More tears. Her sad eyes searched his, asked an unknown question and, to his consternation, seemingly found an answer. She fell to her knees on the hard grey tiles and took him in her mouth. As she gazed up into his face, he screamed silently to the tiny tongue of flesh that poked from his crotch.

'Come on, you bastard. Rise! Rise!'

Nothing. Not a glimmer His soft sallow candle was dead, a damp squib at her bonfire. No fireworks today. Surely she could see that sucking would never relight it? Embarrassment melted into humiliation, yet still the woman persevered.

'Oh, fuck!'

Mistaking his whispered despair for burgeoning delight, she tugged down his trousers and pants. Nails gently scraped across his balls while a probing tongue cross-examined his most truthful flesh. He closed his eyes and searched for a lie. The flabby, tear-stained clown at his feet disappeared and Lover took her place. Her expert licks instantly hit the spot. His heart thudded; one, two, three. Indifference and doubt evaporated. Drops of precum pissed onto her tongue as his cock began to fill with liquid concrete. As it outgrew her mouth, she gasped and spat it out. Her hand closed around him and began its measured strokes. Tense fingers twisted through her hair, pulled her head into his groin and drove his erection down her throat. The times Lover had begged him to do this. The times he had closed his eyes and squirted there. Muscles tensed and knees weakened. He glanced down. Her nodding head said yes. Her wide, imploring eyes said yes. His cock and balls quickly concurred.

'I'm cumming, Lover.'

A low moan left her throat as she wanked and sucked him. This too would change things forever, but there was no stopping him now, no going back for either of them. He held on as long as he could, milked the pleasure to its last drop, then let it all go and hosed her tonsils with his cloying cream. She coughed and choked, but didn't stop swallowing and sucking till his discomfort forced her head away. Sinking slowly down, he joined her on the grey tiles. Lust withdrew and something new took its place. It licked the cum from her lips, teeth and tongue and squeezed her naked body so hard she fought for breath. He dared not ask its name.

He stood then offered his hand and helped her to her feet. She winced, rose slowly while rubbing her right knee and massaging her calf.

'Okay?'

'Aye. Ruddy scar tissue. Burns. When I was a wee girl.'

'I wouldn't have guessed.'

'I would nae have told ye...'

Realisation wrinkled his features.

'I love stockings.'

'I know. I'm glad.'

They hugged. As his strong arms encircled her, the mirror told its own stark story. She broke the embrace and eased him away.

'I need to freshen up. Won't be a minute.'

Reluctantly, he left her there.

At some indeterminate point, Marvin Gaye had slunk away. The bed was a rumpled confused shadow of his former smooth and bullish self.

'What's going on? What happened then? Did you fuck in there? In there? Surely not?'

His jacket clothed the chair's back. Free from its forced formality, he shook out his arms, rotated his shoulders and breathed freely. He shouted through the door.

'Tea?'

'Please.'

'Milk two sugars?'

'Aye.'

The kettle purred, fumed and clicked. He rattled and poured, stirred and rattled some more.

Face repaired and hair rearranged, she reappeared and threw her silky shroud over her pale nakedness. Buttocks sank into the bed and she smiled up at him.

'You okay?'

He nodded slowly.

'Yes.'

A stocking top winked as she crossed her legs. He handed her a steaming drink then settled beside her and cradled his own.

He found himself staring at her quirkily aching beauty. In his gut, he felt a spark beget an infant flame that quickly grew and took hold. This was a new, unfamiliar fire that crackled and spat in his lover's physical presence and flared in the flow of her warm breath. A tentative hand stole inside the silk and slid across her belly. It cupped a breast and sought out the nipple which rose and pressed into his palm. Soft, dexterous fingers rolled it to a point. Mouths met and tongues danced in a peppermint haze. This was how he imagined it would be. This was why he had risked all to be here.

Flying saucers rattled onto the dressing table. A cup wobbled and overturned, flooding the saucer with its sweet warm liquid. As he eased her back onto the bed, both the dressing gown and her legs fell wide open. Arousal glistened in the pink cleft of flesh. Eyes boiled as her fingers tugged her hardening nipples. Now she was ready. Amazingly, despite their bathroom antics, so was he.

He stood slowly, self-consciously nursing the flame-seared stump at his left wrist. She suddenly sat up, raised the tight shiny flesh to her lips and kissed him there. His eyes were wet with grateful tears. As she unfastened his trousers, he tore off his tie and, with his one hand, skillfully unbuttoned his shirt.

*****