I would like to thank Ms. Sharon Johnson who had the courage to edit my poor spelling and grammar. Thanks to her, this story is much better and her hard work is appreciated. Thanks Sharon!nnThis is a long love story, so be prepared. It was written from both the man's and the woman's viewpoint. The story was put together for the most part from e-mails that were shared between them as they wrote the story. As the story builds and moves forward, it establishes the relationship and develops the interaction between the two individuals. This happens both before and during the sex, which they experienced. The sex then becomes the major question and key element in the story. It was suggested that the two of them write a story together by the female as their Internet relationship built. The story was written to be as realistic as it could be. That is the story isn't one of those, "He see her and fucks her!" stories. She insisted it should be written from a more real life encounter. She was insistence!nnIt was also written from the man's point of view to try and express his true and sincere feelings about what was happening to him in the story and in his real life, along the way. He now feels that he was disappointed badly and wishes she would finish the story both in the e-mail and perhaps one-day together for real. nnWhile the man recorded the events in his PC diary, he also wrote what he was hoping for one day. They shared pictures, some very revealing, and found them very erotic.

It was so hot on the train the bare skin of their arms stuck together as they rocked on their seats. The air hot and heavy, stale in the carriage where they sat, the sweat sliding down their bodies like silver. He could smell her musk, which is exactly as he liked it, having made sure she came for him before they left the house. He loved how she came, the panting whimpers she made, the gush of the hot liquid into his mouth, the heavy clenching spasms of her cunt climaxing, the way she gripped something - anything - as she arched and quivered and gasped. The synthetic fabric of the short black dress he'd asked her to wear always seemed to magnify her smells and he could feel himself getting hard as he sat there and breathed her in.nnShe just kept surprising him. From the fateful first inane conversation in a chat room she had intrigued him, captured him. She intoxicated him and he knew he was totally addicted to her. As was she to him. They talked about everything, things they didn't even admit to themselves. Those first months on VoIP were the most intense he'd ever known with another person. He marvelled at her trust in him, so unexpected, but then, everything she did was unexpected.nnAnd now here they were, a mere month after the first meeting. My god, he thought languidly, that first fuck was life-altering. The trust they'd built up, the trust she laid in him, it was all there. He'd managed to control himself until they got to the hotel. But it was in the elevator on the way up to their room that she took control of him. He knew she'd planned it that way, had manipulated him into taking her, but then again, the unexpectedness of her approach, the simple way she had done it, she surprised him. In the elevator, she just stood in front of him as they got in, her back to his chest, and she let her body almost touch his. Those ripe globes of her arse had just brushed his belt and that had been his undoing.

She trembled. He was very angry. She had climaxed, again, without permission and now he would punish her. Publicly. She feared he would beat her, although their agreement included a clause against it. Still. He blindfolded her.nn“Since you could not obey me and hold your climax,” he said, “I have sold your contract to another Master. Maybe he will have better luck in training you.”nnSold! She heard another voice, deep, soft. Then the closing of the door. “I have purchased you,” said the stranger. “Your previous Master said you climaxed without permission. Is this true?”nn“Yes, Master,” she said softly, trembling.nn“Do you enjoy orgasms?”nn“If my Master wishes,” she replied.nn“I asked if you enjoy it,” he said again, his voice stern.nnHer trembling increased.

Damn, what a day. A phone call wakes me up at 4 AM, an hour earlier than I should be waking up. It's my mom, bitching about her back and how she needs more Vicodin. Hearing my mom in pain is horrifying, but so is the idea of her becoming a dope fiend. Images of crackheads roaming outside my door flash into my mind. I was in med school and needed a cheap place to stay, and addicts abound wherever "affordable" housing is available. "Affordable" is a relative term and took a new meaning for me at that point in my life. Years later, success brings new problems. Not only do I fear my poor mother becoming dependent on opiates, but the DEA has been cracking down on fellow doctors that have been a bit too carefree with painkiller 'scripts. And I mean crazy-style.nnLawsuits have been popping up like parking tickets in the Loop, and many sawbones have even gotten locked up. Hearing phone calls from patients screaming in excruciating pain makes me sick, but I can't afford the lawyer fees for yet another fling in the courtroom. And jail time. I don't want to even think about that one. Shit, nothing's easy anymore in our Modern World. Then my better half starts bitching about being woken up, as if it's an activity I thrive on. That's right, just keep calling her the better half and eventually you'll remember it's the truth, right? I sure hope so; we haven't even had a good fuck in a month or two. Well, sex is always good, but no great, mind-blowing sex. (Hell, even my thoughts sound like I'm a Cosmo editor.