DISCLAIMER:- The following text is sexually explicit and contains depictions of sexual acts that have been classified by the surgeon general as potentially dangerous and unhealthy. You must be a broad minded adult to read the text, and you must not make this text available to minors or to any person who does not wish to view it. Unprotected sexual relations with unknown partners is hazardous and we urge the use of condoms and safe sex at all times.

A few years ago, I met a married woman online. She had two children, as did I, and being in her early 30’s, was a few years my junior. Surprisingly, she only lived about 30 miles from me. We started a mutual instant message flirtation that went on for about a year. She and her husband were frequent swingers. Since he had a vasectomy, she wasn’t on the pill, but always used condoms when swinging. My wife and I had discussed stepping into the lifestyle, but had not yet. Neither of us had been with anyone else in our 20 years together; she could no longer have children, but I could. In a way, as couples we were mirror opposites.

One night, while I was out of town on business, we were chatting online. She begged me for the number to my hotel room saying she desperately needed to finally hear my voice. My mouth was dry and my heart was racing as I gave her the number; we had never spoken before that night.

Minutes passed in silence until the phone rang. I practically leapt from my skin even though I was expecting the call. Her voice was like honey . . . ok, perhaps more like mead as she was pretty tipsy from several glasses of wine. With school-kid awkwardness we said our first hellos as a webcam invitation came up on my screen. I clicked the ‘accept’ button to see her laying nude on her couch, phone to her ear.

“God I need you,” she whispered, running her free hand across her pale flesh. At that moment, I needed her as well, but separated by 1000 miles the phone would have to suffice. I described what I would do if I were there; told her to let her hands be my hands – and did she ever respond. Her breathy arousal was evident on the phone and though her movements over the webcam. “I need you in me,” she gasped. “You’ll have me, feel my warmth in yours,” and knowing she always used condoms with everyone but her husband, I added “skin on skin . . . flooding you with my seed as you cum.”

I could only hear her heavy breathing and see her hand moving between her legs. “I could get pregnant,” she whispered.

“I know,” I replied. “Just once, I want to bury myself within you bareback, nothing between us.”

On camera I witnessed her body shudder and could hear a throaty, staccato groan over the phone.

“Will you have me, this way, just once?” I asked.

I saw her nod.

I asked her again “Tell me . . . will you give yourself to me like this . . . let my seed flood your belly . . . just once?”

Her exhale was a breathy shiver. “Yes.”

We had met only once. It was odd to get a call from her husband telling me she was in the park and waiting for me; that she “really needed” to see me. We talked. We flirted. We kissed. I caressed her breast and she melted. We both wanted more that night, but circumstances denied us. She joked that she might have to “get the shot” because she knew we would end up getting together.

It never happened and over the months we chatted less and less . . . until I accepted the offer of a job in another country. I watched the calendar as my early-fall moving day approached and although I had last heard from her when the leaves that were falling had only begun to emerge from winter’s sleep, I called her.

We knew where one another lived and so, unannounced, I had decided to drive to her town. As I drew near, I dialed the number. She answered and was shocked to hear my voice. I told her that I was nearby, would be in front of her house in 2 minutes, that I desperately needed to see her, and that if she wants to see me as well, to be outside when I stopped. I gave her an out and told her that if she was not there I simply drive home and not bother her again. I hung up.

Two minutes later she was at the curb, in a cute sundress, boots and no makeup. She hopped in and we drove in silence until minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel. I opened my door, exited and came around to open her door. She slid out of the car and looked at me with a cocked head and inquisitive eyes. I took her hand, smiled and asked her to “Trust me”.

We walked up to the room I had purchased that morning. Inside, on the table were a rose, a bottle of wine and two glasses. Being a devout wine lover, she grinned. We talked. We drank. We laughed. I told her that I was leaving the next day. The conversation turned to what might have been had either of us had the courage to act. An hour passed and the bottle was empty. I rose and walked around the table to her side. She watched, smiling. With an arm under her legs and one around her back, I lifted the pixyish woman from her seat and told her it was time to go. Her smile faded with a nod. I continued . . . “Where we go is your choice; right – out the door and back to your house . . . or left – to the bed.”

Her mouth opened but no words come out. Her eyes searched mine, conveying the myriad thoughts racing through the mind behind their crystal blue. She nuzzled her face into my neck and with a barely audible, trembling voice, whispered “I’m not ready to go home”.

I carried her to the bed and lay her on the down comforter as I knelt beside her. Her lips sought mine. We kissed, tentative at first, then with growing familiarity and passion. My mouth slipped from her lips, kissing down her jaw-line, pausing to nibble her ear lobe and whisper to her things only she and I would ever know, and then down her neck, along her shoulder and down the neckline of her dress where my trembling hands struggled to open buttons ahead of my advancing kisses. Her breasts were bare beneath the simple homemade dress; pert mounds of ivory flesh topped by nubs of erect, cherry flesh. She had often denigrated their modest size, but to me they were beyond perfection.

As I drew the thickening flesh between my lips, her hips bucked upward; her hands clawing through my hair, and a contented, closed-lipped groan swam in her throat as deep breaths labored through flared nostrils. I alternated, showering one breast and then the other with affection. Her body writhed on the bed as frustrated whimpers competed with impassioned cries.

“Now!” she hissed.

I pulled away and gave her a devilish grin.

She returned the look with a mischief-filled, wicked smile. “I can’t wait any longer. Grab a condom; let me put it on you.”

I stood and looked down on her beauty. “I didn’t bring any,” I confessed.

Her mouth hung open; silent.

I swallowed back my nervousness. “That night, on the phone when I was back east, you promised me one bareback ride. It has to be now or never.

Her eyes flashed panic. “I can’t.”

I nodded. “I understand. It’s ok. I couldn’t leave without . . .” I couldn’t find the words, so I just turned, picked up my keys from the night stand, and looked back at her. “I’m sorry.”

She reached out and wrapped a hand around mine and the keys I clutched. “Wait . . .” She stared into my eyes, seeking something – what, I would never know. Moments passed before she pried the keys from my fist and let them drop them to the floor. Without a word, she pulled my lips to hers with one arm as the other deftly unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans and drew down the zipper. Without breaking our kiss, she pulled forth and stroked my thickening shaft.

The hunter became the hunted. With knees bent and legs spread wide, she pulled up her skirt, guided me to her slick entrance and coaxed me forward. Still kissing; tongues dancing; one thrust . . . and for the first time in my life I was within a woman who was not my wife. Her sheath was like a vice of boiling liquid velvet around my manhood. She whimpered frantic moans into my mouth as I stirred her heat with long, slow strokes.

We embraced our coupling from vastly differing perspectives. I, savoring her flesh like a connoisseur luxuriating in the opulence of a culinary masterpiece; she ravaging mine like a starving animal tearing into a kill to ensure her very survival.

It was a clash of needs, desires and styles. I fenced with a rapier; she hacked with an axe. I danced the tango; she lunged headlong into a mosh-pit. I sang to her soul; she wept to mine for release. I had sought to coax her into my world, but embraced hers and surrendered to her desperation. Our release was a vociferous symphony leaving no doubt to those nearby of the activities in room 262.

Roaring, I plunged over the edge, unleashing jet after jet of my heat within her depths. She froze, as did I; her eyes wide and focused on mine, body twitching with each shot of my seed into her belly. Our hearts hammered in unison as the ticks of the clock pounded away like a drum.

For a minute, maybe two, we simply gasped for breath, eyes locked, before she reached up to me; I lay my head on a still heaving breast, hot and damp from her exertion. She held me and there we remained until it grew dark outside.

I had known from periodic grumbling regarding her monthly visitor when she would likely be fertile. Despite the complications that would ensue, with all that I was I hoped my daughter had just come to life in within the woman beneath me.

She returned to her home, and I to mine. A week later I was living in a strange land on the other side of the world. My sunset would be her sunrise and we would never see, nor speak to one another again.

Someone was listening however. After four months in my new home I began receiving weekly e-mails with pictures of a swelling belly – nothing more; she never wrote a word. The last picture I received from her, the following summer, was of a babe wrapped in pink suckling at a familiar breast; in this final e-mail, she finally wrote . . . just two words: “Thank You”.