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Phaedrus and Fermina
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
AUTHORS' NOTE:
Everything that follows really happened.
"Phaedrus" and "Fermina" are the names we use for on-line chat.
If you think that we liked the books "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Maintenance" and "Love in the Time of Cholera," you're absolutely
right.
(Note: By request, we are reposting this story. For us, writing this
story
together helped us rekindle feelings for each other after a long
separation,
and reminded us that connecting as we did, do, and will happens rarely in
a
lifetime. We cherish what we feel for each other.)
Phaedrus
Fermina
November 20, 1994
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PHAEDRUS & FERMINA
A Shared Fantasy Come (Cum?) Real
He had been looking down the airport corridor for a few minutes.
would he recognize her? he'd seen pictures of her, but all he knew
was that she was a tall, pretty blonde. Finally he went out to
the ticket counter and THERE SHE WAS! She was beautiful -- tall,
slim, long blonde hair. She was wearing a leather vest over a
tight red and black shirt, and an indecently short black miniskirt
that showed her legs to wonderful advantage.
"Hi," he said. "You must be Fermina. I'm Phaedrus."
"Hiiii," she purred. "It's so good to meet you at last!"
They hugged each other, then kissed. She was even hotter than she
looked! I wonder what she's like in the sack, he asked himself.
They'd met on a computer network a few months earlier. She had a
nice way about her, kind of girl-next-door, but there was no
mistaking her passion. It hadn't taken them long to start "hot
chatting", typing erotic fantasies back and forth to each other.
She'd sent him some pictures. One had particularly excited him:
she had stood in front of a mirror, wearing only a skimpy bra, and
taken a picture of herself.
* * * * *
She was stunned. He was everything she found attractive in a man.
He had a great body, was tall. But it was his eyes that told the
story: they revealed everything that turned her on ... smart,
clever, penetrating, warm, and overtly sexual. Very sexual. His
clothes were a disheveled mishmash, clean, non-descript, the sign
of a man who knew his own worth and didn't need to embellish what
he was. The sign of a man who wasn't a materialist.
He'd refused to send her a photo. This had worried her a bit, not
that what a man looked like was very important (certainly a couple
of her lovers hadn't been much to look at, but it hadn't mattered
to her). Now she knew why he didn't bother sending a photo. He
knew -- he knew -- that she'd find him attractive. She liked his
confidence, and his refusal to be pre-approved by mail.
For weeks, she had wondered how she'd feel when their eyes met.
She'd first known him as a pal, a nice guy who for some reason
didn't mind her bridge play (relearning the game after a 17-year
absence was excruciatingly difficult and slow), even though he was
a devotee of the game. Months before, when he'd asked her if she'd
play with him at the nationals, she thought nothing more than that
they'd have a great time and it would be pleasant to play with such
a sweet fellow. (Sweet. She smiled to herself, looking at him for
the first time, her nipples and clit swelling in reaction to his
raw sexuality. This guy might be sweet, but she could tell he was
an animal in bed, and that she'd soon find out. The anticipation
was overwhelming. She resented that they had to drive anywhere.
She wanted him.)
During those months preceding their meeting, she'd occasionally
wondered if he had more in mind. Most men did, she reminded
herself. She wondered if she could restrain herself if she found
him appealing, sexy.
Yes, she knew, it would be no problem. After all, he was married,
and she wasn't about to have a fling with a married man. And, she
was an expert at presenting herself asexually to the men she
encountered in her business. She knew, almost too well, how to
keep men at arm's length and rebuff any hint of romance.
One afternoon, while they were playing backgammon on the "live"
online service where they'd met, he and she began to discuss what
it would be like if they were attracted to each other. It was then
she realized he'd been wondering about her as well. Their computer
chat that day rapidly escalated from entertaining the possibility
to very erotic fantasizing.
She couldn't believe what he'd typed to her; this was a side of him
she hadn't begun to imagine. He was obviously very bawdy and loved
sex. As he described his cock and what he was going to do to her,
she was pleasantly shocked by his graphic descriptions. She wanted
to tell him how she'd like to pleasure him. Part of her wondered
if she dared, but she did, reveling in imagining his pleasure, his
reactions.
She got so hot, she began touching herself. She wanted to know if
he was stroking his cock too, but she was too shy to ask him. The
afternoon only ended when another online male pal found her, and
started talking to her. Phaedrus had left very hurriedly, snapping
some remark as he departed. She was frustrated. She hadn't wanted
him to go.
The weeks after were alternately exciting, sexy, maddening, and
upsetting. She'd recently broken off with a man who'd turned out
to be a cad. She was in no mood to get involved in another
serious relationship immediately. Yet, she felt a very powerful
attraction to the sweet Phaedrus, the raunchy Phaedrus. Her
caveats about married men haunted her. Through online chat and
phone conversations, they made rules. This was a fling. Nothing
more. One weekend. Pure pleasure. Somehow, that was almost
acceptable to her.
Then he changed, seemed suspicious; he began grilling her about
why an attractive woman like her would settle for a fling. She
didn't have an adequate answer. Maybe at this point, it was all
she wanted. Maybe he was an interlude before she was ready to
start dating again.
Something about him, besides his brains and warmth, appealed to
her, made her very hungry. His protestations, though, wearied her.
If it was all this complicated for him, and he was so wary of her
and her motives, why bother? Why all the third degree questions,
if he weren't suspicious of her?
She couldn't understand; she wasn't the type of woman to engender
suspicions, and hoped she'd conveyed that to him. After the
initial fantasizing about the fun they'd have, he was making it
burdensome. Although he never cancelled their plans, she decided
that when she picked him up at the airport, that if the mood wasn't
right, if he wasn't friendly, if he didn't turn her on, she'd
politely drop him off at the hotel and go home.
In fact, a few days before he flew out, she'd phoned him and
cancelled. He'd called back, they'd talked. She had backed down,
although she still wondered if it was wise to spend a weekend with
this man. He knew he was turning her off, driving her away. Was
this some special test she had to pass? Didn't he realize that she
didn't have any hidden agendas with him?
She had, quite simply, wanted to enjoy him, pleasure him, play
bridge, knowing she'd probably never see him again. Although she
didn't have ulterior motives or unrealistic fantasies, she did
worry that she might feel more for him than she'd intended. She'd
been alone so long, raising a child and earning a living, that she
could count the times she'd had sex in the last 12 years on her
fingers and toes. She feared that made her more vulnerable.
He, however, was married, had had a steady diet of sex, she
surmised; for him, it would be probably be easy to separate sex
from feeling, attraction from emotion. She relied on that. They'd
have pleasure, and great memories. Although she could never quite
buy that scenario, at least for herself, she thought she could
accept her role, and have a great time.
It is so rare, she decided, that people allow themselves to bring
a much-wanted fantasy to life. Almost all the adult men and women
she knew found reasons to deny themselves a chance for happiness,
not just through living out a fantasy, but also in their daily
interactions, interactions pockmarked by accusations, unrealistic
expectations, fault-finding, ill-conceived worry, or cynicism.
Time after time, she saw new love between a man and a woman become
warped by the negativity and fears of both. It would take, she
knew, an exceptional man, as well as her at her very highest
emotional, philosophical and spiritual levels, for her to ever
feel, and most of all give, real love and to keep it alive by not
allowing each other to taint it. It would take energy and great
sensitivity, as well as remembering, tapping into those special
feelings they'd had initially and that were most certainly still
there. At least, for one weekend, she hoped, the two of them could
give themselves to each other completely.
* * * * *
"How was your flight?" she asked, caressing his back.
"Fine", he said. "I thought about you the whole way."
He put his arm around her slim waist, and they walked out to the
garage. When they got into her car, they wasted no time groping
each other's bodies. He opened the leather vest and caressed her
breasts through the cotton shirt. Her nipples were already
swollen; he rubbed them gently. She reached between his thighs and
massaged his bulging erection through his pants.
He reached up under the cotton shirt and unhooked her lacy white
bra. My god, what nipples she had! Her breasts were warm and soft
under his groping hand. Meanwhile she rubbed his cock and smiled
at him with a guilty look.
"Let's go to the hotel", she said. "It's not far".
Soon the car was speeding away from the airport. In a moment of
impetuousness he unzipped his pants and pushed them down over his
thighs. She reached down with her free hand and stroked his
erection. "My god, you've got a great cock", she said. "I want
you inside me!"
Soon they were in the hotel parking lot. He zipped his pants,
grabbed his one bag from the back seat. They walked in slowly,
arms wrapped, hands wandering up and down each other's bodies. In
the momentary privacy of the garage elevator, they kissed and
pressed their bodies against each other. He checked in.
"I have to call my wife", he said. "Sorry. Can you wait here for
a minute?"
She nodded, shaking her long blonde hair. He hurriedly called his
wife, hoping his thoughts weren't being revealed to the wife on
whom he knew he was about to commit adultery.
Then he went back down to the lobby to get her. He looked closely.
Her bra was still unhooked.
Once inside the room they tore at each other's clothes with
reckless eagerness. Her miniskirt fell away to reveal an exotic
black garter belt, which highlighted her terrific, long legs.
"Oh, God, Fermina", he said. "You're gorgeous".
They lay down on the bed. He pressed his chest against her breasts
and ran his finger lightly over her blonde pubic hair. He pushed
his middle finger into her, and she moaned and gyrated her hips to
press herself against his finger.
"Let me suck on your cock", she pleaded. Then her wide mouth was
surrounding him, thrusting up and down.
She rolled over on her back, spreading her legs to him. She
reached down, taking his cock, and placed it at the entrace to her
vagina. Slowly he pumped into her. Gradually their fucking became
faster and faster. Soon they were uncontrollably enjoying each
other to the fullest. Her breathing became shorter, faster. "Oh,
oh, oh! oh!...."
As she approached her climax, her breasts jiggled slightly, her
nostrils flared, and she shrieked "Ohhh...!"
He exploded into her, wave after wave of pleasure rolling over his
body. They held each other tightly and reveled in each other's
sheer pleasure.
* * * * *
So there she was, looking for him in the airport. When she spotted
him, she reached out at the same instant he did ... God his body
felt good ... she looked into his eyes. They reflected his warmth,
but more so his desires. His hands roamed over her as if they'd
been lovers for a while.
When they got in her car, he reached over to her, kissed her. She
could feel the heat of his body, his excitement. God, what a sexy
man! He was very aggressive. Touching her everywhere. She was
taken aback, felt so shy, but his urgency, his passion were
overwhelming.
She saw the bulge in his pants. She wanted to rub his cock through
the thick material. Finally, she couldn't keep her hands from
wandering and caressing his cock. His eyes were wild from being
so aroused. He spread his legs a bit, allowing her hand to slip
down and rub his balls ... she stroked his balls and his cock ...
she imagined what it would be like if he entered her. His hips
were moving in response to her touch. His hands were all over her,
up inside her sweater, reaching up her skirt and feeling her moist
puss.
When they finally pulled out of the airport parking lot, they
laughed. Wouldn't it have been great if someone had been watching
them? Maybe someone had. She knew he was like her. A part of him
wanted someone to see her breast as he'd pulled up her top and
reached inside her bra. They both had a bit of the exhibitionist
in them, although she recognized that he, like her, was far too
pragmatic to ever risk public exposure. The fantasy, though, was
such a turn-on.
She glanced at him. He smiled. It was his naughty boy smile.
She'd just met this man face-to-face, but she knew that look. Then
he pulled his zipper down, and when she turned again to look at
him, she saw his cock. It was incredible. She felt that electric,
lightning shock shoot up from her clit to her vagina and up her
body. Her nipples pressed against her shirt. She smiled and
reached over, and grasped his cock. What a cock! It was huge,
swollen, moistened with pre-cum. She touched the head, explored,
felt the ridge that ringed his cock. She wanted to pull off the
freeway and give him a blow job. Then she wanted to sit on his
cock and wiggle her hips as she guided him inside her. He was so
big, she hoped she could take him ....
When they arrived in his room, he reached out to her, pressed his
body hard againsther. She could feel his cock was still hard. Her
hands reached down, stroked it through his pants. She peeled his
pants off, kneeled before him as he pulled her top over her head.
She took his cock in her mouth, tasting his cum, licking up and
down and around as her hands lightly touched his balls. He was
holding her head, pushing her face into his belly. Her eyelashes
were flicking against his groin. He tasted so good. His cock was
even harder now. He was thrusting inside her mouth as her tongue
flicked the tip of his penis.
He lifted her up, and took her skirt off. She knew in a minute
she'd be standing there completely naked, in the light, while he
looked her over. She fought her shyness. She'd always wanted the
lights out, she'd avoided sex in the daytime. She realized he
didn't know he was the first man she'd allowed to see her entire
body in the light. She recognized that he had no idea how
incredibly difficult this was for her to be so exposed and yet how
very exciting, although frightening, it was.
He stripped her panty hose down, unfastened her bra. She looked
at his cock, reached out to touch it, slick and wet from her saliva
and his pre-cum. Her other hand stroked his buttocks, his back.
She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled his pants down more, made him sit
on the bed while she pulled his pants and briefs, then his socks,
off. Her hands slid up his legs, caressing, tickling, teasing.
They laid down on the bed, their bodies pressing against
each other.
His heat, his passion, his energy. He was incredible. She
remembered the shy, sweet guy she'd known for months. Never in her
wildest dreams had she predicted he would be like this. He was
unhibited, forceful, sexy, wild. Her pussy was aching for him to
enter her. He was fingering her clit, sucking on her breasts.
She started begging him to put his cock inside her. She reached
down, began stroking his hard cock again, rubbing it against her
thigh while she rubbed her pussy against his leg. When he mounted
her and began to penetrate her, she gasped. He was so hard, so
big. He pressed against her opening as she felt her vagina loosen,
giving into his pressure.
As his cock entered her, he filled her completely. She felt her
pussy contracting. She was so close to coming. His cock rubbed
her inside, while it pulled on her pussy lips. She jutted her hips
to bring him further inside her as she squeezed her vagina around
his cock. He leaned towards her, kissed her, tongued her lips and
mouth. She raised her body so she could rub her breasts against
his chest. Every time he pushed inside her, she felt that same
electricity coursing through her. Her clit was throbbing, her
vagina was sensitized to every inch of him, her uterus was
contracting as she came. When her orgasm hit, she cried out. Then
he stroked his cock inside her with hard, deliberate motions and
sighing, fell spent on top of her as she wrapped her arms around
him.
She felt such an inner glow, so very satisfied. It was exquisite.
She didn't want him to move off of her. She could have fallen
asleep with him lying on top of her, his full weight pressed
against her warmed body. When he did, she sighed a bit. He felt
so very, very good.
They lit cigarettes, cuddled, chatted. She knew that what she had
done was all right. How could anything that felt so wonderful be
wrong? She could even accept the terms and limitations of their
contract. It was a joy to feel unabashed, unencumbered pleasure.
She wished that he were single and available, but didn't dwell on
it. What was the point? He'd made his commitment to his marriage
so very clear to her. She admired that about him greatly. She
sensed that, although he was truly dedicated to his marriage,
that perhaps something was amiss, else why would he be here with
her?
He seemed the type of man who didn't frivolously alley-cat about.
He had a seriousness about him that denied the possibility of that
kind of behavior (the same seriousness that had made her feel so
uncomfortable when he'd grilled her before they'd met).
That this wasn't his typical behavior was very important to her for
many reasons. The last time a married man had made a pass at her,
it had been a client whose wife was in the hospital having just
given birth to their second child. Both this man and his wife, a
prominent stage actress, had been clients and friends for years.
She'd asked him to help her get the belt back on her vacuum
cleaner, and as they'd both been working on the machine, he'd
grabbed her, pulled her to her feet, and pressed his body against
her. She'd felt such revulsion towards this man that it was all
she could do to politely rebuff him and get him out of her house
as quickly as possible.
Phaedrus was unique, she knew. And there was something about him
that had drawn her to him and allowed her to trust him. Trust did
not come easily for her, but that was another long story. Phaedrus
had an authenticity about him. He was what he was. It was
so refreshing, and so attractive.
He was sleepy. She wanted to enjoy him some more and told him to
turn on his stomach. She'd brought a massage oil with her that
she'd hoped she'd have a chance to use. She poured some in her
palm, warmed it in her hands, and began massaging his neck and
back. She liked touching his body. It had given her such
pleasure. She stroked his arms, his shoulders, pressed especially
into the small of his back, and let her hands glide down his
buttocks to his thighs.
She looked at his body, studied it, as she touched it. His legs
were spread, and in the light, she could see between his legs, his
balls. Her fingers massaged and touched and explored.
She wondered how he felt about being so exposed to her, his
buttocks spread. She wondered what her touch might do for him, as
her fingers lightly rubbed down his crack to his balls, her hands
brushing the inside of his thighs, her still-swollen puss resting
lightly on his leg. She hoped he'd lie there and allow himself to
receive pleasure, focusing only on each sensation that her touch
brought him.
She murmured something to him. He didn't respond. Then she
realized that he was asleep. She laughed. How could someone fall
asleep while being so openly explored and looked at and touched?
However, she was pleasuring so much in touching him that she
continued, knowing that his body, if not his mind, would experience
her touch.
She stroked his thighs, his calves, his feet. She massaged his
feet for a long time for they looked as though they had walked upon
too many cement sidewalks and not enough sand or grass. She rubbed
oil into his soles, slowly, methodically, patiently.
For her, sensuality melded with sexuality. She wondered what
turned him on most. She wanted him to tell her. Her entire body
was an erogenous zone, although her most sensitive areas were the
side of her neck, her eyes, her scalp, the insides of her ears, her
back, the insides of her thighs, and all of her pussy.
Having a massage was for her an erotic prelude; it relaxed her,
warmed her, aroused her. For a long time, she'd not thought her
breasts that sensitive, but that had changed when, after reading
some erotica, she'd rubbed her clit very slowly and lightly while
pulling on her nipples. Having slept alone so much in the last few
years, masturbation had become as much a solace as a relief, and
it had taught her much about which fantasies aroused her more, what
ways of touching stimulated her most.
When she was younger, she'd masturbated occasionally with one aim:
orgasm. Now, she touched herself in a more lingering fashion. The
escalating excitement, each sensation, each twinge, as she filed
through the fantasies in her mind, searching for the one that night
that would most excite her, were what felt best. Many times she
did not want to come. She did not want the sensations to end.
But, while the masturbating had become a highly erotic and
enjoyable experience, it was nothing compared to seeing and feeling
Phaedrus' pleasure and excitement, and it was nothing compared to
his touching her.
Afterwards, and remembering their sex earlier, not as a video
replay in her mind but more as an all-encompassing fusion of heat
and connection and orgasm, she smoked a last cigarette and gazed
at him sleeping.
Finally, for the first time, she turned out the lights, slipped
under the covers and felt him without seeing him.
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