Penthouse by Penthouse Between the Sheets- A Collection of Erotic Bedtime Stories

Author:Penthouse Between the Sheets- A Collection of Erotic Bedtime Stories [MF] (retail) (epub)
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780446539418
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2010-03-27T04:00:00+00:00

Saturnalia in Cyberspace

BY MARY MERCEDES

From the beginning, ours is a love affair that defies sanity. Caressed by the angels. French-kissed by Beelzebub himself. We met on the Internet. Separated by three states, we collide at 70 MHz right inside our computers. “I found you on the very first night I signed up on CompuServe,” he tells me later. I’m a sultry, hyperkinetic gadfly in mental stilettos, slinking and sliding through the sticky electronic interstices. My mouse slithers past the crudest of cretins and zigzags around the most boorish of brutes. It’s all so exquisitely malleable. I simply mold the electronic clay of cyberspace with a few strokes of my keyboard. Weary of the rigid routines and heavy obligations of my life, I look to cyberspace as an ideal pressure valve. Soon I am a shameless renegade, with a following. A typing dervish stuck in overdrive. A cyberdiva radiating erotic cybershocks in my wake.

“Until you, I only used this computer for my business.…”

Later:

He shows me his factory, his office, his desk, his PC, where he writes hundreds of e-mail notes to me. The words tumble out when his blistering tongue in my ear finally rests.

“Until you…”

He bends me over his leather desk chair, lifts up my denim skirt, and fucks me from behind while his calm, neatly coiffured wife smiles sweetly at us from the crystal-framed photographs on the credenza beside us.

Like a possessed, rutting Mephistophelian savage, he takes me. In front of his monitor. On his desk. Again on the floor littered with spilled files and an overturned box of cold computer disks that leave square, pink impressions on my breasts and backside.

We drench the Persian carpet.

We break an antique cabriole armchair.

In between his hissing and moaning, his delirious pumping… the words never stop with this man, and I love him for it.

But this is much later. After the phone sex, the endless fabricated business layovers, and clandestine meetings in my town. After our long escape tryst in Jamaica. Before his wife finds out.

The background to our wildfire:

I am the target of fan mail, hate mail, and lots of just plain male mail. Uninvited, genderless strangers I.S.O. [in search of ] a cheap thrill. Wannabe adulterers who always supply their phone numbers and detailed maps to their home streets in Shelby, Nebraska. Over-testosteroned teenagers bursting with chronic ball pain and zipper stress (in all forty-eight contiguous states and Canada).

A journey into my e-mail box is a trek into a minefield of schizoid musing.

“More obscene propositions?” I inquire with a giggle. “Oh no, please pleeaase! Not another guy with twelve tumescent inches of steel genitalia who wants to know (in 3-D detail) if I’m wearing panties?”

Ignoring almost all of these freaks, I rarely write back to anyone. Then Richard shows up. In the midst of a miserable February blizzard, he finds me.

Both of us are in second marriages. Both infected with midlife madness. Impeccably well-mannered, my Ivy League paramour is the frustrated, erudite CEO of a hightech company in the Northeast crumbling under the crunch of a downsizing defense industry.

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