copyright © 1994 William D. Brame
This story appeared in edited form in Hot
Talk (1994), and in The Best of Penthouse Hot Talk (1995).
The first one I met was Beckie. I had never seen her, never heard
her voice, never knew her scent or the rustle of her skin against
her clothing: I knew her thoughts on a computer screen. I knew
her lusts. That's the essence of cybersex, the words on the screen
to titillate, the knowledge that somewhere a woman is sitting
breathing hard as you as she writes and reads, squirming as you
are, stealing a hand from the keyboard to make sensation of script.
Minds meet in cyberspace: bodies burn alone.
Beckie wasn't my first cybersex partner. They were legion, late-night
lovers joined in cyberspace, a roiling orgy of white typeface
on a glowing blue screen. My first time, when I was still new
to computers and cyberspace, I stumbled into a real- time conference
quite unaware, jarred to a full stop by line after flashing line
of mutually-masturbatory script. If there had been anyone around
in realspace I might've cracked a joke and moved on. But I was
alone, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise: it aroused
me. When I was in my teens, I used to make myself crazy thinking
about all the people who must've been fucking at that very moment
of thought, and where was mine? It was pretty much the same concept,
made real on a computer monitor where I could watch, where I could
The names and handles scroll out of memory just as they scrolled
off the screen. Tawny, who wanted me to describe my tongue: Erika
and her vibrator; Rickie, who was a man; Joan and her amazing
interactive husband; so many more. Cybersex moves fast. In an
evening I could have as many as five or six partners, all of us
trying to shovel as much hot chat as we could into print buffers
or onto disk for later, leisurely viewing.
But then there was Beckie, my great first. She was the first
whose fantasies always interested me, without fail. She was wise
and warm, a woman of experience with a 'body made for love,' or
so she said. She wanted to be talked into it, a nice girl whose
flesh betrayed her morals, whose appetites tore away hesitation.
Take me, oh, take me, she typed, and I did, our typing
and spelling becoming increasingly erratic until our screens sat
blank, our fingers better employed.
It was she who suggested that we might move further, into phone.
I typed my number and logged off to free the phone line, tearing
out of my office to the bedroom. Minutes passed and she did not
call, then the phone rang and caught me pacing in the hall wondering
if she really would call, and I snatched up the phone on the fourth
ring out of breath. "Hi, lover," Beckie murmured, low and throaty,
as she greeted me every time after that, always with the same
warning immediately thereafter: "We have to talk soft. My roomie's
As her roomie slept, I took her, instructing her, listening to
the crisp background sounds of clothing sliding from her limbs,
to her restrained gasps of excitement as I teased her beyond primness,
telling her of how I would find her alone and naked, asleep possibly,
and how I would begin stroking her soft skin, brushing her nipples
and belly and thighs, until she squirmed into wakeful arousal
to become my living fuck doll. And that did it, the words, the
concept, fuck doll. It sent her over the top: the phone
crackled with her orgasm.
It was I who suggested meeting in person. She was hesitant. So
was I, but I had a conviction that this was it, that in a meeting
of minds I had found the woman who was made for me. The more she
hesitated the more I seized the advantage, finding her buttons
and pushing them. I set up the ultimate fantasy. We would take
a hotel room. She would arrive first, check into the room, undress,
and lay naked on her stomach waiting for me. She wouldn't know
when I would appear. When I did, I would begin using her for my
pleasure, examining her in every detail, touching everything,
teasing her until she pleaded to be used as a fuck doll....
It took weeks to set up, finding a hotel, getting vacation times,
arranging and coordinating a hundred details in our late- night
talks before telling her how she would squirm as I shaved the
hair from her pubic mound. The day came, and I was useless at
work, a priapic zombie checking the clock every five minutes.
After work was worse. Finally, at seven, I caught a cab to the
hotel and picked up my key at the front desk, fidgeting in the
elevator and wishing I'd taken the stairs.
Easing the door open, I stepped inside the darkened room and
listened. There was steady, sighing breathing, the almost- snore
of a sleeping woman. In the dim, unfamiliar spaces, I groped to
the bed and stood over her, smelling perfume and talc. I touched
her back and she shuddered faintly. She was warm and soft. I trailed
my fingers down her back to the swell of her buttocks, then gently,
insistently, began to roll her over. Her body was heavy with sleep.
Her body, I realized, was just plain heavy.
But it didn't matter! I wouldn't be so callow as to let that
make a difference. At least not at the moment.
"Hi, lover," she whispered, waking. My senses thrilled at the
familiar sound of her voice.
"Roll over, my darling," I said. She did. The bed rocked and
swayed. I ran my hands over her ripe, fleshy breasts, feeling
her nipples harden to my touch. I explored the outline of her
body and it was large, yes, but exciting and so responsive. I
nudged her legs apart and traced up her trembling thighs to her
womanhood. Her curls were damp and hot: I parted the fringe with
one finger and touched her moist, hot flesh.
"Please, don't tease me," she said.
I rubbed her lightly with my finger and said, softly, "My fuck
doll." Her lips fluttered under my touch. Her legs squeezed my
"I can't stand it, really, I've wanted this so long." Beckie
humped her hips up, rubbing herself against my hand, sighing with
pleasure. I thought of all my elaborate plans to tease her, to
make her spread her pussy lips and display herself, to make her
plead for relief, and I felt her desire and its immediacy and
began stripping out of my clothes. I fell into bed beside her
and we grappled like wrestlers, hands tugging and grasping, lips
melding, a jumble of bodies and movement. She rolled over to the
side of the bed and I heard a crackle of ripped foil: her hands
sought and seized my penis, and I felt the cool slickness of lubricated
gel as she rolled a condom onto me. Before I could react to that,
she slammed me onto my back and mounted me, her hand gripping
the base of my penis and guiding me in, hard. I yelped as her
weight drove her encircling hand down over my testicles: she released
her grip and began riding me. "Now you're my fuck doll!" she growled.
"Oh, yeah!" I shouted back. "Take me!"
Her vagina clenched me like a fist. She seized my nipples and
twisted them, plunging up and down atop me as if she rode a horse.
The sensation was so intense I could only groan: I felt my orgasm
gathering speed and cried out as her clasping womanhood stroked
me to climax. Her body went rigid, locking me in place as she
cried out in pleasure. She collapsed limply, then, and panted
into my neck.
"That was...." I murmured.
"Just a sec," she said weakly. She fumbled between us and seized
my cock, holding the condom in place as she detached us. "You
"That was incredible." I kissed her cheek and face.
"I can't stay," she said.
"Pardon?" I said.
"I should have told you from the first," she said. "I'm married."
"Oh," I said.
She rolled over me--I uttered a startled woof!-- and padded
off to the bathroom. I saw a slice of pink buttock as she flipped
on the light and closed the door. A moment passed, water hissing
in the shower. "You mad?" she shouted.
"I don't know," I said.
"No!" I shouted.
The shower shut off. I lay listening to the rasp of her toweling
off. The door clicked open: I saw a slice of her blue skirt before
she flipped off the light. "Maybe we'll do it again soon," she
said, kissing me goodbye, but of course we never have.
I was a changed man after Beckie. It's part of the natural evolution
of cybersex: disillusion shortly sets in. However disgruntled
I got, though, the immediacy of cyberspace always brought me back.
The instant of log-on brings contact with hundreds of others,
all there for the same reasons, cybercruisers on the prowl. I
was more discriminating--among other things, I had just realized
how many cybertransvestites there were--but I was there, and there
I met Julie.
Julie's thing--ah, how we all get tagged by our things, in cyberspace--was
her willingness to explore any fantasy, the ultimate hedonist.
Once I got beyond a preoccupation with that, I found her an interesting
person, smart, self-consciously funny. I suggested an exchange
of photos to our respective post office boxes and, of course,
asked if she were married. She was not.
The photo I received was a Polaroid shot of a pretty, slender
blonde woman, without a stitch of clothing. Behind her, blurrily,
there was a bed heaped with raincoats: I assumed the picture had
been taken at a party. I had sent her a picture of me coming out
of a pool, which I had thought risque, in my innocence. I cringed
as one who has made an inappropriate gift and took her photo home
for closer perusal.
We progressed to phones soon thereafter. The promise of fulfilling
any fantasy is exciting, but the reality is that one runs out
of fantasies. With increasing eagerness, I began pumping her for
her fantasies. She professed not to have any. "What I like," she
would say, in a Texas drawl, "is to know that I am pleasing
my partner." I would go back to the well for more fantasies, but
I was running dry.
"Well, I do have one fantasy," she confessed at last.
"Yeah?" I said happily.
"I have never told my fantasy to anybody," she said.
"High time, eh?" I said, touching myself anticipatorily.
"But I've told you so much, and you accept me," I entreated,
paranoid when she didn't answer all that quickly.
"Yeeeees," she said. "But yours are okay."
That flipped me, since admitting to those fantasies had required
depths of strength I had never thought I possessed. When would
I ever have told anyone else about the kidnapped cheerleader fantasy?
About the gang-bang in the shower room? I sputtered in pained
defense of my perversity.
"Oh, I couldn't say it," Julie said. "I could do
Once again, I reserved a room at the hotel, with the change that
this time I would wait naked for her.
"You're not married?" I asked, the night before her flight.
"And this whatever isn't going to, like, kill me or anything?"
"Bless your heart, sugar, no." Which was reassurance enough,
apparently, because I went to the hotel the next afternoon.
I went to sleep after awhile: calling Julie in her time zone
kept me up half the night, night after night, and I fell asleep
any time my body was horizontal. I woke and knew Julie was there.
I could feel her presence in the room. I could see an odd band
of light at the extreme bottom of my vision, disconcerting until
I turned my head on the pillow and realized I was wearing a blindfold.
I started to touch it.
"You leave that on, sugar," Julie said. "If I told you to close
your eyes you'd peek." Her hands gripped my shoulders. "I need
you to get up a minute." She guided me to my feet and nuzzled
against me a moment, sucking my nipple wetly. I felt a flutter
of excitement, and she touched my cock. "You hold that thought,"
I stood as she moved away and began, from the sound of it, making
the bed. There was an odd squeak in the sound. It made me think
of the balloon man in the park when I was a kid, a guy with clown
makeup who used to make balloon animals. There would be that same
squeak as he twisted the balloons together. I pushed the thought
out of my mind. The balloon man used to scare the hell out of
me. The memory clashed with the mood.
"You set down," Julie purred, and gave me a little shove. I stumbled
back onto the bed, which was peculiarly cold and resilient. I
put down my hand and felt it. There was a rubber sheet stretched
over the bed.
"Now take that blindfold off, if you like," she said. I did.
She stood in front of me in the glare of the overhead light, sheathed
in fiery red from her to toe. I blinked and squinted. She was
molded in red rubber, like a wetsuit. Her pert breasts bobbed
from openings in the front. A hood hid all her head save her face.
I sat up and looked her over, up and down. She wore red rubber
booties. She wore red rubber gloves.
"Aren't you hot in all that?" I blurted.
"You want to run screaming, now's the time," she said.
"The raincoats," I said.
"That's right," she said. "So how about it?" Her voice was tight
and tense: her breasts were bobbing with rapid breathing.
"See for yourself," I invited, lying back to expose my erect
cock: thinking, though, this is pretty weird.
She turned off the light and leaped lightly beside me, and I
took her in my arms. I found the rubber oddly exciting: it rubbed
against my cock and the slickness of it, the sleekness, made me
grind myself into her, savoring the contact. I rolled half on
top her and humped myself against her belly, taking her nipple
in my mouth.
"You like it?" she whispered.
"Oh, yes," I said, moving to her other breast.
"You willing to go all the way? The way I like it?"
"Oh, you bet, Julie. This is...oh, this is too much..." I was
really turned on.
"You got one of those things?" she asked. I made the lonely trip
to the nightstand and tore out one of those things.
"You got to be sure," she cautioned me.
"I'm sure!" I was lying.
"I have to be on top," she said. So I lay down and she slithered
on top. There was, to my relief, an opening in the crotch of her
suit. She sank onto me, taking her time about it, tight and moaning
a little as she forced herself down. "Mmmmm," she said. "Oh. Yeah."
She stretched with a groan of rubber across my chest, resting
her weight on her hands, on my wrists.
She was fucking me, holding me down, and it was great. A strand
of her hair escaped the hood and fluttered against my face. Her
hot breath exploded on my cheek. I felt a flood of warmth across
my thighs and belly. "Aaaaah!" she cried. She was peeing all over
"My God," I said.
"Shhhhh!" she hissed. The rubber, wet, began to rasp on my belly
and thighs, the moisture making the hairs stick. It was plucking
the hairs one by one.
I began to struggle. Her hands were like iron: her body quivered
with strength. She drove onto me hard, her clasping muscles milking
me, keeping me erect despite the pain and confusion. I started
bucking my hips, trying to stroke into her faster and harder.
I wanted her to come. Soon.
"Uhhhhh," she said. "Aaaaaah. Aaaah." She dug her fingers into
my wrists, the rubber pads of her gloves grinding. "Come for me,
come for me now..."
Lord, I thought, can I fake it? But I didn't need
to. As if it had only been waiting recognition, my orgasm boiled
up out of me. I came so hard it stung, especially when she kept
milking me and riding me, clamping down in orgasm when I was ready
to scream in pained protest.
We showered together. Her body, unclothed, was a sleek delight
to soap. Mine was red and irritated from the wet rubber.
"You didn't like it," she said.
Of course, I said it was great, what else? We cleared the rubber
sheet away and made love again. She kept reaching up to the head
of the bed and fondling her hood.
We had breakfast together and never saw each other again. We
planned to, at first, but neither of us pushed for it. We just
weren't right together. Once she had had her fantasy made real,
Julie couldn't go back to hiding it: she started prowling cyberspace
looking for someone who shared her desires, and the last I heard,
I was glad for her. As for me, I tried the real world for a time,
and it was just awful. I was used to computer speed and in the
real world, computer speed brings on face-slaps and frosty goodbyes.
It takes date after date to reach the same level of communication
one gets in ten minutes in cyberspace. I went back to the cyber
saloon, and left the singles bars behind.
Then at last there was Elaine. By the time I found Elaine I was
a cyber old-timer, and so was she. A lot of the initial awkwardness
just never happened: we clicked right off. We had the same fears,
the same sorts of disappointments, apparently some of the same
fantasies: she responded eagerly to the kidnapped cheerleader,
We made the exchange of photos, we started burning up the long-distance
wires, and everything seemed to proceed like clockwork. I would
take out her picture at work and moon over it. She was 28: her
photo made her seem like 19 or 20. She wore her sandy blonde hair
loose and long. Her eyes were the sort of blue that comes out
clear in photographs.
Twice burned and twice shy, when the time to meet came I didn't
even suggest the hotel. Instead, I arranged a business trip to
her city and we met for the first time in a restaurant. I was
blown away by her. I was like a kid on his first date: I was so
rapt in her beauty I couldn't hear what she said half the time.
It was like having someone smack a sucker punch into my gut, the
same sort of surprise and breathlessness. I wanted Elaine like
"You don't look like a computer nerd," she said, desperate, apparently,
to get me to talk about something.
"I'm not," I said. "I'm a telecommunications engineer. We're
introducing wireless modems."
"What's the point of that?" she asked, and I showed her. I lifted
my attache and there, in the restaurant, logged onto our bulletin
board with my notebook. I pushed it over to Elaine. She looked
at the screen and started typing. For the next five minutes, at
least, the only sound at our table was the brittle tapping of
the keyboard. People were turning to stare.
"They're bringing our order," I said.
"Just a second," she said absently.
"Oh, the usual," she said, and logged off.
After dinner she dropped me at my hotel, and I accepted that
philosophically. Don't rush it. Later, though, the front desk
announced a visitor, and she came up to my room in a long raincoat.
I somewhat apprehensively asked her in. She handed me a plastic
bag and I looked inside. There was a coil of clothesline.
"What...?" I started to ask, and looked up. Elaine was shrugging
out of the raincoat. She wore a pleated skirt and a sweater, bobby
socks and saddle shoes.
"Class of '83 and it still fits," she said.
I was white-hot.
"Oh, what are you going to do to me?" she cried in mock alarm.
I whipped clothesline around her wrist and tied it to the other,
behind her. "First," I growled lustily, "let's see if you remembered
your panties." She had, but it was the work of a moment to get
them off. She didn't really resist.
I tied her to the chair. I tied her to the clothes rail. I tied
her to the bed. I was a wild man. She still wore her saddle shoes
and socks when I took her, the heels digging dents into my buttocks
that were still apparent the next morning. It seemed to go on
for hours. She writhed beneath me and whimpered, the clothesline
creaking as she twisted her bound wrists.
Afterward, I released her and she melted into my arms. We kissed
and joked, fondling one another sleepily. I almost passed out:
I was drifting on the edge of sleep, in that weird border between
dream and reality. I felt the bed shift as Elaine got up. I heard
the bathroom door click. She came out wearing the cheerleader's
pleated skirt, but it jutted peculiarly at the front. There was
an electronic beep, which I assumed with dream logic was the soundtrack
acknowledging my puzzlement. Beep. She lifted the skirt, slowly.
A thick leather harness was buckled to her loins. Beep, beep.
"Oh. God, no," I said, chagrined and incredibly aroused. Beep.
I tried to flee: I couldn't move. Ropes the size of battleship
hawsers held my wrists and ankles. She strutted forward, the flesh-colored
dildo jouncing wildly and proudly. Beep, beep, beep.
Oh, yeah, I thought. S'okay. Just a dream. And
I plunged into dreamless sleep.
The next night the kidnapped cheerleader escaped her bonds and
tied me to the bed, enjoying a long, slow revenge that left me
quivering in lust. Afterward, I was exhausted. I went to sleep
as if I'd been anesthetized. In the cold, gray light of morning,
I saw Elaine at the foot of the bed, naked, peering into my attache
case. "I was just sneaking a look at your setup," she said, seeing
"Ah, ah," I said. "Sneaks get spanked." I caught her just before
the bathroom door.
My next visit I went straight to her house and the sex, again,
was fabulous. Better than ever, for me. For her...I had a sense
of something missing, a reserve, maybe, that we weren't breaking
through. It was nothing I could identify, but I'm not much of
a sleuth. I am, however, persistent, and that evening and night
I wore myself to a frazzle exciting Elaine. She was wet, flushed,
panting, everything one could ever hope for, and yet I don't think
she ever came. I didn't think I'd ever seen her come.
My sleep was gloomy and fitful, and I woke to hear a strange,
familiar sound. Beep. Beep. I got up and tiptoed over to the bedroom
door, tripping on the cheerleader skirt, catching myself on the
door frame. The door eased open a crack.
Elaine sat before a glowing computer monitor in a tiny office
lined with bookshelves. There was another beep. I knew that beep
well now that I recognized its context. It accompanied a private
message sent on-line. Elaine shifted in her seat. Bathed in the
glow of the screen, she was naked. Her fingers clacked furiously
across the keyboard. She was squeezing her legs together: I saw
her shadowed feet writhing over one another, crossing her ankles
again and again. Her nipples, bouncing with her movements, were
highlighted against the screen, hard as diamonds.
I felt like bursting in, like something out of an old melodrama,
crying "Betrayed!" Just then Elaine threw her head back, teeth
clenched, and gave a mighty, repressed groan. She braced her hands
on either side of the keyboard and bent over, shuddering, her
hair swinging in front of the monitor like a curtain. She was,
apparently, capable of an orgasm.
I started gathering up my clothes, with the idea of quietly slipping
away, feelings hurt. I picked up my suitcase and attache case,
bundling my clothes beneath my arm. There was another series of
beeps from the other room and I paused. I looked at the attache
I had never had trouble in cyberspace. It was in realspace that
things went to pot.
It was the work of a moment to log on and find Elaine. I sent
her a private message. What if there were a man in the other
Her message beeped back. Who is this?
I typed on. And this man came in and found you there, naked,
"Is that you?" she cried.
Give me a cheer, I typed.
"Rah!" she shouted. And typed, What would you do to me?
I shifted on the bed and touched myself, anticipatorily. I'd
take some nice, soft cotton rope.... I began.
And who knows? One of these days, we'll meet in the doorway.