Thin Grey Line

Apprehensive, but increasingly thrilled, she read the stories he wrote about her, thrilled because they were about her, apprehensive because they were by him, that he was not her husband, and that she was crossing yet another thin grey line in reading.

The first story, the one about her neck, was mildly interesting, the second one, about her reading his website and not riding her husband struck her as not quite about her; she did not use that term herself, "riding," but still the word, and the image that went with it stuck with her, as did the thrill that he had held her in such high regard for so many years, but that too brought with it some apprehension. And then finally the one about her reading the poetry, reading the poetry and making herself come, that one really got to her, made her want to make herself come to the story about her making herself come, but that would have definitely been crossing a line she did not want to cross, and so she merely thought about it, and when he asked in an email she replied truthfully, wondering what his reaction would be, if he would make himself come as he had in the other stories, make himself come from reading an email she had written about almost making herself come from reading a story about her making herself come that he had written, or if he would just think about it or he would start and then not finish, denying himself as she had denied herself to make a connection, wondered if wondering was in itself crossing a line, and if he was crossing that line by reacting.

She was still wondering in the back of her mind, when she mounted her husband and began the steady rise and fall that brought it all back to the front. "Huh," she smiled to herself, "riding." Not even wondering in the simple pleasure of the realization, of the much greater pleasure of the riding itself, if she had crossed a line, or that at least he would see it that way when she mentioned it to him in an email, that she was thinking of him while riding her husband, not wondering how he would respond, if he would stroke himself as he read the email, if he would, eventually sit down and write a story about her reading the stories he had written about her, about her writing the emails in response about the stories themselves and thinking about making herself come and thinking about the story as she rode her husband, about him reading the responses and being excited by the responses and eventually writing this story, wondering as he wrote how she would react, if he was crossing a line by writing, crossing a line by wondering, crossing a line by picturing a particular reaction, a stepping across, a letting go, a collective built up self-induced mind-blowing orgasm that she deserved, and that he, through his writing, so badly wanted to give her.

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