FAWC 1: Was It Real?

(Moderator's Note: This story is a submission to the first Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC). The true author of this story is kept anonymous, but will be revealed on June 22nd, 2013, in the comments section following this story. Each of the stories in this challenge are centered around the common theme of the main character being an author who then experiences the erotic and/or unusual events he or she writes about. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.)

(Author's Note: This story contains the theme of erotic coupling.)

* * * *

«I want to suck your big stiff prick, I want to put my warm soft wet mouth around the fat mushroom head of your cock and lick you with my tongue, till you're nearly cumming, you filthy son of a bitch.»

Staring at the words scrolling out on his computer screen, Joe gave a whimper and clenched his knees together. His blood was up and running, his penis actually stirring with excitement. He moaned and shut his eyes, opening them to look at the box waiting for his reply.

His fingers were trembling, they felt like fat sausages, like ten erect penises pushing at the keyboard as if the keys were teeth behind which was a warm soft wet mouth.

«You dirty cock-sucking whore,» he typed. His eyes sparkled, he felt the quiver in his thighs and his dick. «Suck on me, bitch.» He was about to press the return key when he had an inspiration and added: «*I am holding the back of your head with my gentle fingers.*»

There was a pause. Had he spoilt the mood? He stared anxiously at the offending word: 'gentle'. He put one hand into his unzipped trousers and fingered his as yet soft cock. Ach, damnation! He had turned her off.

Then the pen started scrolling, as if it was a finger running along his penis. The words started scrolling out on his screen again. He sensed the laughter with which this woman always joyously engaged in the sniggering exchange of filthy terms of abuse. After his lapse, her words seemed enhanced by an answering gentleness, a tender touch.

«You fucking son of a bitch, I'm yours forever. Hold my head gently while I suck hard on your cock. I'm so wet becuz I luv to suck on you. I'm your cock-sucking whore. Fuck my mouth. Slide your meaty dick in and out my lips. I'm kissing your dick as it goes in and out my lips, I'm sucking on your cock.»

At this, and with the desperate encouragement of teasing fingers, Joe's penis had grown considerably. He began grunting softly, continuing to type clumsily with one hand and a quarter of his concentration.

«Fuck yourself with 1 hand while you suck me, bitch.»

«Uh uh uh, I'm so excited!!! Your fucking dick is so big, big boy. Fuck my mouth, you fucking bastard. Push the soft head past my lips. I'm sucking your cock, push past into my mouth. My tongue is caressing your prick.»

«Ohhhhhhhh ...» Joe typed hurriedly. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his hand furiously up and down his fattening penis. He tried to keep the volume of grunting ecstasy down, his lips clamped tight. He tried to keep the level of excitement up. His eyes flew open in despair, was he going to have to fake it again?

«I love your fat big mushroom of a cock's head pushing into my mouth. My tongue is licking up your shaft. My tongue is licking the big vein in it, up to the head of your big dick. You fucking wanker, you son of a bitch. Squirt in my mouth. I want your cum, I want it NOW!!!»

A sudden joyous gush surged in Joe's loins, the spunk came shooting from his balls up the rod of his cock. He gave a muffled cry, spurting jizz into his hand, on his trousers, but he didn't care, he didn't care. The typing on the screen was somewhat coherent for someone who was supposed to be fucking herself with one hand, but he was too rapt in his personal ecstasy at that moment to notice.

He gasped and wiped one hand on his trousers, brushed an ecstatic tear away with the gentle fingers of the other hand. He had learned that people would switch offline quickly if they were left hanging and so he hurriedly went to type:

«Thank you. Thank you.»

It was hardly in character for the big bad boy he pretended to be in the chat room. He had found that women adored not just a mean-mouthed bad boy but the thought that they had captured the special interest of the bad boy. With this one he actually had to try not to gush as gratefully as he really wanted to. He had always been a gentleman; he let himself at least be appreciative. Words came scrolling back along the screen to him:

«It was good for me too.» He realised then that she had as usual played a voyeuristic role in this interaction. Hurriedly she added: «You fucking bastard.»

He laughed. He could almost hear her laughing too. He was about to start typing his reply when there was a knock on his door.

"Joe, Joe," an anxious maternal voice enquired. "Are you all right?"

He squeezed his face up in angry frustration. It was so infuriating, being dragged back into dull reality at this moment of bliss.

"I'm fine," he called back, striving to keep the post-orgasmic tremble out of his voice.

"I've got a cup of tea for you."

"Fuck fuck shit," he muttered furiously. Hurriedly he typed: «Gotta go» and pressed return. His trembling fingers shot the pointer to turn off the chat box, the chat room, the gif site in the background. He scooted his chair so that his uncovered crotch and stained trousers were hidden by the computer desk.

He had pulled up an innocuous Word page by the time the tea was being put down beside him.

"Still working on the family history," the indulgent motherly voice grated on ears which were still tingling from virtually hearing rude abuse. "It'll be War and Peace by the time you've finished."

"Ha ha," he said dutifully.

Why the fuck wouldn't they let him have a fucking lock on the door.

Once he was alone with the cup of tea, he hopelessly switched on the chat room again. He toggled to make himself invisible, lurked about looking.

In the past she sometimes used to hang around after their encounters, flirting with robbie6969 or bigcock7016 or bigcock6152. But she had gone. He sat mournfully with the stains wet and sticky on his trousers and the cup of tea steaming gently beside him.

He had come to love it, that she would stop on after their encounters and talk to him. This was not at all the behaviour of a big bad boy but she didn't seem to notice. She never took advantage, asked him for contact details in 'real' life as some of the other girls had done.

He liked it best if she had actually cum. He could always tell. There would be a languor in her phrases, pauses while she took in what he had typed and formulated a reply.

Lately he had not seen her chatting to other boys on the board. He tried not to imagine she might be coming on only to spend time with him. What could they have, after all, other than this mutual mental masturbation?

He sat staring at her name on the screen, quietly black instead of the lively red that meant online. ShirleyMac. He had always liked Shirley Maclaine and was excited from the first by the possibility that she too was an actual fan. How much he enjoyed their first post-coital chat, about Gambit, and then about Michael Caine and The Italian Job. How thrilled he was when she messaged him a couple of days later: «R u up for an Italian hand job?»

Joe turned off the chat room. After the unaccustomed energy expenditure, he was feeling drowsy. His limbs were stiff from sitting with his buttock muscles clenched in excitement. He straightened up with a groan, took off his trousers and slung them in the laundry basket in the ensuite bathroom. He shuffled over to the bed, sat and then lay carefully down, remembered to raise the bar to stop himself rolling off in his sleep and lay in just his underpants and shirt, dreaming of the piccies she had sent. Those pert upstanding breasts, the impossibly sexy curved bottom ....

* * * *

"Joe! Joe!"

He mumbled something, unlidding sticky eyes to see a cluster of faces peering anxiously at him. The hand which had been vigorously shaking his shoulder was removed.

"Are you all right, Joe? You forgot your four o'clock tablets."

His mouth was dry and his muscles unresponsive. He had an intense yearning for warm sweet tea.

A glass of water and a palm on which rested two pills were being pushed at his face. He took the pills in trembling fingers and washed them down in the cold shower of water.

"Now come on, Joe," coaxed the matron in her motherly warm voice. "We'll give you half an hour then come back. You want to eat dinner with the others, don't you. Enjoy some company."

He wanted to snarl: "Fucking company?! a lot of drooling old bags who've forgotten there might ever be fun in the world?" He had learnt that uncooperative behaviour would be subtly punished and he had always been a gentleman. He mumbled, "thank you," articulating the words as best his under-medicated mouth could manage.

The disgusting indignity of lying in just his stained underpants and shirt surrounded by a mixed crowd of indifferent men and women gave way to the insufferably long wait for the drugs to start soaking through his system. Eventually he was able to move his stiff old limbs sufficiently to get to the wardrobe and grasp a clean pair of trousers. He staggered back to the bed where he struggled for an unconscionable amount of time to get the trousers on.

By then he could move reasonably freely. He walked to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his lined face, ran a comb slowly through his thin white hair. He stared momentarily at the tired old face that looked angrily back at him. The words, "you fucking son of a bitch," skipped through his mind, he suddenly grinned, his rheumy eye lit up. He walked stiffly off to the dining room of the old people's home with the sparkle the staff enjoyed to see dancing in his eye.

* * * *

«My dick is like a rod of iron, so hard for you. I want your wet hungry pussy. I want it now.»

«I'm lying back on the bed, holding my cunt lips open for you. I'm so wet, so creamy. I'm playing with my clit with one finger while I hold open my lips for you to see my wet hungry pussy. R u enjoying seeing my finger rolling on the pleasure button of my clit? R u enjoying seeing my pussy all wet for u?»

«You fucking cock tease. I'll put the fat mushroom head of my big dick to your cunt. I'll press it on your clit and around inside your cunt lips. Feel my fat cock's head on your lips and your clit.»

He could sense the rising excitement in her flurried typing and that made him excited, the blood surged softly in his loins, making his penis fill out, if not into the hard rod of his fertile imagination, at least to an impressive state for someone his age.

«Oh oh oh! I'm so excited! Buddy, fuck me, fuck me. I love your cock on my cunt lips, I want you inside me so much!»

«I'm gonna tease you till you cum just from teasing, you fucking whore.»

«OMG, I really am getting so excited I think I'm gonna cum.»

«Do it. Bring yourself off for me, Mac. Do it for me! I luv it when you cum.»

«Oh, Buddy!»

"Hey, Dad, I thought I'd surprise you .... What the ..."

He spun his head round as the door flew open without the least perfunctory knock. Trapped between his intense desire for one of ShirleyMac's rare beautiful orgasms and the horrific realisation that his own son had caught him literally with his pants down, he started clicking the screens shut too slowly.

With infuriatingly fit lithe strides, his middle aged son had rushed across the room to stand beside him. Jaw dropped, eyes narrowed in disbelief, the lad was reading the lines on the screen as they vanished, viewing the site with its pornographic avatars lined merrily up for play.

Hopeless though it was, Joe shut all the screens and then sat with his head bowed and a hand still covering his now completely flaccid penis.

"Jesus Christ!" his son expostulated.

Tears glistened in Joe's eyes. He could not stop thinking about the lost pleasure of ShirleyMac's precious orgasm.

"Fine family history you've been writing!" his son went on wrathfully. "I thought you were slow because you didn't understand how the internet works. Not understand the internet! Oh my God."

The poor kid staggered back and sat heavily in the armchair by the desk. He was a kid to Joe; only forty-five. Look at him: fit and healthy, amicably divorced from some pleasant lazy cow with children they both loved. He wasted his time going to the gym and playing golf when he could have been enjoying the wet hungry pussies of young women like the beautiful curvaceous ShirleyMac.

Joe attempted to pull some rags of dignity back. "You should at least knock before you come in my room!" he said angrily. "Why can't I have a lock on the door?"

"In case you forget your pills and can't open the door yourself," Joey said wearily. This argument had been had many times. "What the Hell was that? Was that site seriously called Orgasm Young?"

Joe began a painful blush. It sounded bad in his son's mouth. "We call it OY," he mumbled. "It's just somewhere people go to have some fun."

"You dirty old ... bastard!" there was nothing sexy about the way his son said it. Eyes narrowed in disgust and thin-lipped, he stared at Joe, who sat blushing and hanging his head, still tearful with the emotion of cyber-fucking ShirleyMac.

"It's not like that," Joe protested. "Nobody knows what age you really are."

"Exactly," his son fumed. "There could be young kids on there, below the age limit, and you ... you've been ..." words failed him.

"Oh no," Joe said earnestly. "You can tell if it's a real inexperienced kid. I pick them up and pretend I'm going to give them a rough ride, get them a bit scared and then I PM them and warn them off, tell them to stick to chatting with friends they know and can trust."

"PM?" his son said, bewildered.

"Private Message," Joe explained. "I have to be careful, of course. I don't want the crowd on there thinking I'm not one of the lads."

His son sat staring at him, his horror and disgust not lessened by this revelation.

"You go on, pretending to be like some bloody stud and ... picking up young ... young ..."

"All right!" Joe shouted angrily. He had started to cry, in some disgusting old way. "What do you want me to do, stuck here in this place full of dribbling old fools where the most exciting thing that happens is that someone pees himself when they take us to a re-run of black and white movies in the cinema!"

"Jesus," his son expostulated. "Couldn't you at least get it together with people more your age? Bloody kids you're ... you're cruising!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Joe scoffed. "Do you think there are sites out there called Silver Slags where seventy and eighty year old women look for hot even older blokes?"

"Yeah but, Dad," Joey said feebly, then he sat up and took a grip on the situation. "This has got to stop," he said angrily.

They stared at each other.

"Dad, you can't go cruising some site full of young kids. You'll be arrested! They'll take your computer away."

Joe realised that this latter was a real possibility. He sat with his hand gently holding the mouse, staring into the blank screen of his precious PC.

"For Christ's sake," Joey said. "You've got to stop going on these sites."

"There's just the one," Joe protested.

"Whatever," Joey said. "Look ... I'll ... I'll take you out to the shops. You can get some magazines."

"They clean under the beds and everywhere," Joe said sullenly. "I've told you before, there's no privacy."

"It's because you forget your pills and hide them places," his son pointed out. This too was a long-standing subject of argument.

Joe sat staring tearfully at the screen. The shock of his son's discovering him in his overly experienced internet fun had made him suddenly realise that he had got in too deep. He saw himself as his son did: a dirty old man fingering women nearly as young as his grand-daughters.

"Dad," his son adopted a softer, more conciliatory tone. That put the cap on it. If he had stayed on the moral high ground, Joe could have fought back, protested, made up some flimsy defence of his behaviour.

"I'll ... I'll leave the site," they were both horrified to hear the sob in his voice. Joey sat mortified by embarrassment, less able to deal with his own father demonstrating weak emotion than with the revelation that the old b. was cruising chicks online. Joe sat feeling completely broken, with his pants down and his screen blank.

Surreptitiously he managed to tuck his small soft penis away in his underpants and zip himself up. His son looked away, pretending not to notice. Joe straightened up and said: "I'll go on later and say goodbye. I promise never to go back after that."

"Dad ...!" his son began angrily.

"Not to the girls," Joe said. "They don't care. They just like a quickie and then they often shut down on you without saying goodbye. But a couple of the lads ... were like ... friends," he could not prevent another dreadful sob rising in his gullet.

Joey was good enough, in spite of all that had transpired, to stop over for the tepid over-cooked food which went by the name of dinner in the home. (Joe had never quite figured out if they cooked all the flavour out of it or if his tastebuds had lost their sensitivity -- another sign of the slow dull creeping up of old age on his body.) He was grateful, he knew if he had had to sit with the mumbling drooling crowd on his own he would have just cried. Not that the staff would be bothered, they were used to the old codgers sitting with tears rolling out of their rheumy malfunctioning eyes.

The SMERSH pussies: white-haired and sharp-eyed, sat in their usual cluster telling each other lying stories about their grandchildren's achievements and the evil criminal lives other people's grandchildren were leading. One of the old guys doddered up and rudely took all Joey's attention, telling him a rambling story which he had told Joey before. Joey was too polite and Joe felt too shattered to tell him to go away. The staff smiled benignly, they liked to see the residents getting on so well.

Later Joe sat staring at his screen, the dancing avatars. Twinklilng red to show online were the luscious lips and breasts and bums -- even one pussy with fingers holding it invitingly open.

He had composed a manly message about needing to concentrate on his college work. As ever, he was clever about implying in this that it was smart rather than nerdy-y to get the good qualification leading to a good job which would allow you to buy fast cars and faster chicks. (Or settle down with one special woman, becuz lads, that's what we all dream of and even some of the slags on here are special at heart -- to the man who knows how to handle them right.)

He had promised Joey he would not be contacting any of the women but of course he'd lied. He couldn't leave without a word for that one who had been special in his heart from the moment he saw her avatar: Shirley Maclaine the cat burglar, dangling from the rope to take a diamond.

«Jeez, that was a close one,» he watched his own words curl carefully carelessly across the screen. «I so nearly got caught!» Then he gave her the same story as the lads: assignments to write, fallen behind in his studies (he allowed there to be an implication that she -- sexy devil of a woman -- had managed to lure him away from the serious manly stuff). He said as casually as he could that he might not have time to cum (ha ha) back soon -- oh that beautiful lost orgasm of his, of hers! He could not bear not to add: «You were special to me, Mac.»

He sat starting at his message to her for a long time. Her avatar winked red. She must be online chatting with other girls, flirting with lads. She would see a PM to her. From him. She would think it was an invitation to take up where they had left off ... no, he would not torture himself thinking about it. He pressed submit and sat, wasted with emotion, staring at the screen.