Anonymous love - Chapter 1

She giggled uneasily as she taped the envelope to the English Professor’s door. “I wonder how long it will take before he figures out who, or is it whom, the note’s from.” She nervously thought to herself, “I hope he has a computer at home so he can really get into this.” She was really stressed that Mr Gerald would know immediately it was her.

She tried to convince herself that maybe he wouldn’t know and in his paragraphs, he’d describe someone totally different. She wanted to turn someone on and to be turned on, in the safety of anonymity. No fret, no worry of disease and no painful breakups. She would become, in writing, anyone he wanted her to be. Maybe he’d want her to be several different people. She was anxious and the next step was up to him.

After his last class of the day, Mr Gerald headed for his office. As he approached his door, he noticed the envelope, with his last name on it, attached to the door.

“Probably another excuse note on why someone didn’t do the descriptive paragraph.”

He pulled the letter from the door and let himself into his office. With the dependable creaking sound from his chair, he slipped into the well-rehearsed relaxed position of arms folded behind his head. Staring at the mass of papers on top of his desk, he shifted and then rubbed his eyes from under his glasses. With a sigh, he looked back again to the mound of papers.

The envelope was resting on top of the heap. “This ought to be good. I should probably grade this and hand it back.” he mused to himself.

“Mr Gerald,

Here are login and password to ********.com.

Login: pervyninja

Password: ********

Look for a story written by pervyplagarist. I will post a story for every story you send. Start with a descriptive paragraph about someone you’d like to know a bit more intimately.

My mail is *****@gmail.com

We will not rendezvous and yes, I am female.”

“This is such a setup,” he thought. Embarrassed that he was even the slightest bit intrigued, he adjusted his forming erection so he could get through the halls without too much attention. He was headed for home.

Nervously, she logged into her newly created email account to see if there was a message. She didn’t know how long it would take Mr Gerald to respond, or if he even would. “Holy Shit!” she said out loud. Covering her agape mouth with her hands, she giggled from the uneasy shock. She had mail. With an unsteady click, she opened what she hoped to be the illicit email she’d been waiting for.

“First: All but computer illiterate, myself. Difficulties getting here, into here, whatever. This puts me distinctly at your techno-mercy. Wait. Is that compliance already? Agreement? Oh, and no, I don’t have a home computer–only here at work & email address on syllabus.

Second: “…the safety of anonymity…”? Yep, I’m clueless.

Third: “Intrigued”? Perhaps. “Embarrassed”? Not a lick. This isn’t my first goat ropin’, darlin’, and I ain’t even breathing hard. Yet. Got any more?

Fourth: I think I sent a version of this as a connected reply but actually, have no idea–that whole techno illiterate thing. I figure you’ll let me know if you get this?”

“Hmm – that’s a start,” she thought,

“but I am disappointed that he didn’t jump right in. So, he wants a little more…OK, I’ll give him another paragraph, in good faith. Then the ball is in his court. If he wants more, he’ll have to work at it.”

The new bra and panties he purchased for me are a soft, white cotton lace. The bra is beautiful but my favourite in this set are the panties. They are a cute little boy-short style. The bottom hem has a light, ruffled effect that sways as I give my little fashion show. You can see the curve of my ass, from under the fabric, as I do a little spin.

I walk on my tip-toes because I feel like a princess in my new virginal lingerie. I bounce up and down with excitement. The little beads, on the dainty bow between the demi-cups of my bra, bounce along to my rhythm. The bra strains from my performance. This bra was made for fashion, not function. My new little, provocative bra is trimmed with lace. The lace starts from the sides and continues to a deep plunge in the front, in between my cleavage. The bra strains from the weight of my voluptuous breast. No worry, the bra will not stay on for long anyway.”

“OK, that should be enough to get him started.” she thought. “He’s an English teacher for God’s sake. He writes for a living. Let’s see what he gives me to work with.” And with a slightly smug resolve, she hit “send”, flinging her little epistle into the electric winds for delivery.

It turned out, it was enough to get him started, or at least intrigued. His reply verified to her that her plan was going to work.

The issue, she mused, really is control–the anonymity, the faceless safety, the featureless voice… yes. The afternoon was mild enough to have her coffee outside, but she was the only patron at any of the several tables on the small patio. She stretched her legs, crossed her boots at her ankles, tugged absently at the seam of her skirt, and noted admiringly, again, just how nicely the fabric clung to her thigh. She wondered if he’d yet read her latest note, the little lingerie display, the captive observer, the scant and sheer clothing, the just-beyond-reach twirl before him, the out-thrust bottom, the pouty smile, oh yes, she was quite pleased with herself.

Sipping from her coffee, she caught her reflected image in the shop’s front window, paused, and tilted her head just so, to better regard herself over the tops of her sunglasses. Just so. Perfectly in control, perfect control, just perfect. The window-image-her winked, wrinkled her nose, blew the smallest of kisses. But then she sighed and, turning from the window, seemed to shrink a little into herself.

Distractedly and softly drumming her fingers on the table, she began to picture faceless naked males, undressed, random former lovers, naked him, herself naked, all of it sexless, flat, unreal. She imagined him across town reading her note, she thought of her window-image-self. She sighed. And then a thought, a possibility, struck her–an image so bold, so pure, so vivid that she found herself actually blushing, a heat creeping into her cheeks. Flustered–and chagrined for feeling so–she rose from the table murmuring hmmph. A tingling someplace very soft and special suggested her control was not complete–herself, head thrown back flashed through her mind, and an idea went winging out into space. Ha-ha, said the sky.