Computer Chat

"IC!," I type into the computer.

"Yes, my love," is his tender reply.

I know he is chatting with many others in this room, publicly and privately, but he always manages to respond to my questions and comments.

IC! and I have sort of a strange relationship.

I would call it father-daughter, because he is almost my father's age, give eight to ten years.

But it definitely is not father-daughter because we flirt on line.

A lot.

He knows I have a pretty good marriage, but the coals are growing cool.

I have thought about seducing my best friend, and I am not sure if he knows my best friend is female.

You see, you can be sort of obtuse on line.

Not really devious, but misleading to a fault.

Now I have told him my age - and that was mostly true.

I said I was 28, and I was.

I turned 29 last December, so I am almost thirty.

And my weight was within five pounds.

I don't consider that an outright lie.

A computer would, but computers do not have to squirm into their jeans when they have too many chocolate desserts.

Now I would not lie about my eye color - they sparkle blue; nor my hair, brunettes, I assure you, have more fun.

So we are chatting.

Flirting.

He is always peeking down my shirt, and I have gotten in the habit of now wearing a bra when I am on the computer.

Does he see this - no.

But I feel it, and I do not have to lie when I inform him he may have had a glimpse of a free tit.

So, here we are, bantering about how smart we are, how most of the other people on here are 14-year old pimple-faced geeks.

Sort of sad, sometimes, considering I am "wasting" the same amount of time, trying to convince myself that it is more valuable because I am not engaged in cyber-sex all of the time.

As I am chatting, I have another open window in my browser.

I really can't hold my concentration on one thing for more than a minute. I search for erotic stories, and while the search engine does its work, I fire off a response to IC!:

"Dear, have your sores all healed?" I am such a smart-ass.

Then I click to the other window, and click on one of the matches.

Camilla's something or other.

Instead of seeing just text-based lists, I am treated to a frame with lots of choices.

I want to click the contents menu, just wanting to read a bit of smut, when I come across something from the web-publisher.

Sure, I think, and I click on that page.

A picture of the hostess? Sure, and I click on it, thinking I will be treated to a driver's license-style shot.

Then her ass begins to load, large and plump.

White.

Now, I was not looking for pictures, but she stops me mid-click.

I start to tingle.

I click through several more pictures, amazed that I am staring at a woman and I am getting excited.

Not a woman I know, but a woman in cyber-space.

She looks like a younger, more attractive version of a co-worker.

Someone I have been having some trouble with at work.

The resemblance is remarkable.

IC! breaks my concentration with, "Can you believe this guy? He really thinks you are going to fall for that line!"

I have to scroll up to see which body part IC! is talking about, and I am mildly grossed out.

"Thanks for defending my honor," I type back.

And I look back at the other screen.

My hand extinctively makes its way to my crotch, and I am slightly surprised to remember that I am wearing a skirt.

I usually wear long dresses.

Friday is casual day, I remember.

I create a crease in my panties between my labial lips.

I have not done this in ages, I reflect.

I look at my office door.

Unlocked but closed.

Darn.

But I continue pleasing myself.

Ten minutes before my break, anyway.

I type to IC! slowly, with my free hand, "You are my hero."

Then the action phrase, Leesa leans over and kisses IC! on the cheek.

Then peek-a-boo, meaning he can see a bare tit if he looks.

Guys all over the world think we are so unaware of what they see, or what we let them see.

"Nice," he types, and I look back at the picture of the web mistress.

Her breasts have to be fake, I think to myself.

My finger continues to work at my panties.

IC! then types, "I got something on my glasses.

Do you have anything to wipe them off?"

"'Fraid, not" is my response. I click back to the picture.

My finger continues to probe.

Just then my door opens and this copycat co-worker is at my desk.

I know my hair looks a fright.

She smiles, then tells me we have a meeting with the boss in ten minutes.

I thank her; she turns on her heels and leaves.

Then I check myself.

Skirt is in place, amazingly.

Shit, I think.

One of my blouse buttons came undone, and she got a full view of my right breast.

I did not even notice the button came undone.

And I am sure I looked flushed.

Make a note:

wear bras when at work, and sew a snap near the second button on this blouse.