It started innocently enough with anonymous chats. You and I were both members of an online group of amateur artists, though you were, and still are, far more talented than I could ever hope to be. I liked the mellow vibe of the group; most members weren't edgy or precious about their work. The vast majority simply wanted to improve their skills while learning from others.

The community also fulfilled my need for socializing, offering friendship at a distance. That was the way I tended to prefer it. On the rare occasions my mother and I talked on the phone, she spent half the conversation nagging me to get out there and meet people. "You're thirty-two years old, Justine," she said the last time we spoke.

"Thirty-one," I corrected.

"Whatever. My point is, you're not getting any younger, and you need to focus on trying to find someone to spend your life with."

"Because that always worked so well for you," I muttered. Her third divorce had just been finalized.

While my mother was the last person who should offer advice on romantic relationships, she did have a point about my lack of a social life. Still, I didn't bother trying to explain to her that I'd grown apart from friends I'd made in my twenties. As each of them married and began obsessing about buying a house and starting a family, I realized we had little in common. I knew I should have made more of an effort to maintain those friendships, but I'd been apathetic about a lot in recent years. When I felt mostly okay, I could show up to work at my dead-end job every day with a smile and then return to my shabby one-bedroom apartment, built in the 1980s and now in desperate need of renovation. I could be almost content with the monotonous routine. But when I was in the grip of the depression that had plagued me for most of my life, it was all I could do to take care of myself. Being available for anyone else was out of the question.

I'd suffered a particularly severe depressive episode during the past winter, but once spring arrived, I felt well enough to indulge my love of drawing again. I was thrilled to find the online group with its laid-back atmosphere. You were one of the first to welcome me, and I noticed that whenever I asked for feedback about how to improve, you made a point to emphasize what you admired about my work. I was grateful for that kindness, especially since I knew I was a mediocre artist at best.

As we interacted more, my curiosity about you only grew. Almost everyone in the group used nicknames, opting to remain anonymous, but your profile picture was a self-portrait. While it was abstract enough to conceal your identity, it was obvious that a man had painted it. One evening after you'd offered helpful suggestions about a sketch I was working on, I sent you a private message. I'd had a couple of glasses of wine on an empty stomach, so I didn't hold back in gushing over your work, and about how much I loved what you were able to do with light and shadow.

You were characteristically modest in your reply: Many thanks, but you're far too kind with your praise! Art's simply a hobby I enjoy, a way of relieving the stress of my job.

I was shocked. I couldn't believe you didn't at some point in your life entertain dreams of being famous. I continued asking you questions about certain techniques, and while our conversation remained friendly, I sensed your caution. You were so careful to be appropriate, almost formal, with me. I found I liked that about you; it made me trust you more. I knew that if the two of us were to have some kind of disagreement or falling out for whatever reason, you wouldn't be vicious and try to make trouble for me in the group.

I kept peeling back your layers, however, eager to learn more about the man who created such powerful art. I was plenty guarded myself, so I stuck with safe topics like favorite artists, as well as novels and films you enjoyed. Little by little, you revealed more of yourself. I learned that, unlike me, you had a career, not just a job that (barely) paid the bills. You mentioned your wife, though of course not by name, early on in our chats. You told me you were forty-eight and had a son who was a sophomore in college. When I responded that I was thirty-one, I wondered if you realized, as I did then, that I was closer in age to your son than to you.

Several weeks after we first began chatting, you told me you were often too busy to devote much time to the online group, and you suggested we communicate via email to keep in better touch. I readily agreed, feeling a rush of pleasure that you were interested in continuing our conversations. All the while, you asked me questions in your own careful way. I let you know I was single and had no children. I described my job as boring clerical work, and you didn't press for details. With my wry sense of humor, I was able to amuse you, and soon we were emailing each other several times a day. I was two time zones ahead of you, so I would often wait till my morning break at work to wish you good morning. You were always quick to respond, and I grinned whenever I received a new email from you.

I think you simply enjoyed having someone to share the details of your day with. It was almost July when you finally told me your first name, though I hadn't asked for it: I'm Paul, by the way. It felt like a huge step for us. I let you know my name as well. Justine, you wrote. That's beautiful.

Even if you hadn't been married, I understood we could never get involved. The physical distance was a primary reason, but I was also slowly accepting the fact that I wasn't cut out for a serious relationship. When you casually mentioned that your wife had dragged you out shopping, or that you'd tried to cook dinner when she had to work late (you ended up burning the chicken and setting off the smoke detector), I found myself wondering, as I had so many times before, how people made such an arrangement work. I couldn't imagine living day in and day out with someone for years, let alone a lifetime.

You became my closest friend that summer, and I didn't even know your last name. Trust was slow to build, with neither of us wanting to get burned. I didn't ask personal questions about your marriage, but when I asked how your son was doing, you told me he was traveling in Europe with friends that summer. I sensed you were lonely, that you and your wife were busy with careers and socializing and all the tedium involved in maintaining a house which suddenly felt too large for just the two of you. It seemed you had little time left over for each other at the end of the day. But as you spent evenings alone in your home office, you made time for me.

My art slowly improved as I followed your gentle and patient instructions. You shared some of your more personal work with me. One was a drawing of your father months before he died. Though it showed him in profile, you somehow managed to capture what looked like regret etched into his features. Studying that piece made me blink back tears.

We might have continued in such a way indefinitely if I hadn't fallen prey to another debilitating depressive state that fall. When the daylight dwindled, I sensed the growing darkness encroaching not only on my surroundings but on my mind as well. This had happened countless times before, but I still panicked, flailing against the apathy settling upon me like a second skin. I fought to maintain my clever banter with you, pretending I was fine. But by late October, I could no longer hide my suffering. At work, I became quiet, almost listless, but I managed to do my job sufficiently enough to avoid reprimand.

I'm not proud of what I did to you, Paul. When my happy façade crumbled, I simply stopped responding to your emails. I couldn't muster the will to explain what was wrong, and I doubted you would understand anyway. I told myself it was best to let the friendship go, to stop wasting your time. I figured you'd get the hint after a few of your emails went unanswered.

Instead, you grew frantic. When I'd been silent for almost a week, you sent an email with a subject line I couldn't fail to notice: PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OKAY. I AM FREAKING THE FUCK OUT HERE. I was at home, dulling my anguish with a bottle of wine, when I read those words. I'd ignored your previous emails, leaving them unread; I thought it would be easier if I made a clean break. But I hadn't deleted them.

Going back to the earliest ones, I noticed you were only mildly concerned at first: Hey Justine, just checking in. You're probably busy, but we've written each other every day for months now, so I want to make sure everything's okay with you. As you became increasingly worried, your tone was far less guarded. A wave of guilt flooded through me, chasing away the wine's numbing effect. Because of my selfishness, you had needlessly suffered. The most recent email with the blaring subject line read: I totally understand if you don't want to talk anymore. I will miss your friendship, but I just want what's best for you. I want you to be happy. I swear I will leave you alone if that's what you want. But for God's sake, Justine, please get back to me. I'm worried sick.

Your words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I began sobbing, shaking so hard I sloshed wine on my blouse. I hadn't meant to be cruel to you, Paul. It's just that no one had ever cared about me the way you did, and I doubted anyone even could. My own mother knew to leave me alone while I was in a depressive stupor. "Call me when you've stopped feeling sorry for yourself," she once told me.

As the wine soaked through my top to stain the bra I wore beneath it, I hurried to send a reply to you: I'm okay. I'm so sorry I didn't let you know earlier.

Your response was almost immediate: Thank God! Did something happen? You know I'm here for you if you need to talk.

I let out a shuddering sigh. How could I explain what was wrong with me? I had no words to describe the hell my life had become. Climbing to my feet, I carried my phone into the bedroom, still trying to think of a way I could make you understand. I unbuttoned my ruined blouse and tossed it aside, then removed my bra and dress pants. You sent another email as I was pulling a faded t-shirt over my head. The evening was cool outside, but I felt flushed from the wine and from crying so hard.

Picking up the phone, my eyes widened. You'd sent me your number. Please call me, you wrote. If you never want to hear from me again after tonight, I'll respect that. But I need to hear your voice. I need to hear you tell me you're okay.

My hands were trembling so much, I could barely place the call to you. As soon as you answered, I blurted out, "It's Justine. I'm so sorry, Paul!" I apologized over and over again, and then it all spilled out of me: my struggle with depression and my lack of will to do anything more than merely exist. I hiccupped and sobbed, growing almost incoherent at times, yet you patiently listened.

"Shh, it's okay, sweetheart," you soothed. Your voice was low and deep, a honeyed caress. I choked out another apology, and you said, "There's no need to be sorry, Justine. We just need to get you better, okay?" It was you who convinced me to go back to the doctor despite my protests that I'd already tried every treatment my health insurance would cover. "Medications for depression are being developed all the time. There might be a new one that will work for you. We at least have to try." You spoke like we were a team and you would stick by me no matter what. "Promise me you'll make an appointment."

"I promise," I whispered.

You talked to me that night until I was drowsy and close to sleep. I still remember the last thing you said before wishing me good night: "I'm sorry it took me this long to ask you to call me. I'm sorry I wasn't here for you sooner."

I followed through on my promise, returning to the doctor and agreeing to try a new medication. The doctor cautioned that it would take some time to work, but in a few weeks, I was feeling better. I didn't give all the credit to the medicine, though. I always believed your friendship was the most important part of my recovery. We communicated via encrypted texts every day, with you often checking in to make sure I was okay. While I refrained from calling you, afraid I'd become a nuisance or, even worse, a disruption, you made a point to call me each night. I stayed up until midnight awaiting that call, for I knew you needed things to settle down at your house so you could retreat to your home office late in the evening in order to speak to me in private.

By mid-November, I felt far more like the person who had originally reached out to you in the spring. I was okay again, even well. And I was profoundly grateful for everything you'd done to help me, Paul. It was still hard for me to believe my illness hadn't driven you away. I knew I was becoming more than a little infatuated, my pulse racing every time I heard from you. But I craved your words, the sound of your voice. I loved making you laugh, and I realized how relieved you were that I was better. I was the one who crossed the invisible line between us, the one we'd been so careful to avoid. It happened on a Saturday evening; I was surprised you were able to call me so early.

"My wife's out of town," you said when I mentioned it was only eight o'clock my time. "She's traveling for work."

"I see." I tried to keep my voice neutral. I was still careful not to ask personal questions about your marriage. You and I chatted about what we'd done that day, and as we talked, I headed for my bedroom. I always enjoyed lying beneath my warm covers in the dark while listening to your voice. It made me feel as if we were in our own little world.

"What are you doing right now?" you asked.

"Um, I'm actually getting into bed. I know it's early, but I like to relax when we're talking."

"I definitely want you relaxed." I heard the grin in your voice. "You sound great, Justine. How are you feeling?"

"Really well," I said. "The meds seem to be working, and I feel... steady."

"I'm so glad, sweetheart. And the headaches have eased up?"

Headache was a common side effect of the medication, and I'd had a few since I started taking it. "Yep. I had one today, but I think it's because my period's coming. So I'm also a little crampy and a little horny." As soon as those words escaped my lips, my eyes widened in the darkness. I heard your surprised laugh. "I'm so sorry, Paul!" I hurried to say. "That was not appropriate."

"It's fine!" You still sounded a little flustered. "I had no idea periods could cause horniness."

"For me they do, which really makes no sense biologically, does it?" I mused. "But at that time of month, I end up masturbating like crazy." You were quiet for several seconds. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with me tonight!" Mortified, I pressed a hand to my forehead. "Maybe the meds are making me feel too good."

"You know you can talk to me about anything, Justine." I heard you clear your throat, and I sensed you were considering your next words carefully. "I just hope you, uh, have something reliable to help you out with all that masturbating."

Your tone was light, but what you said made a surge of hot lust course through me. "Well, my vibrator died on me, so I only have my hand. And your voice," I dared to add.

Again you fell silent, and I waited for you to tell me we needed to change the subject. Instead, you murmured, "You like my voice?"

I tried and failed to stifle a giggle. "Paul, your voice could make any woman drop her panties."

"Is that right?" That voice I loved so much grew husky, thick with arousal. "And have you already dropped your panties, Justine?"

I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. I realized then how much I wanted this, how I ached for it. "Do you want me to?" I asked softly.

The sound you made, between a sigh and a moan, got me slick and wet. "I want you to, baby. So much."

In seconds, I'd taken off not only my panties but the rest of my clothes as well. "I'm naked for you now." My own voice had grown high-pitched and breathy. "Does that excite you, Paul?"

"Oh yes! I'm lying on the bed, stroking myself through my pants."

Over the past six months, I'd grown so close to you, eager for your every word. To know I aroused you made me tremble with need. "Take out your cock," I urged.

You laughed low and soft, obviously pleased by my request. "Anything for you, Justine." I heard your groan, and I imagined you stroking faster. "Tease your nipples."

I did as you said, rolling those sensitive peaks between my fingertips. As I grew wetter, a deep, insistent throb started within me. I loved the thought of you jerking your dick while you listened to my breathing quicken. "I'm tugging on them, pinching them now," I revealed.

"I love that! Fuck, I'm so hard for you!" Your own breaths grew shallow.

"I'm so wet, I'm actually getting the sheet damp!" Even I was shocked at my body's response to you. Your voice, your lust, excited me more than the touch or tongue or cock of past lovers.

"I just want to bury my face between your thighs. I want to spend hours tasting you, making you come again and again." You made a sound like a desperate growl. "Rub your clit for me, sweetheart!"

My fingers worked furiously at my clit. There was no time for a slow build-up; I was already quaking. At that point, I still had no idea what you looked like. When I tried to imagine your features, they remained abstract in my mind, like the self-portrait you'd painted. And yet your gentle commands and eager descriptions of what you wanted to do to me were enough to bring me to the edge. A helpless cry escaped my lips. "Paul!"

"You're close, so ready to come, aren't you? I am, too, Justine. My God, what I wouldn't give to be in that bed with you!"

The closer I got to orgasm, the more brazen I became. "I want to feel your cock deep inside me!" My clit was swollen beneath my fingertips. The sensation was almost too intense, but I refused to stop or even slow down. "I want to see your face the moment you come." My lust was raw and primal, and the sounds you made grew feral as well.

"You won't ask me to pull out?" I knew by the catch in your voice that you were confessing something which made you wild but also ashamed.

"I promise I won't!" I sounded utterly submissive, and at that moment I was. My thighs began shaking while I felt an uncoiling of all tension in my body. That second of relaxation occurred just before a fierce climax gripped me and pulled every muscle taut. Even my cries were strained.

"Yes, yes, that's it, baby!" you panted. "You're gonna make me come inside that tight, wet pussy!"

"Please!" I managed to beg while my cunt spasmed. It was as if I had your cock inside me and was trying to milk you of every drop. The rhythmic contractions continued as you reached your own release. I reveled in your every gasp and groan.

When my orgasm began to subside, my clit became too tender for any more stimulation. I shivered beneath the covers, still twitching a little from the aftershocks. I could hear your breathing slowly return to normal. "That was fucking intense!" you said. I was afraid to respond for several moments. I feared you'd immediately regret what we'd just done. Before tonight, we'd never even flirted, and because of me, things had moved unbelievably fast. If I hadn't mentioned masturbating, our conversation would have remained platonic. Or was tonight inevitable? I wondered. Was it the culmination of all our pent-up desire? "Are you okay, Justine?" I heard the worry in your voice.

"I'm fantastic," I quickly replied. "You made me come so fucking hard!"

"I've made quite the mess here!" You chuckled, and I imagined you looking down at the semen on your skin. "I even got a little on my neck!"

"I wish I was there to help clean you up," I murmured. "Better yet, I wish all that cum was inside me right now."

You growled from deep in your throat again. "Do you know how goddamn sexy you are? It's been... a long time since I was that excited."

I couldn't help but beam at this revelation, though I knew it meant your marriage was far from perfect. You deserved to be happy, Paul; I always wanted that for you. I understood you loved your wife. But if she didn't satisfy you in all the ways you hoped for, I longed to try to fill that void in your life, even if I had to do it from a thousand miles away.

After that night, we became far more open with each other. As the furtive texts and phone calls continued, I basked in your affection. We never discussed the right and wrong of it, or the fact that you had to hide what you were doing. I told myself we were doing no harm; you would never leave your wife, and I would never expect you to.

One evening as I lay in bed, waiting for your call, you sent a text that read: I hope you don't mind. Smiling to myself, I started to ask what you meant, but before I could, you sent me a photo of your cock. I drew in a sharp breath, my eyes huge. I know most women claim they don't like dick pics, and I'll admit they did little to excite me in the past. But your cock, Paul, is glorious. Perfectly proportioned, its length enticing but not intimidating. That prominent tip, sporting a drop of pre-cum, made me want to lick my phone's screen. As sexy as that photo was, I was even more aroused by the knowledge that you trusted me enough to send it.

I was shaking as I texted you back: That is the most gorgeous cock I've ever seen! When can you call me tonight?

My phone rang only seconds later. "Did you just take that photo?" I blurted out. I already had a hand in my panties.

"I did." Your voice made me even wetter. "I'm glad you like it, Justine."

Closing my eyes, I let out a moan. "I want to be on my knees before you right now. I want to kiss and lick and suck your cock. I'm dying to lap up that drop of pre-cum!"

I heard you lean back in your office chair. I imagined you alone in that room while your wife got ready for bed in some other part of the house. "Are you touching yourself right now? I want you nice and wet for me."

"You know I am. Let me hear you stroking, Paul!" I'd recently asked you to use lube while masturbating with me. "It makes it easier for me to hear you jerking off," I'd explained. You seemed a little surprised but eager to do as I requested. I wondered if you'd ever masturbated in front of your wife. Maybe she'd never asked you to. As we now spoke in murmurs and whispers, I heard your hand moving along the length of your slick flesh. I loved that sound, Paul. I don't think I was ever able to adequately describe the powerful effect it had on me.

"You have lube there, don't you, Justine?" Your voice took on the soft growl that betrayed your arousal.

"I do, but I'm so wet, I don't need it."

"Get it for me anyway, sweetheart. I want you to get plenty of lube on your fingers, and then I want you to slide two inside your pussy." I was a little reluctant to stop rubbing my clit, but I longed to please you. I let you hear me finger-fucking myself. Knowing how much it turned you on made me derive even more pleasure from the act. "That's my good girl. Now I want you to add a third finger." You'd never asked me to do this before, and I was aware from past experience that three fingers bordered on uncomfortable in my cunt. Still, I inserted my ring finger. You heard my faint whimper. "How does it feel?" you asked. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"It doesn't hurt," I said. "My fingers are just stretching my pussy." You released a loud groan, and my eyes widened at how excited you were. I could hear you furiously jerking your cock.

"Add the fourth finger if you can, Justine."

I understood this was something you never would have dared ask of your wife. Wincing, I worked my pinky finger inside my opening. I kept all my fingertips close together so I could ease more of my hand into my cunt. Without you asking, I added my thumb as well. "Oh my God!" I cried. "I have half my hand inside me now!"

"Ah, baby, that excites me so much!" I knew by your shallow breathing, and the way your voice shook a little, that you were close. "Tell me it how feels."

I was shocked that my pussy could accept my hand all the way up to my knuckles. The pressure was intense but far from unbearable. "I feel like I want to go deeper, but..."

"Careful," you urged. "Don't force it."

I began gently moving my hand in and out of my pussy. There was no way I'd be able to work my entire fist inside, but what I did manage was more than enough to send a rush of pleasure through me. "Oh fuck, Paul, it's feeling really good now!"

"You've got me right there!" I heard you panting, desperate to come. As my hand worked between my thighs, I started to tell you I was close, too, but the orgasm seized me without warning. I shook violently, my muscles contracting around the fingers buried in my cunt. It was so powerful, I could only let out a guttural sound from low in my throat. I heard you stroking at a frenzied pace before you cried out from the force of your own climax. I vaguely worried about you being overheard, but I doubted you even cared at that point.

I felt a thin stream of fluid trickle out of me as my orgasm stretched on. I didn't think I'd ever had one last so long! Only when the spasms finally subsided was I able to form words again. "Paul, I think I just squirted a little!"

"Oh, Justine, sweetheart..." You were still breathing hard. "You have no idea what you do to me!"

I was careful withdrawing my hand from my pussy. Enough fluid had escaped me to leave a damp spot on the sheet. "I didn't know I could have an orgasm that powerful!" I laughed from the flood of endorphins still coursing through my body.

"You just fulfilled one of my biggest fantasies, and I love that it made you come so hard." You sounded utterly spent, and I sensed you growing drowsy. Yet you wanted to keep talking. "I appreciate you being willing to try it."

"I loved it. Not sure I could take that much intensity every night, but I'm glad I discovered just what my body is capable of." I fell back against the bed, telling myself I'd change the sheets once we'd said good night.

"Justine?"

"Hmm?" I was getting a little sleepy, too.

"Now that you've seen my cock, do you want to see the man it belongs to?" You seemed uncertain, almost shy, as if you expected me to refuse what you offered.

Of course I wanted to see you, Paul. But your question filled me with dread, because I figured if I said yes, then you'd want to see me, too. Unlike so many other people, I never took photos of myself. I hated seeing my image in a picture or even the mirror. Each day, I examined my reflection only long enough to make sure I was presentable before I left the apartment. A guy I'd briefly dated a couple of years ago once told me I was being ridiculous when I refused to pose for a photo with him. "You're pretty, Justine," he said, rolling his eyes. "Is this your way of trying to get me to compliment you more?"

I heard you clear your throat, and I was drawn back to the present. "I understand if you're not comfortable with that," you said. "I just figured..."

"I would love to see you, Paul."

"It's not a great photo," you hurried on, "but it's one of the most recent of me."

When I first saw the photo you sent, I pressed my fingers to my lips, trying to hold back a wave of emotion. I adored your dark curls, and the way your smile was so open and kind. Your blue eyes were full of warmth. I was gripped by an overwhelming need to look into those eyes, to touch your face, and breathe in your scent. I wanted to kiss you, to make love to you. I wanted to see that beautiful smile and know I'd caused it.

I could tell you were nervous, waiting for my reaction. "Paul, you are absolutely gorgeous," I said.

"You flatter me." I heard the grin in your voice. "I've put on a little weight recently, but I'm working to lose it. My job's been so crazy, I haven't had as much time to go to the gym--"

"Paul. You're perfect." I emphasized each word.

"Thank you, baby," you whispered.

Before I could lose my nerve, I took a deep breath and said, "Do you want to see a photo of me?"

"Um, if you're comfortable sending one. I don't want you to feel pressured in any way, Justine."

I was embarrassed to admit I had no recent photos of myself. I'm sure you found that strange, but you didn't comment on it, and when I asked you to give me a few minutes, you quickly agreed. My resolve faltered as I tried to decide how to take the most flattering photo. Hurrying to the bathroom, I ran a brush through my long dark hair, then applied a little gloss to my lips. The light in the bathroom was soft and subtle, but I cringed at the thought of you seeing the tacky wallpaper that was last popular in the 1980s.

I finally returned to my room. Lying in bed, I let the sheet fall just below my breasts. My pink nipples had grown hard. The faintest trace of a smile played on my lips when I took the photo. Scrutinizing my image, I immediately hated it. I was pale, and my large dark eyes looked haunted. But I sent the picture to you before I could change my mind.

You called me moments later. "Justine, you're even more beautiful than I imagined!" Now I was the one grinning. "It's going to kill me to delete this photo," you went on, "but I understand if you want me to."

A blush heated my cheeks as I said, "You don't have to delete it, Paul."

Once we were no longer anonymous to each other, we shared even more personal details, including our last names and where we worked. You had an important position in your company, and I understood why you were so cautious about revealing identifying information to me at first. But as our trust deepened, we held nothing back. We still avoided discussing the intimate aspects of your marriage, though I think you would have been forthcoming had I asked about your wife. While we were talking, while I had your complete attention, I wanted the world we'd created to consist only of us.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approached, you asked if I planned to spend it with family. "I'm on my own this year. And I'm totally fine with that," I said.

"You won't see your parents at all?" I heard the sadness in your voice, and I didn't like it.

"My father's not in my life, and my mother is... someone I'd rather not spend a holiday with." I'd never talked about my parents with you, not because I was trying to hide anything, but because it seemed pointless to make those estranged relationships the topic of our conversation. We had little time as it was. Some days you were so busy, you weren't able to call. Your texting grew sporadic while you were bombarded with work. I knew to expect this, and I never pressed you for attention you couldn't give, but I wasn't about to waste precious minutes with you by dwelling on my dysfunctional family.

Despite my reassurances, I knew you hated the idea of me spending the holiday alone. Though your son was home from college and you had extended family visiting, you still managed to sneak away long enough to call and check on me. "I'm fine, baby," I promised. "I'm actually working on a drawing, trying to follow your excellent instructions."

"I can't wait to see your progress." Your voice was lower than normal as you were careful not to be overheard. "I miss you."

I closed my eyes and drew in a steadying breath. The truth was, I missed you, too. Far more than I ever dreamed I would. I didn't allow myself to reveal that to you, though. "I appreciate you calling, Paul." I struggled to keep my tone light. "Now go enjoy Thanksgiving with your family."

When December arrived, and along with it the bitter dark of winter, I heard from you even less. You promised things would settle down after the new year, yet something like grief settled as a lump in my throat every time I thought of you. A friend of mine, newly married, reached out and invited me to have Christmas dinner with her and her husband. I knew it would make you happy that I wasn't alone for the holiday, so I agreed to go.

A few days before Christmas, I received a package from you. Already I was shaking my head. Since I couldn't send you something without potentially raising questions, you and I had agreed we wouldn't worry about exchanging gifts. Yet I now held that package, running my fingertips over your handwriting. It was something intimate, yours alone: a neat script, my name so carefully printed. As soon as I opened the present, tears flooded my eyes and spilled onto my cheeks before I could stop them.

It was a drawing of me. I was lying on the bed, my breasts revealed. My gaze was open and vulnerable in a way the photo I'd taken could never capture. In your eyes, I realized then, I was indeed beautiful.

I texted you, feeling that my words were abysmally inadequate to express my appreciation: Paul, your gift has made me see myself in a new way, and I can never thank you enough for that. I will treasure it always, just as I treasure you.

You quickly responded: Never forget how beautiful you are, sweetheart. I'm so grateful you've come into my life. You've made me happier than I've been in a long time.

I felt a kind of giddy weightlessness overtake me then, and I drifted through my apartment on light feet, hardly sensing the floor beneath me. I decided to send you a gift as well. It was a photo of me on my bed, legs spread wide and my hand halfway inside my pussy. I had to take several before I was happy with the result, and by the time I was finished, my labia glistened from the fluid that had again escaped me. I was flushed and shaking; it was hard for me to hold the phone steady enough for a last photo. This one showed my stretched opening and wet folds.

I waited until later that night to send the photos to you. You called me minutes later. "My God, Justine, that is so fucking sexy! Thank you!" You were breathing fast, and I could tell you were already stroking your cock. Your frenzied lust made me instantly aroused.

"I'm really glad you like my present." Slipping a hand beneath my shirt, I began playing with my nipples.

"This is, without question, my absolute favorite Christmas gift!" You released a desperate growl. "I can close my eyes even now and see you so vividly. Fuck, I'm gonna come for you!"

I pulled and tugged at my nipples, moaning as I listened to you approach orgasm. I didn't even have to touch my clit at that moment, for I derived an intense pleasure simply from hearing your excitement. You groaned my name as you came hard, and my body trembled in response.

"Jesus, I needed that!" you breathed. "You know you're all I'll be thinking about, don't you?"

I didn't trust myself to speak for several moments. You and I could walk right up to that line where desire became blatant need, but I feared we would regret crossing it. So I merely smiled and said, "Merry Christmas, baby."

Once the chaos of the holiday season was behind us, your schedule did indeed settle down, enabling us to talk more. Yet I sensed a kind of restlessness in you. It made me nervous because I didn't know the cause. Were you growing tired of this? Of me? You revealed what was on your mind one night in mid-January, when large snowflakes were swirling in the frigid air outside my apartment. "I wish I could see you. Just once," you said.

I fell silent, surprised by your words. "What's brought this on?" I finally asked.

"I can't stop thinking about the what-ifs. What if we met? What would happen if I could look into your eyes? If I could hold you?"

Tension worked its way through my muscles. This kind of talk made me worried you'd do something reckless. "You might find you have zero physical attraction to me," I said mildly.

"That's bullshit and you know it." Your frustrated sigh was clearly audible. "Maybe I could come up with some excuse to fly out and visit you, even if it's only for a weekend."

"You cannot take that risk, Paul." I sank onto the couch to stop myself from pacing the floor. "Neither of us wants you to fuck up your life, okay? If you're having some kind of midlife crisis, go out and buy a new car or something, but stop thinking about coming here."

"Goddamn it, Justine!" Your anger caught me off guard; you'd never raised your voice before. I waited, my pulse racing with anxiety. Then you let out a bitter laugh. "Why do you have to be so fucking sensible all the time?"

I laughed, too, and the sound was just as bitter. I was sensible out of necessity, Paul; I was used to settling. You obviously were not. Whatever you decided you wanted, I figured you most always figured out a way to get it. Until you met me.

"Do you think it's possible to fall in love with someone you've never met in person? Someone you've never even touched?" you asked.

I drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. "I guess before I could answer that question, we'd have to get into a philosophical discussion about what love even is."

"Wow, that is... astonishingly unromantic of you, Justine."

"I'm a lot of things, but romantic isn't one of them." My deadpan tone hid my rising panic. If we started talking about love, and secret trips, and all the what-ifs that could never come to fruition, I knew the fragile world we'd created together might be crushed under the weight of so many expectations. "We have to face reality here," I went on. "You're a thousand miles away."

"A little more than that," you said, your voice full of regret.

"Geography was never my best subject. And even if you were closer, it wouldn't change the fact that you're married. You don't want to destroy the life you've built."

You were silent for a long moment before asking, "Don't you ever want more?"

"I can't have more, Paul. And when it comes to this, neither can you."

I knew you recoiled at those words, but you didn't argue with me. Meanwhile, I did everything I could to be what you needed, and to get our relationship back on more level ground. It was during this time, when I was gripped by anxiety and second-guessing every text, every phone call between us, that Ben asked me out.

I knew him through my job, though we didn't work together directly. He'd always been friendly, but I never sensed he was attracted to me. And in the years before I met you, Paul, I'd been struggling with cycles of severe depression, which didn't exactly make me girlfriend material. I had no clue what prompted Ben to approach me and ask if I'd like to have dinner with him. Maybe he sensed I was better, happier. Or maybe it was simply a matter of fate fucking with me.

I blinked at Ben, unable to hide my shock. We were outside the office building, bundled up in winter coats. As he waited for my response, I immediately thought of you. How would this work? I asked myself. I still had no answer to that question when I blurted out, "Sure! I'd love to."

Ben released the breath he'd been holding, and I realized he was nervous. That surprised me a little. He was good-looking in a nondescript, forgettable way. I was certain plenty of women were attracted to him. He and I made plans to go out the following evening.

As I walked to my car, my heart pounded furiously. Why had I said yes? I wondered. Perhaps I felt I owed myself a chance at a "normal" relationship, whatever the hell that was.

I dreaded telling you about the date. I knew it was ridiculous, but I felt like I was betraying you. It was as if you had an uncanny sense of something shifting, for you sent me a text right after I got home. You were still at the office and swamped with work. Baby, I'm going to be burning the midnight oil tonight trying to get shit done here at the office, so I won't be able to call. I promise we'll talk tomorrow when I have all this finished.

I had to pour myself a glass of wine before I responded. I completely understand about tonight. Tomorrow, I'm not sure when I'll be home. I actually have a date.

I was gulping down the wine when my phone rang, making me jump. Hurrying to answer your call, I dropped the glass, and it shattered against the floor. My voice shook as I said hello.

"This is sudden." Your words held a chill. I heard traffic in the background and knew you'd gone outside your office to call me. "What's going on, Justine?"

I swallowed hard. The wine wasn't working anywhere near fast enough. "A guy from work asked me out today, and I said yes."

"Who is he?" you demanded.

"What do you mean, who is he? I just told you, he's a guy from work--"

"Have you been out with him before?"

"No. And why does that even matter?" Your interrogation made me defensive. I already felt guilty about going out with Ben, and you weren't helping matters.

"Because you and I have had something going on for months, so I'm just curious about how long this guy has been in the picture."

My face flushed with growing fury. "He just entered the picture, Paul. Meanwhile, your wife has been in the picture the whole time!" You gasped at that, and my anger weakened a little. I'd never thrown your marriage in your face. But you'd never before held me to a standard you couldn't meet yourself. My indignation returned, sharp and hot. "Are you telling me that during our entire relationship, you haven't fucked your wife once?" I went on.

Your silence let me know the answer. When you spoke again, your voice was soft. "I know I have no right to be upset about you going out with this man--"

"You absolutely don't!" With an unsteady hand, I lifted the wine bottle to my lips and took a swallow directly from it.

"I'm going to lose you, aren't I, Justine." It wasn't a question; you stated it like a fact you'd already accepted. But God, Paul, you sounded so wounded. It tore me apart to hear your anguish.

"No!" My voice was so vehement, I made the word sound like a retort. "No," I repeated, far more gently. "I promise you won't lose me."

I didn't hear from you again until the following day. It was late afternoon, just as I was ready to leave work, when I received your text: Have fun tonight.

My stomach cramped with anxiety while I prepared for that date. I was angry at you, angry at myself. Yet I made every effort to look good for Ben. My interest in fashion was negligible at best, but my mother had insisted on buying me a few outfits for my last birthday. To her credit, she'd chosen a red dress that flattered my figure, and the heels she'd given me matched perfectly. I left my hair down and selected a choker pearl necklace, which had also been a gift from my mother.

Ben picked me up at seven. "You have a nice place," he said, his expression politely neutral as he looked around my retro apartment.

"It needs a major update, but I can't afford to move anywhere else."

As Ben drove me to the restaurant, we made easy conversation. All the while, he sneaked glances at my legs, giving me a sheepish grin when he realized I'd caught him. Over dinner, our discussion grew a little deeper. He talked about his career goals and his desire to travel all over the world. I listened with a smile fixed on my face. He was kind and funny and so normal. He wanted normal things, to get married and start a family. He was already saving for retirement.

"What about you, Justine?" he asked. "What are your hopes for the future?"

To not have another debilitating depressive episode? To be able to keep working so I could pay the bills and have a little extra saved at the end of the day? I could tell you these things, Paul, but not Ben. "Um, I guess I just try to stay focused on the present, you know?" My face began to ache from the effort to hold my smile.

Ben looked like he didn't know. Not at all. But he still nodded and gave me his own smile. By the time we finished dinner, I think we both knew we were incompatible. Still, the physical attraction was there, and after he drove me back to my apartment, I invited him inside. Things moved fast then; I wasn't interested in any more conversation. While I tried to gracefully wriggle out of my dress, Ben's stare drifted to the drawing you'd given me. It hangs on my bedroom wall, close to the mirror. "Wow, that's beautiful!" he breathed. "Is that your work?"

"No. It was a gift." Once I stood half-naked before Ben, he gave me his full attention. In moments, we were in my bed.

The sex was... fine. Ben was eager to please, spending plenty of time with his face between my thighs. He seemed grateful for the blowjob I gave him. But all the while, I was thinking, this is a man who would never ask me to fist myself. And Paul, he was so quiet when fucking me. I craved your moans and grunts, your sighs and gasps. I longed to hear all those dirty things you never hesitated to say. I felt Ben's hot skin beneath my palms, felt his hard cock inside me, and yet it was as if an impenetrable wall existed between us.

I faked an orgasm, and he climaxed quickly afterward. He was careful pulling out and discarding the condom. When he drew me into his arms, I tried not to squirm. I wasn't used to being held; I certainly wasn't used to sleeping next to someone. Maybe he sensed my discomfort, for he didn't try to spend the night. I gave him a chaste kiss at the door, and we said goodbye while wearing those same polite smiles, both of us knowing we'd never do this again.

I changed the sheets, then took a long, hot shower before I texted you: It's probably too late to talk, but I'm in bed before midnight like a good girl.

You called immediately. "How did your date go?" Your voice was quiet, cautious. You weren't sure what you were permitted to ask.

"It was fine," I said. My gaze fell upon the drawing you'd given me. "Ben's a nice guy, but he's not you, Paul."

"Justine." You spoke my name with such emotion that I had to fight back tears. "I'm so sorry I've been an asshole. Maybe you're right and it's some kind of midlife crisis, but I promise I will never again jeopardize what we have."

"This is enough for you?" I grew tense waiting for your answer.

"I swear it's enough. I won't ask you for more. I was just so afraid I'd lost you for good."

"While Ben was fucking me tonight, I only thought of you," I confessed. "I need to hear your voice. I need you to tell me what to do."

Your breathing quickened, letting me know my request excited you. "Slide a hand between your thighs, sweetheart. Circle a fingertip around your clit, but don't touch it yet."

As I obeyed your instructions, I heard you lubing up your cock. The sound made me moan, eager for more. "I'm already so wet for you!"

"Taste yourself," you urged. You stroked slowly at first, but when I slid my fingers between my lips and moaned louder, your pace grew more fervent. "You like the taste of that sweet pussy, Justine?"

"Yes! And I love how dirty it makes me feel that I enjoy it so much."

"Oh, I'm going to make you feel a lot dirtier tonight." Your voice was guttural. "I'm so hard and ready to slide into your wet cunt. I want your legs wrapped around me while I thrust deep. I'm going to hold you down and give you every inch!"

Imagining you restraining me made my hips rock. "But we have to be careful," I moaned while rubbing my swollen clit. "You know I'm not on the pill, and I'm in the middle of my cycle right now, so you can't come inside me!" I made my voice pleading and submissive. This was a fantasy you'd only hinted at before, and I wanted to explore it fully tonight.

My words had you panting. "But you feel so good around my cock, baby! I don't know if I can make myself pull out."

"Please, you have to!" I begged. My fingers were merciless against my clit as I writhed on the bed. I could almost feel the weight of your body on mine, pinning me down while you drove your dick inside me again and again.

"Ah fuck, I'm close!" Your words were strained as you fought back your climax. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I need to come inside you!"

"No!" I wailed. "Stop! We can't!" I was now immersed in my role. It made me feel utterly filthy and abandoned to my lust.

"You're mine, Justine!" I could hear how fiercely you were jerking off. "I'm going to fill your tight, wet, fertile cunt with my cum! I know you want me to."

I was almost there, my body tense and quaking, desperate for release. You delighted in my helpless whimpers. "Fuck yes, give me your cum!" I shamelessly pleaded. "Own my pussy! I'm gonna come so hard around your cock, milking all that seed out of you!"

You climaxed with such a powerful roar, I could only pray your wife was out of town, or at the very least, an extremely heavy sleeper. The sounds you made summoned forth my own orgasm. The spasms were so intense, they drew my muscles painfully taut. My cries descended into feral moans.

"My god, that was perfect!" you murmured, still breathing heavily. "You're perfect."

I closed my eyes, waiting for my trembling to subside. "I had no idea that would excite me so much!"

You laughed softly. "I'm glad you don't mind my kinks."

"I fucking love your kinks."

"And I love you." My eyes widened at your words. "You don't have to say it back, Justine," you hurried to add. "I can be romantic enough for the both of us."

It was as if the warmth of your voice seeped into my entire being. I didn't bother blinking back my tears, and one spilled down my cheek, cascading over the curve of my smile. You were more than a thousand miles away, yet I'd never felt closer to anyone. "I'll spare you the philosophical discussion tonight," I replied, "but only because I love you, too, Paul."