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Virtue in Iniquity

12

Chapter 1 A Chat Between You and I

Mark: You are looking out a window, wearing blouse and jeans. I move up behind you. I push against you, and you lean back against me. I put my hands on your arms. When we finally speak, it is in whispers, or that sex voice that men and women get when they are familiar and hot and ready for sex.

Mark: Do you feel my dick against your ass?

Terry: I do. It is getting hard. Now it's pushing into my cheek.

Mark: Of course it is, your bottom is sexy, all of you is sexy, and in a few moments I will put my dick under that bottom, between those wonderful legs of yours.

Terry: I want that. I want it. I love your dick. Touching it, feeling it, pulling it, sucking...

Mark: I run my hands up your arms. I put them around you in front, and you grasp my hands and put them on your breasts, over your clothes.

Terry: Please open my blouse, open it and put your hands on my tits.

Mark: I am grasping the blouse with each hand, and I rip the fabric and buttons go flying, pulling this blouse open for the last time, exposing your breasts in their bra and grabbing them, grabbing them harder than usual, and I squeeze. I feel their softness. You feel my want. You moan.

Mark: My dick is hard now, and I push it into your clothed bottom as I pull you by the breasts fiercely against me.

Mark: I'm gonna pull your clothes off you. Then I'm gonna fuck you. Now, here, on the floor. Don't try to stop me.

Mark: You shiver, desiring.

Terry: I want your dick in me. I won't stop you!! I want it. I need it. Hurry, don't wait, be rough, get it out now, now, get it in me, put it in, please, please.

Mark: I am throwing open your clothes as I turn you and your arms are back and the remnant blouse falls off, then your bra follows. Your arms are about my neck, then hands on my shoulders or pulling my head to a rough, painful, open-mouth kiss.

Mark: Your blue jeans I open and yank down, and I cradle you for a moment and put you on your back, my left hand behind your head, a gentle moment in a wanton act. You are on the floor, the floor of the kitchen. I have my pants open and down and my dick is hard and straining to find you.

Mark: I put your legs over my shoulders and consider eating the magnificent cunt before me, its fragrance urging me on, but you want a dick and so I give mine to you. I put it at the entrance to your hole and I push, push, and I am in you grunting and you are spreading your ankles away from my head. I rock it into you, and our sexes meet fully. You groan and move, opening, grasping, thanking me to the fuck.

Terry: Screw me, I whisper, eyes closed for a moment, as if registering your length and girth and preparing... My eyes open, looking straight at yours, you must know I can't wait.

Terry: Ram it in, ram me! Hard. I want it.

Mark: I stick you then, one time, two times, three, four, five. I feel semen building up in me, welling up, I look in your eyes and you know it is coming.

Mark: I will give you what we both talked about. Now. NOW!

Terry: My eyes are wide with fear and lust. You can't come in me, don't please no! No child please...

Mark: But I ram it in two more times and I'm spurting, spurting, and my seed is in you and my child will be yours and mine, and it will be good knowing I fucked his wife and he won't know he raises my child.

Terry: Oh, Mark, I'm (she could not type more)

We calm. For a while, no one types.

Mark: You are lovely.

I say it, I type it, wishing I could lay my head on her breast.

Terry: I came this time, Mark. It was the impregnation Never saw that one coming.

Mark: You always said orgasm was not necessary, Terry.

Terry: Not necessary. Fun, though. I have a mess to clean up here, now. I'll be in contact. Soon.

M: Give me a half a day and I'll be ready.

Terry: You! Never enough, huh?

Mark: Never.

I clicked out of chat.

Chapter 2 A Death Far Away

I felt Miriam through the chat connection. She'd divulged her name, trusting me. I had given mine, but she still called me Mark. "I...we have suffered a terrible blow. My mother has passed suddenly," Miriam wrote across the ether. I could feel the grief of this beautiful young woman I had only seen in pictures, hundreds of miles away, suffering at this most intimate loss.

"How old was she?" I typed.

I remembered that she was so hesitant at first, unsure, using her alias that remained her chat name. We had never met in person, but we'd written, communicated online really-twice weekly almost, sometimes more times and for long hours. I knew she was Miriam, she remembered my name if she thought of it, but I was the Mark persona online, never Charlie. For three years now I had come to know her. I sexted her, taught her new words, things to do-in words, typing, jerking. She was so young when we started, I felt guilt, she was but 23 at this untimely death of her mother.

"49," she wrote. "Some sort of aneurysm in her brain. There were no symptoms. One moment fine and then unconscious. Five minutes and her breathing stopped. My dad is distraught," she said, her words stopping with emotion. She did not go on.

I tried to imagine the family tragedy. She'd rarely mentioned family, had requested we not discuss her husband-she kept our discussions on me or my obsession and her want for sex. We discussed sex ad nauseum probably to her, if not to me. But she was a good kid at heart, loving and not wanting to hurt anyone, worried about her marriage because he showed so little interest in her physically, sexually, and she wanted it badly, even very badly. But in that community these were things a man handled within his marriage and it was not discussed outside.

Until she'd found me happenstance. I was a much, much older man, three times her age, wanting and rarely having sex with the woman of my life, winding down a happy but practically sexless marriage. After ten-no, thirteen-years, I was rationally obsessed with sex and moderately capable of performing (probably). At times I wished every good-looking or nice woman would throw off her clothes and demand to be done right then and there, demand to be fucked, licked, sucked, poked, right in the produce section of the Fool Lion or behind the last shelf of books in the library or by the side of the busy street under the tree (no one would notice). Propriety was a casualty of lust. I wondered if passing women had any idea I was thinking such thoughts of them. I struggled to maintain composure much of everyday. I struggled for it in my online relationship with this pretty young woman.

And she was pretty. She sent me pictures, unexpectedly and innocently, face carefully blocked out, of herself in babydoll and thong: gorgeous, thin, 20, demure considering the attire. She sent others, not blocked, of her at a birthday party, just standing in a room, and some from her wedding. She had wonderful eyes that looked out of those pictures, and I wished she did not block the sexier ones. "I would be ruined," she said, in explanation. The internet remembers everything, and distributing sexy pictures was not discrete. It was too bad. It was all I had for sex, real sex with a real person I knew and built something like a relationship with. That was the difference between a random picture and the picture of someone you discuss sex with: it is sharing, and sex is sharing. Even this.

She had never seen me. "I will never send a picture on the internet," I had said. She sent hers, anyway. I considered them a gift, almost holy. I looked at them and realized-I was not gone yet. I felt the stirring, the desire, when I saw them.

The funeral, she wrote, would be at their cemetery in just one day, in their tradition. I decided to go, if I could think of a way or find a plane in time. I knew the name of her city and she mine, by mention over the months. She knew very little else of me. Indeed, she did not use my real name having read it but once several years before. We had discussed our aliases, protecting our marriages, our children, our spouses, ourselves, from scandal. But I wrote once my real name for her-she never used it. Yet I knew Miriam Eisenman Marx as a real person whose name was part of her, and I did not forget. I loved her, in a pure but purely limited way.

Chapter 3 Finding Miriam

I flew north and landed safely. It was a cool October morning in her city. I rented a car at the airport and found the place, with a bunch of mostly bearded men standing about. I was dressed in dark sport coat and slacks, tie and dress shirt, but I was just about the only one. I wore a light overcoat, many years old now, a gift of my wife.

I joined the men, who silently regarded me. One young man said, "Shalom, you are welcome, Friend. This is the burial of Ruth Eisenman." I nodded grimly and said, "Good. I am in the right place." I volunteered nothing else. The women were separate, speaking together, some noticing an older man with grey hair, heavier than he should be, with skin that said 63. I was silent.

I looked at the family, once I identified them, and at Miriam, obviously Miriam, and my heart leapt. It was really she with her father and brother (both much older). I had told her that I empathized, having lost my mother some years ago, but I had given no hint that I would attend this event. The man I came to assume was her husband joined them then, and the prayers and talk commenced. I was the only person not in black, the only man obviously Gentile. Most of the prayers I did not understand, spoken in Hebrew or Yiddish or Aramaic, I assumed. There were words spoken. Miriam held onto her husband's arm, leaned her head against his shoulder, and his arm was about her patting her back, holding her close, as a husband should.

I wondered, what have I done? For some time she and I would meet on the internet and talk of our lives, our loves, and our dreams. Both frustrated for lack of sex, she at just 20, I at 60, we met by accident as she visited a site for her first time and I my millionth. I sought any relief but prostitution. I found none until Miriam. She was a year married, had no college, worked a dead-end job, and wondered if this was all there was. She said that she had put effort into encouraging her husband toward sex, tried seduction, tried the brazen, but he was not much interested. She gave no details. Her sex life was not null, but it was not as she had expected or hoped. Both of them had been virgins at marriage, he several years older. It was as if he retreated, and she was soon defeated.

At our start, they were less than a year married.

My only purpose at the website had been to find a chatmate, a sexual chatmate to exchange dirty fantasies and masturbate successfully. It was a sad and pathetic purpose, but I'd found success in Miriam. She was shocked at my language, and encouraged me. She was confused by words she had never heard, but absolutely wanted me to use them. For some time she would only answer a question, often "I don't know" or "I won't say" and I'd fill in. Then we played a game and it forced her to answer, then one to make her use bad words, then I was masturbating to climax as she occasionally described us doing it. I had those wonderful pictures, from her cell phone probably, but showing skin and form and youth. Beautiful-she was very, very pretty in the digital image.

They filed by the coffin, placing rocks on, and I asked a young man if it was proper I do it. He smiled and said, "Yes. How did you know Mrs. Eisenman?"

"I didn't. I know someone she loved." So without ending his wonder, I followed along, picking a stone and placing it beside the others. Miriam and the rest of the family were near then, and after I placed my stone I looked up at them and her, and she looked at me. She did not recognize me, did not immediately think this is Mark, really Charlie, this is the man I let encourage me to touch my vulva, this is the man I tell to fuck me. She looked at me, and then at the next man, the young man I had queried. She nodded to him, and he nodded back. She had a life I had never touched: classmates, teams, clubs, friends, temple-and I was no part of that. I told her to pinch her nipples, to feel a cock in her cunt, and to imagine a whole load in her mouth. It was suddenly without meaning, a pitiable obsession of a man hobbled by life's vagaries.

The ritual over, I drifted alone among others toward the parking lot. Someone touched my arm. It was the young man who had spoken to me.

"May I ask you to our gathering, Friend," he said. His eyes were sincere. "At the house of the family. I am Ruth's nephew. It would please them, I am sure. Miriam asked if anyone knew you. Please."

I considered the ramifications and could think of none if I were prudent. It was a loving gesture by a family noticing the outsider and welcoming him. I assented. He handed me a small paper with an address, and said park on the street. I thanked him and said I had gps and would be there. I watched as Miriam, her husband, and father left in a dark car. I went on to my own.

It was a small, inconspicuous house in a neighborhood of similar houses. The Eisenmans were not rich nor did they have any pretensions about it. Miriam worked in this house, as her father's helper in his accounting business. Here she used the internet with me, sometimes when she was not home. I walked up the walk to the front door. I knocked, and Miriam opened it.

"Hello," she said seriously, "Come in. I am Miriam, Ruth's daughter. And you are...?"

"Charlie Potter," I said. She looked at me, not recognizing my real name, not understanding and most definitely not expecting. She might have recognized Charlie, perhaps, but she'd only seen Charlie Potter once, years ago, within an internet address. She still called me Mark in our shared dreams. I had described myself: average height, receding gray hair, now 63, too much weight-she did not put it together from such a general and common appearance.

"I did not know your mother. I am here because I know someone who was greatly saddened by her passing, and is in great pain." I stepped past her. She took my coat. I joined others in the various rooms, never committing to identification. I had never been among so many orthodox Jews, and I was surprised they welcomed me so-but I knew Miriam from so many conversations that were not just about sex, not about emotion, not about frustration-so I decided I should not have been surprised. These were her people and like her were friendly and genuine.

It was her father who put things together-that something did not fit and it was connected to me. Maybe he was just wary. She and I had discussed it weeks before. He seemed to suspect her, she said. Perhaps he had discovered her internet activities, or thought she had a boyfriend, or had bugged her computer. Perhaps he just knew his daughter's situation and understood it a bit.

"May I speak with you, Mr. Potter?" he asked. "In the next room, please." I followed him. It was a small bedroom, the bed made, the drawers shut, everything in its place. It seemed feminine.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his eyes not friendly, his tone accusing. So he did not know everything, but he suspected something: an affair, perhaps.

"I came to show support for a friend of mine who was greatly hurt by the passing of your wife," I said, sticking to the story because it was true. He did not seem persuaded by my answer. Nor would I have been.

"Who is this person wounded by my good wife's demise?" he asked. I considered telling him the truth, but I could not, would not, and did not. I looked at him, so he saw my hesitation. "I apologize. I should not have come. I will leave. You have my sincerest condolence, Mr. Eisenman, for your loss." I nodded slightly and went through the other room, saying I must leave and speaking condolence to each as I passed by. Mr. Eisenman followed me and signalled ahead, and Miriam was waiting with my coat, her husband beside her.

"I am sorry you must leave so soon, Mr. Potter. Is something wrong?"

I smiled at her. "'It is a wise father that knows his own child.'" Miriam started and dropped the coat at that quotation which she recognized, recognized because we had discussed it when we discussed his suspicions a few weeks ago. She looked at me, and at her dad. Many thoughts passed quickly through her mind, I'm sure. I picked up the garment and put it on. Mr. Eisenman was with me then.

"Goodbye, Mr. Potter," he said, firmly. He did not offer to shake my hand. I turned and opened the door, felt the chilling wind of Canada in October, and headed to my car.

Chapter 4 This Time of a Life

As all things must end, I was shocked to find that my internet relationship with Miriam continued a month later. She mentioned my visit only once, thanking me for the gesture. I said, our talk has meant something for me, and she said for her also. Perhaps her new knowledge that I was not tall, not particularly handsome, not thin, or not a movie star inhibited the activities we enjoyed, but I did not notice it.

She was, if anything, more energetic, more vocal, quicker to climax, naughtier. The one change was that she called me Charlie, never again Mark. It excited me more, and I considered it a gift. We engaged in activity every week, sometimes twice, when one or the other of us wanted sex but could not have it with spouse, or in my case never had it. We had sex only by text, actually. We had considered phone or Skype, but we preferred the effect of written words. Sometimes it was very hot. I think she had orgasms; she claimed some. I did, sometimes, but it was not as important WITH her as when I was solo. I enjoyed the idea of this woman typing about a sex act for my pleasure, so far away. Sex of a sort, experienced with someone, even this way, was sadly better.

It went on for five or so more years. She gave birth twice in that period-both boys-and we continued. It took a turn to bondage and sadism which we finally decided was diminishing rather than enhancing, so we turned back. We played roles, laughing at the stereotypes. She and her husband considered divorce at one point, and their sex life dwindled to almost nothing for some time. But eventually they came back together, and their sex life resumed if less actively. For some reason he had never had the sex drive I'd have expected-she wanted it and badly, but he was a once- or twice-a-month guy, if that. Far away, I'd shake my head at such a thing.

As all things must end, so soon shall my life. I am now and finally 68. I noticed the nausea and then pain in my stomach and spreading pain in my back, and the doctor did tests and shook his head. So did the next one. "We have a new drug," the last one said.

"Use it, test it on me, at least it will mean something if it helps or doesn't," I replied. It let me live another month or so in pain.

During this time, Miriam and I continued but rarely, and she did not know I was now impotent. She asked if something was wrong, and I said, "Not feeling well, that's all." She did not question more, but she must have suspected it was more serious. Still, our relationship was based in trust, ONLY in trust, so she accepted that that was true or what I wanted her to believe for my own purpose-so she did.

My wife and I have faced the reality of the sickness that is weakening me, and I will be glad to go as a relief for her. She worried that I suffered, and it was increasing, but so far bearably. I sleep more with the increased pain medication. I expected to be moved to hospice soon, at my wife's prerogative. My wife, lovely woman, took care of the arrangements, and notified the kids spread all over the USA. They wanted to fly in despite the fact I could linger. I was still a bit energetic. I said, let them visit when I am declining, unable, or the doctors say I will be too drugged. You will have lots of things to discuss, then, about the funeral and property and me.

12
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