The thump of the landing gear hitting the runway shook me from my slumber and I
uncurled, or at least as much as the cheap airline seat allowed. Twelve hours
crammed into a bean can, with plastic meals, and knees around my ears had
probably deformed me for life.

"Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop......".
Bellowed the tannoy, commandingly.

"Nice Sleep?" It was the guy in the next seat.

"Hmmmm. Yeah." I looked out of the window, it was raining, inevitably. "Raining
huh?"

He smiled. "Welcome to London. You staying in town?"

I had to think about that for a minute. "No. I'm staying with my ..er..
boyfriend."

"You don't seem very certain." He smiled, he was a nice guy and in different
circumstances I might have found his underlying invitation flattering enough to
take him up on his implied offer.

"Oh I'm certain. I'm just a bit jet lagged that's all. Thanks for the chat on the
way over."

"Pleasure ma'am." You know, my fellow Americans can sometimes be the nicest and
most polite people on earth. Sometimes.

As I sat in the customs hall, waiting for my bags to be vomited from the belly of
the luggage conveyor, I started thinking. I was certain. Wasn't I? I hardly knew
the guy. Not really. Ok we'd exchanged emails with the frequency and passion of a
couple of lovelorn teenagers and we'd spoken a few times on the phone. But....

The nagging doubts remained. 'Its too late for that now girl.' I told myself. For
better or for worse, I'd done it. I'd taken the step, now it was in the lap of
the Gods. Our emails had crescendoed into a lathering welter of feelings I hadn't
felt since before I took my first faltering steps into womanhood. I had to see
him, to feel him, to........

I'd better explain. You see I like certain things. Fantasies, you know. Not the
'normal' heterosexual fantasies, if you know what I mean. No I'm not gay, if
that's what you're thinking, though I'd probably give it a try if I was offered
it.  No! These are more earthy fantasies. Involving big men , powerful men,
taking me, using me. Have I offended you?  Possibly even confused you. I know I
confuse myself at times. This wasn't 'normal' behaviour, as my mother would say.
I fought with my feelings for years, afraid to let go. I wouldn't even get drunk
at parties, I needed control of my feelings at all times. Bound in steel, hidden
deep. For years I had these urges. To be used, raped, thrashed, you name it and
it has flitted through my head at some point. Ok I know what you're thinking. A
crazy woman huh? Most of the time I'd agree, but occasionally I took to my bed,
my trusty vibrator whirring frantically as I lived a fantasy that I'd culled from
a salty story or the fertile humus of my fevered imagination. Legs wide I purged
myself on a diet of raw urges, real and terrifyingly powerful, as I sought my
solace and tried to quench the raging fires of my lust.

I enjoyed those sessions, although my Husband thought I was mad. I tried to
explain them to him, but he looked at me as if he was considering calling the men
in white coats straight over, before I became completely deranged. He was a
straight, as vanilla as they come. He thought that it was somehow sleazy if we
did something wild, like me being on top for a change. I loved him dearly, but I
needed more. Much more.

The Internet was a revelation to me. Suddenly, to perpetuate a particularly awful
cliche, a whole new world was opened up to me. A whole sub culture was there,
sharp and alive. The learning experience took my breath away as I dipped and
delved in the fusty corners of the web where 'my' people lived.

Suddenly I wasn't alone. There were other women like me, with the same carnal
urges and sensual desires that I was a slave to. I tried corresponding with a
couple but I found, and I'm sure they did too, that the interaction was
unsatisfying and stilted. I'm inherently conservative so I found it a bit of a
strain discussing whether I liked 10 inch penises stuck inside my rectum with
another woman. In fact I don't like to discuss it at all, even in a narrative
like this. But with another woman it seemed, oh I don't know, dirty somehow.

The men, on the whole, were worse. I'm sorry to say that. What I was proposing
was that I was to put my life, literally, in their hands as we explored my
fantasies. Yet from what I saw, and read, I wouldn't trust these guys to service
my car. Anyway most guys, I've found, tend to be more interested in the pictures
than the text. They wanted their porn pre-digested and served raw, with no
imagination needed. I needed more. I wanted a fantasy. I didn't REALLY want to be
raped. My God, what woman does, but I wanted to fantasise about it. To pretend,
to go through the actions with someone you trust so that it seems real. So the
story groups appealed to me. That little Jap girl, raped and abused. That's me. 
That sexslave cruelly used, that's me as well.

I lost count of the number of orgasms I had, sitting in front of my computer,
whilst the words tumbled out of the void.  I was a voyeur, plain and simple. I
watched the stories unfold before me and marvelled at the imagination and
artistry that brought them from the minds of the authors into the security of my
living room. I never wrote back, I never emailed the writers, although they
implored me to. Despite the fact that they brought me more pleasure than I'd had
in twenty years of marriage. I was a user, a taker. I took their stories and I
wove myself into them. My climaxes were intense, leaving me weak and breathless.

Then I read one of HIS Stories. It was as if it reached out to me. No longer was
this an anonymous, rather furtive, pleasure. This was real, or as near to real as
I could stand. He didn't write for others, he wrote for me. He stole the
fantasies from my mind, in the dead of night, while I slept, and he crafted them
into powerful stories that left me panting and sweatslick. Every day I logged on,
has he written another story? My disappointment fell over my whole day, like a
damp blanket, as I viewed the barren acres bereft of his barbed prose. The pearl
in the dull oyster of my day was when I saw HIS moniker attached to the new
story. Avidly I consumed it, exploding in a geyser of expectorating juices as I
suffered the 'little death'. I'm sure my heart stopped, such was the power of my
climax. It was terrifying and awesome. And I needed more.

I emailed eventually. In truth I didn't know what to expect. A Crude simpleton in
a stained string vest? A mad rapist alone in his cell? I was sure he couldn't be.
He was so eloquent, his text was so rich and flowing. He must be cultured, he
must have seen the world, he must have drawn deeply from the cup of life. To
write like that....And just for me.

It was with some trepidation that I opened my emails the next day. There was one
from him. I saved it until last, dealing with the trivia and detritus that
littered my mailbox. I sat down, a cup of steaming coffee at my elbow, and opened
his mail.

Thanks for your comments. Glad you liked the story. I wrote it for you, you know!

Mouth agape, I stared at the words. For me! He wrote it for me! But how did he
know? I don't know him. And he certainly doesn't know me. I can't even begin to
explain the rush of conflicting emotions that streamed like comets through me at
that point. He reached out, from that dull little Computer screen, and changed
me. Forever.

After that I was lost. My home, my husband, my life, everything I held dear,
faded into a pastel background. I emailed, he emailed. We exchanged photographs.
We talked for hours on the phone. We did everything, except make it real. Real
real, if you understand me.

Which is why I'm here. Waiting for my bags. Going to him.

I examined myself critically in my makeup mirror. I was still reasonably
attractive, although the passing of my fortieth birthday had left its mark. The
odd grey hair, tinted out of existence, the small blemishes on my, once smooth,
skin. I could feel a knot forming in my stomach, what if I let him down? How had
I described myself? Did I make myself sound too attractive? Was he really
expecting a younger woman? Would he, horror of horrors, turn me away with a
laugh.

'Get a hold of yourself girl.' I told myself as I struggled to contain my
emotions. He saw the photos, he knew what I looked like. There was going to be no
surprises. I looked up to find myself being coolly appraised by a young man. It
made me feel better somehow.

The Taxi ride was a nightmare of self doubt and unbidden terrors. What if he were
a white slaver? What if he just wanted a cheap fuck? What if he were a serial
killer and I was to be his latest victim? I'd told no-one where I was going. This
was a secret that only us two shared. I was, I realised, at his mercy. It was his
country, his bailiwick, and I was the interloper. Whatever happened was up to
him. Did I know him? Really know him? I thought I did, but now?

The cottage was not how I imagined it. I had the typical, American, romantic
notion of whitewashed walls, thatched roofs and ducks on the village pond. Not a
grey stone 'hut' that hunched its shoulders indifferently at the winds screaming
from atop the barren hillside behind it.

As the taxi driver moved my mountain of luggage I wondered whether I should flee.
Should I dive back into the taxi and refuse to emerge until I reached the garish
plastic of the airport.

"That'll be fifty pounds love." The taxi driver informed me, hand held out
expectantly. I proffered a generous tip, Americans had a reputation to uphold
after all.

I watched the taxi drive away. The die was cast. I was involved. It, whatever it
was, was going to happen.

The note said that he was stuck. Business problems. Make yourself at home, it
informed me. I was, all at once, confused, angry and curious. I spent an hour
rooting idly through the drawers trying, by looking at his possessions, to piece
together a composite of the real man. It was obviously a weekend cottage, the
drawers yielded nothing of interest. No pictures, no momentoes, nothing of
interest at all.

Finally I decided to go for a walk. The Villagers, the few that I saw, were
friendly, curious and cautious. I hesitated before entering the pub. Where I came
from a single girl alone in a bar was an invitation. Here it was different. A log
fire, a beefy, smiling bartender and a frothy glass of warm beer, made 200 years
of American ancestry slip smoothly away. I felt at home. I felt good.

I slept well that night, pining for him.

I'm not sure what woke me. As I struggled to come to terms with where I was I
felt the hands pulling my wrists towards the head of the bed.

"Hey, get off." I yelled.

The hands ignored me. I could smell the leather coat, tangy on the cold night air
as it rustled around me, while he worked. My hands were bound firm, I couldn't
move them and now I panicked. I thrashed and sweated until he leaned in close.

"Shhhhh!" He whispered. "Its me. Everything's ok, its only me."

I subsided, gradually. But my heart still pounded, like an engine, in my chest.

It had begun.