Cybertracker Software | Info

Let's be honest: all men who surf for porn dream of sleeping with the women they 'spend time with' online.

All of them.

Period.

And if we're being accurate, 'sleeping with' ain't the best way of putting it. Fucking is. Plain and simple, if it were possible to get with the image on the screen, they would.

Sure, there's a wealth of emotion there, as well. Guys become quite 'attached' to their favourite adult star.model. Read the endless forums; 'fawning' isn't putting it too mildly when 'fans' get a chance to communicate with their flesh-idols. It's always reminded me of elementary school and the usual crushes that adolescents develop. Mind you, these guys would still fuck their dream-girls at the drop of a hat.

'Middle Eastern Supermodel'Angylina is no different.

I know. I've been a member of both her pay-as-you-go club as well as her yahoo! group. Not to mention downloading every free JPEG of her available on the Web. If someone had posted it, I owned it. Angylina is as heavenly as her press purports her to be. Those lips, that hair, those glutes, the rest of that hardbody physique...

Those tits. Her hallmark.

Of course I wanted to sleep with her.

: )

Which I did.

Why else would I be writing this tale...?




We met as a result of a misunderstanding.

No, I should be honest. Angylina and I met as a result of an argument. A furious, name-calling, screaming fit of an argument that went on for well over a month.

It began innocently enough. Compliments from me. Polite 'thanks' from her in return.

But then I said some things...

What I said sprung from an initial point I made about her being perfect for Playboy and that I hoped she managed to get a feature pictorial in the men's mag. I mean, she refers to the publication on her home page.

Big-time thanks from her.

Only then I explained why I felt that way.

And soon enough the hissing and the spitting and the clawing began.

What I said was that she'd be perfect for the mag because she had things in common with Playboy. One...the point that got our battle going...was that they both dealt in a kind of non-sexual sexuality. Picture-perfect sexuality that was titillating, to be sure, but little more. Nothing was 'real' about what they presented to the observer. Playboy's pictorials revealed nothing about the sexuality about the women who were in them. It was all 'safe'. And as for Angylina... Well, as she puts it on her site, situations appreciated, nothing vulgar, please'. What she 'presents' for the subscribing viewer is her in various states of undress...sometimes cupping her appreciable bust, sometimes posing in provocative ways...but what she doesn't do is anything more than provide a peephole show.

Now, I've never said that she should shift from her soft-core approach to a hard-core one, but after a while...some 17,000 pictures are available to members of her site...it's clear that a 'Look, but definitely don't touch' theme reigns supreme. And for me, it reminded me so much of Playboy. Where their women are presented for what they are...inarguably beautiful...but devoid of anything approaching 'real'.

Man, was she pissed-off.

First thing she did was cancel my membership at www.cyberchik.com.

Then she bounced me out of her yahoo! group. Of course, I kept joining under different identiies...

Our correspondence wasn't very pretty. It got nasty, actually. At least from her. Called me all manner of things, ever name under the sun. Looking at her on-screen, listening to the paucity of audio that's available (I've never been up late enough to catch her on her live webcam...) She accused me of being a pig and screamed at me that all I wanted was to watch her masturbate.

My response? 'Of course. What red-blooded male (or sensible dyke) wouldn't? You strip for us, you run your hands suggestively all over that Playmate's body of yours, why wouldn't someone watching all this want you take it to the next step? They already are in their heads anyway. In fact, to a certain extent, they don't need you to show them. They're already watching that clip in their heads, jerking off to it, savouring every aspect of you playing with yourself, bringing yourself off for the webcam...'

Oh, did she scream at me.

Throwing caution to the wind, I let go with a blast that, depite how well things have turned out, I still regret having sent.

I said 'In fact, it seems to me that your Angylina persona is a complete and utter fabrication, because you don't seem to even enjoy the prospect of sex. For the past six months you've looked positively bored. So, as with Playboy, it's all pretense. And that seems the most sad thing of all'.

I got two weeks of silence for that one.




Out of the blue, I received an email.

"Why do you bother paying to watch me or download pictures of me if you think so little of me? If you think I'm so fake. (Why haven't you ever commented on my breasts? They're fake, but you don't bring them up...) Why bother? Why waste your time and money?"

I gave my response plenty of consideration. She deserved that much; I'd never set out to hurt her. Or to insult her.

"I have been a fan of 'adult' images since I discovered the joys contained within my father's hidden Playboys back in the 70s. Some of my fondest memories are of poring over the pictorials, of being stirred by the women on the pages, of feeling alive in that way for the first time. As I got older, this never diminished. No matter what my relationship status was at any given time. So much so that I ended up writing erotica for Playboy online.

I have a vast store of images cached away. I'm an archvist, I suppose. A beautiful woman photographed properly is a thing of wonder. And I never get bored of wonder.

Every once in a while, I come across a woman online who defies description. Who is head-and-shoulders above the norm. Who seems to have all those things that set off alarms for me.

Oh, how my head rang when I saw you for the first time.

Although too busy to indulge myself in such a way, after I had downloaded the hundreds of free images of you that are available, I signed up for your members-only site.

I've never had such a wonderful return for my investment.

I found myself downloading your entire catalogue. The whole kitandkaboodle, as they say. I've been enraptured since my initial glimpse of you. And my shrinking hard drive space is testimony to my addiction.

'Think little of (you)'? Hardly. But there's something somehow...measly about your continued insistence on doing the artsy-tease routine. It goes nowhere. Nothing's being revealed. Nothing's being explored. I realize that subscribers generally don't stick around for months on end, so they're not really being cheated out of anything... But I've been looking at you recently and wondering 'Where is this going?' I've been finding it far more tawdry than if you'd been sprawled out with your favourite vibrator, masturbating for the viewers.

For the record, I think you're stunning. You possess a heavenly combination of a Middle Eastern, dusky allure with an ahtlete's body and a magnificent rack, what are, to me, the perfect pair of tits. (That they point east and west only adds to my fondness for them, by the way. I don't see this surgeon's miscalculation as a negative. Indeed, I wouldn't want them any other way.)

I know what I'm telling you is not what any woman wants to hear, let alone an adult feature artist...but you asked.'

I'm not sure what I expected, but it surely wasn't what I got.

'One question,' she led off her email, 'Can I trust you? If I send you something, will you keep it to yourself?'

"Of course you can tust me," I replied. 'Implicitly.'

What arrived on my laptop's virtual doorstep had me feeling like that twelve year old again.

Here were 60 photos of Angylina stripping for the camera...doing what she usually did with her hands, 'appreciating' herself all over...laying down on her bed...and then Angylina masturbating to orgasm.

I know that was the eventual result because she sent me an MPEG of it.

All fifteen minutes' worth.

I'll willingly 'fess-up, here: I brought myself off three times before I tore myself away from my computer to try and gain some perspective.

By this time, I'd received an email from Angylina. 'Well...?'

My fingers flew –albeit clumsily–over the keyboard. "Please find this usually verbose writer, speechless."

I got back an email entitled ': P'. And within: 'Was THAT what you were talking about?'

"Yes, ma'am. That hit the spot."

'Good?'

"Are you fishing for compliments?"

'Maybe...'

"Stupendous."

'That's what I wanted to hear.'

I just stared at the screen. And got hard again.

'You might be interested in knowing,' her next missive began, 'that I was thinking of you when I was doing it.'

"Doing what?" I asked, being coy.

'You're going to make me say it, aren't you?'

"Uh-huh."

'When I was MASTURBATING. There. Satisfied?'

"More than you know."

'Maybe you should SHOW me.'

"Just a minute," I said. "I'll grab my digital camera..."

Holding the Minolta in my left hand, I masturbated for the camera with Angylina clearly in view.

One shot.

Then another.

Then a ream of them.

I was getting close. The images on the screen were too much to deny paying tribute to.

I set the camera for multiple-shots and came on cue.

'You still there?'

"I am," I replied. "Here's proof."

I sent her the shots, one at a time.

Thirty emails later, she had them all. Including my creamy finale.

I waited.

Nothing.

Finally...

'You're such a BIG man.'

"Thanx."

'I think you should come to Las Vegas.'

"Can't. Too busy. I think you should come to England."

'I've never been to England.'

"Perfect, then. We can spend some quality time together, I can add to my apology in suitable ways, given your reaction to my piccies...and maybe come up with some intriguing collaborative ideas."

': )'




She told her members that she'd be gone for a week.

She was over here for two.

Oh, well. Their loss.




I meet her at the airport. She's sunglasses and black. Everything black.

She also wears about as many stares as you can manage from a packed Arrivals lounge.

"Callum?" she asks, taking off her shades.

"Angylina," I reply, extending my hand. Once we've shaken, I bring her to me for a hug. "Welcome to Britain."

She disappears in my arms. "God... You're huge..."

I gaze down at her. Angylina is five-four, five-five? One hundred and ten pounds?

I'm almost six-three and two-fifty. Long blondish hair with a full reddish beard. I look like a Viking.

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

She laughs.

"God...and I thought the rest of you was sexy. That smile..."

It's then that I discover something important about Angylina: despite her dark features, she blushes.

We head out to the parking area. When I stop at the PT Cruiser, she whistles. "Nice. Yours?"

"My gal's," I reply, opening the trunk.

Angylina stops. "Gal? As in 'girlfriend'?"

"Uh-huh," I say, loading in her cases. When I'm done this, I turn to her. She's frowning. "What's the matter?"

She shakes her head. "I never thought to ask if you were attached... I am so stupid..."

"Come on," I say, opening up the passenger side. 'Get in."

She doesn't move an inch. "You have a girlfriend."

"I know. And she knows about you. No biggee.You'll meet her soon enough..."




"So..." I say as we speed along the M25. "Do you feel like some sight-seeing or would you like to catch up on some sleep first? Are you hungry?"

Angylina stares at the road before us. "Your girlfriend knows about me? About us? About me visiting you to...I mean, you know..."

"What; does my gal know that you've flown over six thousand miles to get to know me in the biblical sense?"

Another blush. "Yes."

"Of course, she does. I don't keep anything from her."

Silence.

"She thinks you're hot."

"Callum... I don't know what you had in mind, but I'm not... I'm not bi..."

I turn to her. She looks serious.

Spotting a LittleChef just ahead, I signal my intentions and pull into the parking lot. "Come on," I say. "I need a coffee."





The restaurant is quiet. No surprise for this time of the morning. We've got a corner table off on our own.

I look at Angylina and sigh. "Look; this is supposed to be a fun trip."

She says nothing. Just stirs her coffee.

"Tell me: why are you here?"

She scrunches up her face. "You know why."

"Come on. Spit it out. Let's be really clear."

"I'm here..." She's flushing crimson. "I'm here to sleep with you. I can't believe I'm actually saying this!"

I can't help but laugh. "You spend a few hundred dollars, get on a plane, travel the better part of half a day to effectively make it possible to hop into bed with someone you've never met...and you're embarrassed about saying it out loud?"

More frowning.

"My opinion of you just went through the roof."

She's perplexed.

"I'm not laughing at you...but I think you're cute."

"But your girlfriend..."

"Knows about everything and thinks it's great that we've sorted out our differences and are hooking up. Although..."

"What?" she asks, concerned, now.

"Well...she did ask if maybe you were still angry with me and you were actually going to fuck me to death."

Angylina takes a second to catch up, then she smiles. "She sounds pretty cool."

"She is. Now... She's bi, but there's no pressure for there to be anything between she and you...it's not a package deal."

Angylina nods in the silence.

"Unless you decided that's what you wanted."

"Callum-"

"I'm just telling you! Give me a break, already!"




"Just to ease your mind, Imogen's away for four days."

She pulls her stare away from the passing scenery to look at me.

"I've booked you into a nice hotel once she's come back."

"You two have a very understanding relationship."

"We do. It's open, it's honest... It's great."

"What's she like? I mean, physically."

I laugh. "She's an Amazon. Five-ten, one hundred and sixty pounds, 40-25-37..."

"God," she says. "She must be enormous!"

"We fit well, together."

Angylina looks me over.

"What...?"

"Nothing," she says, smirking. "I've never been with anyone like you."

"Oh?"

"No. I usually go for dark types. You know. Like where I'm from."

"Well, sometimes the opposite of what we crave can be all the more a thrill."

"Oh, I'm not doubting you're going to be a thrill..."

"Really?"

She wriggles in her seat, faces front again. "Your cock..."

"What about my cock?"

She's red in the face again. "On the plane..." She coughs to restore her control. "It was all I could think of." She giggles, turning her head away. "I'm still wet. And I changed panties on the way..."

I drive for a bit, then reach out for her, between her legs, under her skirt, lifting it up, exposing her thighs, pushing back into her crotch, going under her panties, down, down...

A thick, triangular patch.

"Aw... You granted my request."

She rolls her eyes. "I did. You didn't want me to shave, so I didn't. Everyone else does... Want me to shave, that is. You're in the minority."

"But still, you spared the bush. I'm flattered," I say, diving south, fingers probing. "Ahh..." I say, to Angylina's punctuation of a jagged intake of breath. I hit moisture. Warm moisture. Hot moisture. A quick glance at her and then I'm cocking my wrist and I'm inside her, the heel of my palm pressing into her mons, fingers hooking, probing, fucking her...

"Your thumb..."

"If you wish," I reply, rotating it on her clit.

She's a Mexican jumping bean going nowhere except up and down in place with no hint of what's next, except the obvious promise that something's next.

Angylina turns her head my way. Her dark eyes are glassy. She squints at me. "You're gonna make me come."

"That would be nice. A great way for the country to welcome you."

There's a long patch of smooth sailing ahead, so I just keep doing what I'm doing.

Angylina shifts about again, then undoes her jacket. Revealed beneath is a white blouse. This too, she undoes. One button, two, then the third. Her bust threatens to explode out, bursting out of the black bra. "For you," she purrs.

"Right," I say, eyes back on the road.

Sorta, kinda.

Not really.



Let's be honest: all men who surf for porn dream of sleeping with the women they 'spend time with' online.

All of them.

Period.

And if we're being accurate, 'sleeping with' ain't the best way of putting it. Fucking is. Plain and simple, if it were possible to get with the image on the screen, they would.

Sure, there's a wealth of emotion there, as well. Guys become quite 'attached' to their favourite adult star.model. Read the endless forums; 'fawning' isn't putting it too mildly when 'fans' get a chance to communicate with their flesh-idols. It's always reminded me of elementary school and the usual crushes that adolescents develop. Mind you, these guys would still fuck their dream-girls at the drop of a hat.

'Middle Eastern Supermodel'Angylina is no different.

I know. I've been a member of both her pay-as-you-go club as well as her yahoo! group. Not to mention downloading every free JPEG of her available on the Web. If someone had posted it, I owned it. Angylina is as heavenly as her press purports her to be. Those lips, that hair, those glutes, the rest of that hardbody physique...

Those tits. Her hallmark.

Of course I wanted to sleep with her.

: )

Which I did.

Why else would I be writing this tale...?




We met as a result of a misunderstanding.

No, I should be honest. Angylina and I met as a result of an argument. A furious, name-calling, screaming fit of an argument that went on for well over a month.

It began innocently enough. Compliments from me. Polite 'thanks' from her in return.

But then I said some things...

What I said sprung from an initial point I made about her being perfect for Playboy and that I hoped she managed to get a feature pictorial in the men's mag. I mean, she refers to the publication on her home page.

Big-time thanks from her.

Only then I explained why I felt that way.

And soon enough the hissing and the spitting and the clawing began.

What I said was that she'd be perfect for the mag because she had things in common with Playboy. One...the point that got our battle going...was that they both dealt in a kind of non-sexual sexuality. Picture-perfect sexuality that was titillating, to be sure, but little more. Nothing was 'real' about what they presented to the observer. Playboy's pictorials revealed nothing about the sexuality about the women who were in them. It was all 'safe'. And as for Angylina... Well, as she puts it on her site, situations appreciated, nothing vulgar, please'. What she 'presents' for the subscribing viewer is her in various states of undress...sometimes cupping her appreciable bust, sometimes posing in provocative ways...but what she doesn't do is anything more than provide a peephole show.

Now, I've never said that she should shift from her soft-core approach to a hard-core one, but after a while...some 17,000 pictures are available to members of her site...it's clear that a 'Look, but definitely don't touch' theme reigns supreme. And for me, it reminded me so much of Playboy. Where their women are presented for what they are...inarguably beautiful...but devoid of anything approaching 'real'.

Man, was she pissed-off.

First thing she did was cancel my membership at www.cyberchik.com.

Then she bounced me out of her yahoo! group. Of course, I kept joining under different identiies...

Our correspondence wasn't very pretty. It got nasty, actually. At least from her. Called me all manner of things, ever name under the sun. Looking at her on-screen, listening to the paucity of audio that's available (I've never been up late enough to catch her on her live webcam...) She accused me of being a pig and screamed at me that all I wanted was to watch her masturbate.

My response? 'Of course. What red-blooded male (or sensible dyke) wouldn't? You strip for us, you run your hands suggestively all over that Playmate's body of yours, why wouldn't someone watching all this want you take it to the next step? They already are in their heads anyway. In fact, to a certain extent, they don't need you to show them. They're already watching that clip in their heads, jerking off to it, savouring every aspect of you playing with yourself, bringing yourself off for the webcam...'

Oh, did she scream at me.

Throwing caution to the wind, I let go with a blast that, depite how well things have turned out, I still regret having sent.

I said 'In fact, it seems to me that your Angylina persona is a complete and utter fabrication, because you don't seem to even enjoy the prospect of sex. For the past six months you've looked positively bored. So, as with Playboy, it's all pretense. And that seems the most sad thing of all'.

I got two weeks of silence for that one.




Out of the blue, I received an email.

"Why do you bother paying to watch me or download pictures of me if you think so little of me? If you think I'm so fake. (Why haven't you ever commented on my breasts? They're fake, but you don't bring them up...) Why bother? Why waste your time and money?"

I gave my response plenty of consideration. She deserved that much; I'd never set out to hurt her. Or to insult her.

"I have been a fan of 'adult' images since I discovered the joys contained within my father's hidden Playboys back in the 70s. Some of my fondest memories are of poring over the pictorials, of being stirred by the women on the pages, of feeling alive in that way for the first time. As I got older, this never diminished. No matter what my relationship status was at any given time. So much so that I ended up writing erotica for Playboy online.

I have a vast store of images cached away. I'm an archvist, I suppose. A beautiful woman photographed properly is a thing of wonder. And I never get bored of wonder.

Every once in a while, I come across a woman online who defies description. Who is head-and-shoulders above the norm. Who seems to have all those things that set off alarms for me.

Oh, how my head rang when I saw you for the first time.

Although too busy to indulge myself in such a way, after I had downloaded the hundreds of free images of you that are available, I signed up for your members-only site.

I've never had such a wonderful return for my investment.

I found myself downloading your entire catalogue. The whole kitandkaboodle, as they say. I've been enraptured since my initial glimpse of you. And my shrinking hard drive space is testimony to my addiction.

'Think little of (you)'? Hardly. But there's something somehow...measly about your continued insistence on doing the artsy-tease routine. It goes nowhere. Nothing's being revealed. Nothing's being explored. I realize that subscribers generally don't stick around for months on end, so they're not really being cheated out of anything... But I've been looking at you recently and wondering 'Where is this going?' I've been finding it far more tawdry than if you'd been sprawled out with your favourite vibrator, masturbating for the viewers.

For the record, I think you're stunning. You possess a heavenly combination of a Middle Eastern, dusky allure with an ahtlete's body and a magnificent rack, what are, to me, the perfect pair of tits. (That they point east and west only adds to my fondness for them, by the way. I don't see this surgeon's miscalculation as a negative. Indeed, I wouldn't want them any other way.)

I know what I'm telling you is not what any woman wants to hear, let alone an adult feature artist...but you asked.'

I'm not sure what I expected, but it surely wasn't what I got.

'One question,' she led off her email, 'Can I trust you? If I send you something, will you keep it to yourself?'

"Of course you can tust me," I replied. 'Implicitly.'

What arrived on my laptop's virtual doorstep had me feeling like that twelve year old again.

Here were 60 photos of Angylina stripping for the camera...doing what she usually did with her hands, 'appreciating' herself all over...laying down on her bed...and then Angylina masturbating to orgasm.

I know that was the eventual result because she sent me an MPEG of it.

All fifteen minutes' worth.

I'll willingly 'fess-up, here: I brought myself off three times before I tore myself away from my computer to try and gain some perspective.

By this time, I'd received an email from Angylina. 'Well...?'

My fingers flew –albeit clumsily–over the keyboard. "Please find this usually verbose writer, speechless."

I got back an email entitled ': P'. And within: 'Was THAT what you were talking about?'

"Yes, ma'am. That hit the spot."

'Good?'

"Are you fishing for compliments?"

'Maybe...'

"Stupendous."

'That's what I wanted to hear.'

I just stared at the screen. And got hard again.

'You might be interested in knowing,' her next missive began, 'that I was thinking of you when I was doing it.'

"Doing what?" I asked, being coy.

'You're going to make me say it, aren't you?'

"Uh-huh."

'When I was MASTURBATING. There. Satisfied?'

"More than you know."

'Maybe you should SHOW me.'

"Just a minute," I said. "I'll grab my digital camera..."

Holding the Minolta in my left hand, I masturbated for the camera with Angylina clearly in view.

One shot.

Then another.

Then a ream of them.

I was getting close. The images on the screen were too much to deny paying tribute to.

I set the camera for multiple-shots and came on cue.

'You still there?'

"I am," I replied. "Here's proof."

I sent her the shots, one at a time.

Thirty emails later, she had them all. Including my creamy finale.

I waited.

Nothing.

Finally...

'You're such a BIG man.'

"Thanx."

'I think you should come to Las Vegas.'

"Can't. Too busy. I think you should come to England."

'I've never been to England.'

"Perfect, then. We can spend some quality time together, I can add to my apology in suitable ways, given your reaction to my piccies...and maybe come up with some intriguing collaborative ideas."

': )'




She told her members that she'd be gone for a week.

She was over here for two.

Oh, well. Their loss.




I meet her at the airport. She's sunglasses and black. Everything black.

She also wears about as many stares as you can manage from a packed Arrivals lounge.

"Callum?" she asks, taking off her shades.

"Angylina," I reply, extending my hand. Once we've shaken, I bring her to me for a hug. "Welcome to Britain."

She disappears in my arms. "God... You're huge..."

I gaze down at her. Angylina is five-four, five-five? One hundred and ten pounds?

I'm almost six-three and two-fifty. Long blondish hair with a full reddish beard. I look like a Viking.

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

She laughs.

"God...and I thought the rest of you was sexy. That smile..."

It's then that I discover something important about Angylina: despite her dark features, she blushes.

We head out to the parking area. When I stop at the PT Cruiser, she whistles. "Nice. Yours?"

"My gal's," I reply, opening the trunk.

Angylina stops. "Gal? As in 'girlfriend'?"

"Uh-huh," I say, loading in her cases. When I'm done this, I turn to her. She's frowning. "What's the matter?"

She shakes her head. "I never thought to ask if you were attached... I am so stupid..."

"Come on," I say, opening up the passenger side. 'Get in."

She doesn't move an inch. "You have a girlfriend."

"I know. And she knows about you. No biggee.You'll meet her soon enough..."




"So..." I say as we speed along the M25. "Do you feel like some sight-seeing or would you like to catch up on some sleep first? Are you hungry?"

Angylina stares at the road before us. "Your girlfriend knows about me? About us? About me visiting you to...I mean, you know..."

"What; does my gal know that you've flown over six thousand miles to get to know me in the biblical sense?"

Another blush. "Yes."

"Of course, she does. I don't keep anything from her."

Silence.

"She thinks you're hot."

"Callum... I don't know what you had in mind, but I'm not... I'm not bi..."

I turn to her. She looks serious.

Spotting a LittleChef just ahead, I signal my intentions and pull into the parking lot. "Come on," I say. "I need a coffee."





The restaurant is quiet. No surprise for this time of the morning. We've got a corner table off on our own.

I look at Angylina and sigh. "Look; this is supposed to be a fun trip."

She says nothing. Just stirs her coffee.

"Tell me: why are you here?"

She scrunches up her face. "You know why."

"Come on. Spit it out. Let's be really clear."

"I'm here..." She's flushing crimson. "I'm here to sleep with you. I can't believe I'm actually saying this!"

I can't help but laugh. "You spend a few hundred dollars, get on a plane, travel the better part of half a day to effectively make it possible to hop into bed with someone you've never met...and you're embarrassed about saying it out loud?"

More frowning.

"My opinion of you just went through the roof."

She's perplexed.

"I'm not laughing at you...but I think you're cute."

"But your girlfriend..."

"Knows about everything and thinks it's great that we've sorted out our differences and are hooking up. Although..."

"What?" she asks, concerned, now.

"Well...she did ask if maybe you were still angry with me and you were actually going to fuck me to death."

Angylina takes a second to catch up, then she smiles. "She sounds pretty cool."

"She is. Now... She's bi, but there's no pressure for there to be anything between she and you...it's not a package deal."

Angylina nods in the silence.

"Unless you decided that's what you wanted."

"Callum-"

"I'm just telling you! Give me a break, already!"




"Just to ease your mind, Imogen's away for four days."

She pulls her stare away from the passing scenery to look at me.

"I've booked you into a nice hotel once she's come back."

"You two have a very understanding relationship."

"We do. It's open, it's honest... It's great."

"What's she like? I mean, physically."

I laugh. "She's an Amazon. Five-ten, one hundred and sixty pounds, 40-25-37..."

"God," she says. "She must be enormous!"

"We fit well, together."

Angylina looks me over.

"What...?"

"Nothing," she says, smirking. "I've never been with anyone like you."

"Oh?"

"No. I usually go for dark types. You know. Like where I'm from."

"Well, sometimes the opposite of what we crave can be all the more a thrill."

"Oh, I'm not doubting you're going to be a thrill..."

"Really?"

She wriggles in her seat, faces front again. "Your cock..."

"What about my cock?"

She's red in the face again. "On the plane..." She coughs to restore her control. "It was all I could think of." She giggles, turning her head away. "I'm still wet. And I changed panties on the way..."

I drive for a bit, then reach out for her, between her legs, under her skirt, lifting it up, exposing her thighs, pushing back into her crotch, going under her panties, down, down...

A thick, triangular patch.

"Aw... You granted my request."

She rolls her eyes. "I did. You didn't want me to shave, so I didn't. Everyone else does... Want me to shave, that is. You're in the minority."

"But still, you spared the bush. I'm flattered," I say, diving south, fingers probing. "Ahh..." I say, to Angylina's punctuation of a jagged intake of breath. I hit moisture. Warm moisture. Hot moisture. A quick glance at her and then I'm cocking my wrist and I'm inside her, the heel of my palm pressing into her mons, fingers hooking, probing, fucking her...

"Your thumb..."

"If you wish," I reply, rotating it on her clit.

She's a Mexican jumping bean going nowhere except up and down in place with no hint of what's next, except the obvious promise that something's next.

Angylina turns her head my way. Her dark eyes are glassy. She squints at me. "You're gonna make me come."

"That would be nice. A great way for the country to welcome you."

There's a long patch of smooth sailing ahead, so I just keep doing what I'm doing.

Angylina shifts about again, then undoes her jacket. Revealed beneath is a white blouse. This too, she undoes. One button, two, then the third. Her bust threatens to explode out, bursting out of the black bra. "For you," she purrs.

"Right," I say, eyes back on the road.

Sorta, kinda.

Not really.