I also treat every story as learning experience, and 'Hindsight' was no exception. I learned I love writing stories for other people. Specific people. Some awesome authors online write stories for commission, but in all honesty I'm not ready for that. If I take your money, I should be responsible for giving you your money's worth. I think I'm more suited for the gratis level, at least for now. If it's free, I can give you what inspires me with every intent to delight you with no strings attached.
If this intrigues you personally, or you would like a story written for you to give to someone, send me an e-mail and we'll begin with a few details. I don't ask for much, just a little glimpse into your world, and in return, I'll take you on a journey through mine.
It started in the cardiac chamber. I was running uphill on the grav simulator and just hit my stride when Keith stepped onto the orbital shell next to me. I was in full gear, almost up to two g’s when he started fawning over some new website. Usually, it was pretty easy to ignore him. His list of fetishes grew by a factor of ten since we transferred out to Easton. I was almost to my mark when something he said crawled into the back of my brain and short-circuited my whole rhythm.
“--man, that’s when I started looking back at her other posts. This chick is so smoking hot. Did you check the link I sent you? I’ve been sending her messages for, like, the last week, but she’s playing coy. That’s why I sent her my money-shot!”
It happened so damn fast—I blinked, my foot slipped, and the truckload of gravity I was pushing uphill fell right on top of me. The static field of the grav dome shattered as I hit the floor. My hearing went thin, my eyes blurred, and the next thing I knew, Keith was standing over me with one of the medi-bots. The flashlight shining between my pupils was like a disco strobe.
My head cleared up pretty quick, and the bot was apparently satisfied that I wasn’t going to die because it floated off to harass a super-lifter at the back of the gym. Keith, to his credit, waited until I had a clear prognosis before he laughed his ass off. It didn’t exactly help my mood. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Keith?”
The way my face turned red only made him laugh harder. “Me? You’re the one who just got flattened.” He reached down to help me stand. “The look on your face was fucking priceless!”
“I meant-“ I looked around to make sure we weren’t being overheard and then proceeded, “I meant you sending pics of your shit out to some chick on the net-- are you fucking high or something?”
“Relax, man, it’s totally cool. She’s got this thing completely dialed in. I told you she’s hot, right? Dude, I must have given her some tribute about a dozen times already, and she just keeps posting more and more to keep me going.”
I felt a sharp pain race through my forehead and settle behind my right ear. “I can’t fucking believe you-- it’s like I’m talking to a god-damned fourteen year old!”
“Look, Mace, I’m not doing anything that’ll get us dropped from Peyton. I’m not using my real name, and nothing’s going out on the company servers. Hell, this chick’s even more paranoid about it than you are. Never seen her face, hell, I don’t even know her real name. No one does.”
I stared at him, but Keith’s lopsided grin wasn’t going anywhere. He was easily the stupidest smart person I’d ever met, let alone been assigned to work with. I gathered up the pieces of my broken pride and limped back to my hotel room.
Before I even set foot in my borrowed office at Peyton’s Donovan campus the next morning, I was pulled under a wave of edit requests from the oversight committee. It was hard enough trying to keep a single regional office in line, but throw in half the Delta Quadrant, and well, things tended to get a bit sloppy. I ran out of wall space three days ago and had to start posting memos on the windows. The new list went up over the light switch.
Three conference calls later, Keith stalked through the maze of cubicles carrying an oily paper bag. “You never made it down to lunch so I took the liberty of bringing you a little something.”
He’d lost his suit jacket somewhere, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. If I didn’t know him better, I would have sworn he’d actually been working all morning. “I sent you about fifty revisions from Peyton, but take your time, half of them contradict themselves. I got them to realize that this morning, and they’ll need to put their heads together this afternoon to figure out which changes they actually want finalized.” I glared at the bag hanging from Keith’s fist and watched it drip onto the carpet. “What’s in that?”
“An hour ago, it was a meatball sub with all the trimmings. Now? It’s probably a bag of meat and soggy bread.”
“Gee, you’re all heart.” I held out the trash can and waited for him to drop it in.
“I would have dropped it off to you sooner, but I saw Bromley down at the records office, and we go to talking.”
I reached behind him and closed the door, “Christ, you’re not still going on about that, are you?”
Keith glanced around at the notes I plastered to the walls and shook his head. “I told you to relax, it’s cool.” He pointed to the far corner. “Hey, the last two over there are out of order, Cardinal, then Arch-Bishop.”
I glared at him, but he just shrugged. I waited for an ounce of sanity to fall out of the sky and hit Keith over the head, but it didn’t. “Look, it’s bad enough you’re pulling this kind of shit on your own time, but now you’re spreading it around here?”
“I get it, you’re hung up on this.” He glanced through the blinds and stared over the tops of the cubicles. “But let’s face it, I’m not doing anything illegal, alright? A few emails, some JPEG’s, a few video files, and no one’s getting hurt. Hell, I’m not even paying for it like I did out on Raxus.” He gave me a lopsided sideways grin. “Look, I got some work to do so I’ll catch up with you later, all right?”
The rest of the day went past in a blur, and by the time I got back to the hotel, it was almost dawn. I turned off my alarm and took a shower before crawling into bed. I dreamt of naked lawyers chasing me down dark alleys waving cameras and subpoenas.
I woke up to the sound of my cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. Keith sounded frazzled, but it served him right. He almost started in on a rant about how much work I’d left for him, but he dialed it back right before I reached my limit. I waited until I had a cup of coffee in me before I opened my laptop and patched into the network. I was sifting through a ton of debris, going back and forth through emails and messengers that Peyton kept throwing around like hand grenades. I was only half-looking when I opened Keith’s link by mistake. When the title screen appeared, it was like a truck slammed into me.
I choked on my coffee and scrambled to disconnect from the network before the Peyton servers could detect the violation. The connection terminal blinked and shut down, but I still waited for the phone to ring with my heart thundering in my chest. Of all the bullshit things—I wanted to scream, to blame Keith, myself for not deleting the email the moment I got home from the gym. My hands started to sweat as ten seconds turned to twenty. Twenty turned into forty, forty into a minute. One turned into five, then ten, and then twenty. The phone never rang.
My lungs ached from holding my breath in distorted bursts, and I kept cursing the day Keith hit puberty as I started saving my documents and closing down my files. I packed everything away neatly behind their firewalls, saving Keith’s link for last. When I brought up the site again, the title screen blossomed in front of me. The edges scrolled in a kind of filigree pattern that looped and twisted around the title, ‘Saris.’ I dragged the cursor up to the top corner and was about to close the site when the banner timed out, and an image appeared.
The black screen lightened into a full-body portrait, edited heavily with a lot of emphasis on keeping the woman’s face bathed in shadows. My eyes instantly traced the line of her neck down to the curve of her breasts and out to the gentle swell of her hips. A tick of recognition bit at the back of my mind as I tapped the arrow key, scrolling down the page. A list of albums appeared, sorted by keywords. The cover of the Kitchen album showed a crisp black and white still with the lens focused intently on a pair of lace panties that barely covered her labia.
I stared at the blurred outline of her breasts and felt a lump form in my throat. In the background, just past her hard nipples was a portrait hanging over her dining room table. Even blurred, I recognized it. It was an original Montenelli abstract painted in a studio on Dracma about five years ago.
I scrolled down the page, my finger tapping the arrow key hard enough to rattle the coffee table. The gallery opened to a page with hundreds of images. My heart started drumming in my chest again as I watched Saris’ breasts, ass, and her hands morph and change like a chameleon before the lens. I could barely take my eyes away from her fingers whenever they pressed between her legs. Every time I clicked on an image, it filled the screen, recklessly open for scrutiny in finite detail. Trailing after each image were legions of comments, each from a user who gushed about how stunning she looked, how delicious her nipples must be, how sweet her pussy would taste. The more I looked, the more I realized just how much she’d changed since our divorce.
When I stepped into my office later that day, I had a hard time concentrating. I looked at every picture she posted, some more than once. I felt light-headed, like I had a fever, but I also felt something else churning under all of that, something primal.
I wanted to call her. My God, what the hell was she thinking? More than a thousand images of her, naked, sexual, uninhibited, open for anyone to see them. Anyone like Keith, or the investors at Peyton, or for fuck’s sake, our kids…
But I didn’t call her. I wouldn’t, either. Even then I knew it. Her face wasn’t in any of those pictures, and the pages on top of pages of comments weren’t just from men, some were from women. Was she bisexual now? Was she always, and I never realized it?
Thankfully, work did pick up. I lost myself in facts and figures, emails and conference calls, warp cells and vectors. I didn’t even realize how late it was until Keith showed up with a takeout box under his arm. “Okay, step away from the computer before someone gets hurt.”
I rubbed some feeling into my eyes and leaned back. The food smelled amazing, a mix of ginger, soy sauce, and starvation. As we ate our way through a quart of shrimp lo mein, I kept having visions of Keith as he recorded himself jacking his cock to my ex wife’s pictures. He saw the glazed look on my face and kicked my foot. “You okay? You’re not going to hurl, are you?” He backed his chair away and made a face.
“What? Oh, no, I’m not going to hurl, you asshole. I’m just beat.”
“Oh, in that case, suck it up, buttercup.”
“Fuck you, Keith.”
“Nope, I’m into blondes lately.”
She was a brunette when we got married. The blonde hair was an aftermarket accessory. Keith dug in his pocket and came up with his phone. He tapped the screen and turned it around to show me. “Check out what I got last night; she sent it as a ‘thank you’ for my vids!”
I saw her sitting at her computer, the glare of the screen lit up her breasts, and I could see her nipples poking through her bra. It was an awesome shot, and I almost didn’t recognize her. I cleared my throat, “I don’t know, but uh, isn’t she a bit old?”
Keith looked at the screen, then back at me. “Did you even look at the screen?” He pulled the phone away and started scrolling through his galleries. He settled on a series of black and white shots and started rifling through the pictures. “Now, does this look old to you?”
She was leaning forward over her dining room table, her knees up on two chairs, and her head was down between her arms. She looked better than I ever remembered. Her hair was in a tousled blonde heap that covered her face. I felt my throat tighten. “She’s not a natural blonde-- it probably comes from a bottle.”
“It could come from T-38 for all I give a fuck. Look at that ass!”
I saw it. It was hard not to. “Her legs look too thick,” I said, pointing to the way the shadows fell across the back of her calves.
“Okay, seriously, Mace-- are you fucking gay? I know the ex fucked you up in the head, but did she cut off your balls and put ‘em in a little box on her mantle? She nice enough to send you pictures of them with the Christmas email, at least? Look.” He danced his thumb over a half dozen shots of my ex-wife all over her house, on the floor, in bed, in the bathroom. Each shot was beautiful, crisp, and showed off a body I recognized from countless romantic nights—only I was seeing it in a wholly new way now.
The divorce was brutal. We tried to settle it ourselves, but she started dating before the papers were even filed. I hired a lawyer the next morning, and by the afternoon, she hired one, too. I started going out with one of my secretaries just to show her I could still turn a young woman’s head, and she started keeping the kids longer, secluding them away from me.
In the end, we both got what we thought we wanted. At least, I thought so. Looking at her pictures skipping across the surface of Keith’s phone made me wonder if I ever really knew her at all. She looked so different with blonde hair, a body toned from exercise, and a raw passion for the attention she had cascading over her. She reinvented herself in the years we were apart, and as I looked around the office, I realized I hadn’t.
We worked into the early hours, and when I finally got home, I found myself drawn to my computer. I checked my emails and spent a few minutes catching up on some family business. My brother was working one star system over and wondered if we could get together for coffee on the weekend. I wondered what he would think if he knew the mother of his niece and nephew was parading around naked on the internet.
I left the computer running while I took a shower and made myself a drink. I skipped the orange juice and poured a double measure of scotch on ice. My fingers trembled when I reached for the keyboard, and I stared at them like mutinous sailors on a sinking ship. I took another pull and let the ice knock against my teeth before I went to her website.
The cover image had changed, and she’d done some photo editing to a black and white picture of her bent over the bed. She was wearing a lace pair of panties, topless with her breasts pressed hard against the bare mattress. She was reaching back, pulling at the panties until they tightened against her lips, her fingers tearing through the lace. The caption read ‘Out With The Old.’
I knew that pair of panties. It was a Valentines set I bought her years ago. She always hated the bra; she said it made her look too old fashioned. As far as I ever knew, she never wore the panties. From the way her fingers tore through the cloth, she wasn’t ever going to wear them again. I felt my mouth run dry, and I was glad I pulled the curtains once I walked through the door.
I skipped the photo gallery and moved to her diary entries. There were dozens of entries, dating back as far as the week after our divorce. I ignored the titles and started at the beginning. ‘Saris’ introduced herself, and called herself a divorced mother of two. She sounded bitter about the way her lawyer handled her case. She shouldn’t have been; I was still bleeding from the wounds her legal team gouged into me.
Her entries went on like that for awhile, and her stream of comments started slowly. There was an occasional word of support, the typical bash on me for being an insensitive prick, that kind of thing. By her tenth, I read the change in her tone. The entry was called ‘Last Night’. She started out like so many of her other entries, complaining about the loneliness, the hardships she had as a single parent, and the difficulty she had dating. I smiled when she mentioned how hard it was to date men, but I was floored when she said she went out with a co-worker of hers for drinks after work.
They both worked in the accounting office, and they were both coming back from a rough divorce. They went to a bar up the street, and one drink turned to two, and the conversation shifted from lousy husbands to their even worse sex lives. Reading about how badly she viewed our sex life was like a gut shot I wasn’t prepared for. I never knew she faked half of her orgasms, that I never initiated sex with her, or that she ever wanted anything but the love-making we shared. ‘Saris’ went on and on about how unhappy she was, and worse, the comments that followed her post just poured salt in my wounds. More than a dozen people wrote in about how lucky she was going to be to be rid of me. They were cheering her on, begging her for more details, asking if I was impotent, was I gay, did I have a mistress on the side, did she have an affair?
She told them she was never unfaithful, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived, though. The next entry was more than a month later, but from the beginning, it was clear she’d broken out of her shell. She started off by saying she finally had an orgasm where she didn’t have to use her hands. She and her friend from work went out again and had drinks. Afterwards, they went back to her house because the kids were with me for the week. They shared a bottle of wine and ended up making out on the couch until three in the morning. She touched a woman for the first time, kissed someone other than me, and her friend fingered her to orgasm.
I finished my scotch and poured another. Even then, I drank half of it before I sat down again. My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, and my mind was in orbit. I never knew she was bisexual, and in all honesty, I never thought to ask her.
The next few entries were full of more experimentations. She bought her first vibrator, then had her first one night stand with a guy she met in a bar. She described how intense her feelings were when she sucked him off in his car in the parking lot. She never fucked him, but she told everyone who read her post about how intense her masturbation session was that night. She came three times in bed, once in the shower, and once more before she went to work the next day.
About three months later, she discovered photography. She was playing around with her girlfriend, and they snapped a few pictures to tease her friend’s boyfriend. It only took a few shots to get themselves undressed, and after, that they went down on each other. She included one of the pictures from their night together. It was only their hands, but it was enough to make my cock start to throb.
The next entry described her first full home photo shoot. It turned her on so much, knowing that her random thoughts were stirring up people’s thoughts, so she thought she’d repay them for their kindness. She only included two pictures, one of her cleavage under a pink bra, and the other of her ass in a bikini bottom. Even though they were rougher than the images she posted now, it was clear she had a good eye for modeling. I couldn’t help touching myself a little bit through my underwear.
There was a page of posts that were dedicated to her fans. There were men and women who sent her pictures and videos of themselves, masturbating, cumming, or fucking to her pictures. People from every walk of life had her body under their fingertips, mouths open and faces tight in orgasm with Saris’ nipples, panties, or ass waiting for them. It was all too much, and my balls never felt so empty until that night.
I must have read every entry she posted, some hot, some not, and I always read the comments. I couldn’t believe how blatant some of the guys were about how hot they thought she was, or how hard their cocks were, how many times they came to her stories and pictures. How they were typing with one hand so they could pump their fists while imagining her mouth wrapped around them.
I don’t remember how many orgasms I had, but just as I finished what I thought was my last time for the night, a new post hit the list. The title read, ‘First Video.’ My breath caught in my throat, and I clicked the link. I felt my cock twitch again as I watched the screen go black. The image faded into a bathroom stall, and by the sounds in the background, I thought she might be in a mall, maybe an airport. She set the camera on the toilet paper dispenser, and I watched her hike her grey skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties, and her hands rubbed up and down her lips before disappearing out of the edge of the screen. When they reappeared, she was holding a long silver vibrator that she slipped into herself until only the smallest edge was locked between her fingertips. She moaned, and the sounds outside the stall quieted, then there was a muffled giggling. ‘Saris’ plunged the toy in and out of herself for more than three or four minutes before she reached for the camera and moved it to show different angles. She started whispering too, saying things like, “You all wanted this for so long… Well, here it is, my pussy being stuffed by a hard cock.” She moaned a little louder, and a toilet flushed next to her. “You’re going to be stroking your cocks for me, aren’t you. You’ll be jacking off to me while you watch me…watch me…cum!” She clenched her teeth and took a hissing breath as she groaned. Her legs clamped together, and someone knocked on her stall door asking if she was all right. The screen went black before she answered.
The front of my underwear had a wet spot around the head of my throbbing cock. I watched the video again and pulled the leg band aside and stroked myself to her. I did exactly what she said and stroked myself and timed my orgasm to hers. It was the first mutual orgasm we ever had.
My heart was beating so hard, and my cock didn’t even slow down. I went back to her galleries and started to stroke myself softly as I scrolled through them. I had a strange mix of lust, pride, and jealousy as I read the comments from the men and women who wanted to touch her, to taste her, to fuck her senseless. I came again. I still don’t know what to make of it all.
Since then, I’ve been a regular fan of her site. I made up my own alias, but I’ve stopped short of recording myself like Keith did. I write inane little comments about how hot she is, more in the first month than I ever did in the ten years we were married. I don’t think I can ever let her know who I really am. The woman I married, the same woman who gave birth to my children, isn’t Saris. I know the woman I married is long gone now, and when I see her in the flesh at Christmas or on birthdays, I hold onto my little secret as tightly as she holds onto hers.
It’s easy to imagine her sucking some stranger’s cock in the parking lot of a bar. I get hard just thinking about the nameless woman she got tangled in a sheet with during a sixty-nine. I can’t even remember how many times I watched her masturbate in the public toilet. Whenever I hear her name around the locker rooms or in hushed conversations in the office, my mouth goes dry and my hands start to sweat.
I want to tell her I miss her and hope she’s doing well, but I can see that she is doing well. Better than I ever let her do. The last thing she needs is me working my way back into her life. She deserves that much, and looking back, maybe she always did.