Part One: I Dare You

　　Shannon Gregory tossed her keys and her purse on the hall table kicked off her very uncomfortable shoes and wondered if her week could possibly get any crappier. The new junior partner at her law firm was turning out to be the bitch of the world, starting the week by copping a case Shannon has been babysitting for weeks. Then her secretary had quit without notice, and thank you so much for that touch of professionalism. Tonight she'd come out of the office to find a flat tire on her car and roadside service backed up the wazoo.

　　But now, well after eight o'clock, the final blow landed. She'd come home to find a note from Mike taped to the door: "Took my stuff, key in usual place."

　　Ah, yes, Mr. Macho Michael Houston, who had simply walked out of her life rather than discuss what was really wrong between them. It wouldn't have taken much time, either. She could sum it all up in one short word-sex! Or lack of it.

　　You'd think people who'd been together for six months could have a conversation about sex, she muttered to herself as she crumpled the note in her fist and went to find the key. What a jerk. What an asshole. What an egotistical prick.

　　Damn him anyway.

　　Okay, so she hadn't been the most knowledgeable person in bed when they met. Unlike a lot of her friends, she hadn't played bed roulette and become the sophisticate of eroticism. She's just never been able to do it. When Mike came into her life, for the first time she wanted to be open to things, but her inbred hang-ups kept getting in the way.

　　She tried to tell him she really wanted to learn about the things she'd never done. Wanted to spice things up a little. But she'd made it come out all wrong, made it sound like they were things she didn't want to do, and he'd clammed up. Somewhere in the whole mess they'd sent each other mixed signals, and suddenly there was this gigantic wall between them that grew taller and taller until he just stopped calling altogether. Stopped showing up. Nothing but silence until the note tonight.

　　She checked the drawers he'd been using and his space in the closet. The shelves that held his books and CDs. Whatever stuff that he kept there was definitely gone. It really pissed her off that he hadn't even had the decency to do this face to face.

　　Stomping into her bedroom, Shannon yanked off her business clothes and tugged on shorts and a t-shirt.

　　Maybe Cock Robin will have a message for me tonight.

　　A tiny thrill skated through her at the thought. Cock Robin. Her new almost-lover. The man in the computer. Her pulse ratcheted up with anticipation and liquid seeped from her already throbbing cunt. Just the thought of him turned her on and she dragged her hand over the crotch of her shorts, feeling her shaved labia beneath the fabric. Why couldn't she have gotten to this point with Mike? Or did she just feel sager because the man couldn't see her. Couldn't see inside her.

　　She still couldn't believe she was doing this. Had been for almost a month. Restless and frustrated, seeking answers she couldn't seem to get from Mike, she'd started surfing the web. Looking for places she'd heard about where people could discussed their sexual problems and hang-ups. Discover how to enhance their sex lives. Before long the computer was calling to her like a siren, so much so that even nights Mike was there, after he fell asleep she'd sneak downstairs and log onto the chat rooms. Maybe she'd hoped to find a solution before everything went completely to hell.

　　And what an eye opener the journey was. Shannon was flabbergasted at many of the things she'd found on line. Things she was sure her friend Sandy knew about. Maybe things everyone knew about except her. Daringly she'd even logged onto a couple of chat rooms, laughing to herself when she chose Misty as her chat room identification. She was about as far from a 'Misty' as one could get.

　　Women named Misty were usually five two with masses of thick blonde curls, blue eyes that looked permanently dilated, tits bigger than watermelons and nonexistent hips. Shannon Gregory was five six, a nice comfortable C cup, with hips she preferred to call lush rather than lumpy and straight hair that at best could be called shiny. For ease of care she kept it cut chin length so no matter what the situation, she always looked professional.

　　Was that part of the problem with Mike? Did she look too professional in bed? Act too professional? Too cold? Too...unapproachable?

　　But now Mike had blown her off, and finding answers became even more of an obsession with her. She tossed out some questions here and there, very careful at first until she felt more comfortable. But she really wanted to know what people who were into bondage and ménage felt. Why they did it. What they got out of it. After a while she became so obsessed with it she spent hours every evening trolling sites and talking to people.

　　That was how she met Cock Robin.

　　Somehow they managed to single each other out from the other voices in one of the chat rooms. Then one night there it was-the first email from him. When it popped up in her specially created In box she was tempted to delete it. After all, she didn't even know who the person was. She knew all about the danger of meeting people in chat rooms. She watched television and read the papers. But she was feeling so needy, his short conversation bytes were so appealing and the temptation was too great she put common sense aside. Now it had become a steady habit.

　　Once she got comfortable in the chat rooms and saw the kinds of things other people said she became bolder about asking questions. Even specific. But with Cock Robin she felt shy, as if he could see right through her monitor. But little by little he coaxed her into discussing her intimacy issues and what she wanted out of a relationship. Sometimes she blushed when she thought of the things she'd written to him.

　　Now they had progressed to a point where she could discuss almost anything with him. Read almost anything he wrote.

　　In the beginning she tried to imagine what he looked like. Was he tall? Short? Muscular? Skinny? What color hair did he have? Oh, god, what if he was a dumpy, balding, seventy-year old man who got his jollies on line with women like her? She'd known this was a risk to begin with, but she'd discovered a need in her she hadn't known existed, a need now so great she preferred to create her own image of him-six foot plus, thick sun-streaked brown hair, coffee-colored eyes, rippling muscles. It shocked her to realize the image she'd created was almost a duplicate of Mike but try as she might, she couldn't wipe it from her mind.

　　She did get him to admit he was in his mid-thirties but that was all he would tell her about himself. Not that she could blame him, since she gave him no information at all about herself. One of her rules when she started this was to give out no information about herself. Too chancy. So besides his approximate age, all she knew was they were both unattached. Boy, was she. At least now.

　　But there was a growing attachment there that both tempted and terrified her.

　　In the kitchen she grabbed the half empty bottle of wine in the fridge and snagged a glass from the cupboard before logging sitting down at her computer. Out of a combination of need and boredom

　　An icon was flashing when she turned on her monitor. Taking a sip of her wine, she clicked on it and the email opened.

　　"Hi! Are you hot for me tonight, Misty? Did your cunt get wet when you saw the icon flash?"

　　If it wasn't before it was now, so wet she was sure she'd soaked the seat of the chair.

　　"Yes. Very. Too bad you aren't here to do anything about it."

　　Now why hadn't Mike been willing to tease her like this? Sometimes she sensed a need in him so strong he forced himself to keep it on a tight leash, but try as she might, she hadn't been able to unlock it.

　　"Are you wearing any clothes?"

　　"Shorts and t-shirt," she typed back.

　　"Take off your shorts. Right now, Misty. I know you. Don't try to fool me."

　　She almost expected to see the words in big, bold letters. The first time he'd asked her to do something for him-kidded her into it-she'd screwed up her courage, reminding herself he could be a thousand miles away.

　　"Want to play a little game?" he'd asked.

　　"Like what?"

　　"I'm sitting here trying to imagine what you look like. Take off your top, he'd written. Come on. Do a little strip tease. Remember, you asked if men liked that."

　　She'd been shocked, and almost shut down and deleted the email. But a dark thrill was beckoning her and she'd thought Why not?

　　"Come on. Take off your top and press your nipples against the monitor."

　　She protested he couldn't see her, but he told her it was okay, he had a good imagination. Feeling incredibly stupid she'd slipped off her t-shirt and pressed herself to the monitor screen.

　　"Gorgeous. I can almost feel them."

　　After that he took things up in increments.

　　"Pinch your nipples for me. Tell me how it feels. Harder."

　　"Hold your breasts in your hands and pretend it's me. Come on, just try it for me."

　　"Are you wearing panties? Sexy ones? I'll bet they are. How about describing them for me?"