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Everything about our affair seemed fated: the way we met in a chatroom I had never before frequented; the way we connected within minutes thanks to an equally twisted sense of humour; and the way we went from virtual buddies, sharing the stories of our past, to real-life lovers, melding minds and flesh in a six-hour marathon of sex, rest, coffee and sex.

It was all very innocent at first--friendly exchanges in the chatroom, newsy e-mails, harmless banter on Yahoo--but there was a raw sexuality to this man that somehow always had me sitting with my legs tightly crossed, a bitch in heat trying to quell the instinctual pounding in my pussy as I waited for him to shove his virtual tongue down my throat, grab a tit, grope my ass... something... anything.

We were like a living situation comedy, complete with witty repartee, double-entendres, and sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I knew that, eventually, he would have no choice but to topple. Except, as it happened, I was the one who finally cracked. I could no longer deal with how horny he made me. A woman can only cross her legs for so long before she has to spread them and finger herself to orgasm.

Thus, it came to pass that, one night, as I was on the computer in my home office making small talk, I began driving a couple of digits in and out of my needy cunt, and I made the weighty decision to pin his virtual being against a virtual wall in an act of desperation. ...

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