I stood miserably holding a drink I had no intention of consuming, while everyone else at my neighbor's party seemed to be having a wonderful time. They were celebrating Christmas. I was mourning the way I had fucked up a relationship that meant everything to me.

~~~~~

We had met online. Colleen had made several perceptive comments on stories I’d written, and I eventually reached out to thank her. One thing led to another, and we had gradually built up a lovely online relationship – which eventually came to include virtual sex. I was as surprised as she was when it happened as neither of us was looking for that.

A drunk driver had T-boned her husband’s car, killing him and their only son. In the blink of an eye, she had gone from being a wife and mother, to being completely alone.

My wife had died a few months before that of ovarian cancer. She had gone from being seemingly healthy and happy one day to dying less than three months later. I felt I had never even had a chance to say a proper goodbye, we were so wrapped up in treatments, medical bills, and the trauma of it all.

For both Colleen and me, it had been a raw, dreadful year – and perhaps that was what brought us together. We each understood what the other was going through, much more so than our well-meaning friends and relatives.

This shared pain and anguish made it possible for us to share positive emotions as well, and we sought to lighten each other’s days with a joke, some witty repartee, or something good we’d read. We took to opening our days with a cheerful “hello” and closing our eyes with the warmth of a virtual HUG.

She was financially independent as she had sold her share in a successful business to her partner when she no longer had the heart to continue. Plus, she and her husband had taken out big life insurance policies as their son had Type I diabetes, and would have needed expensive medical attention later in life.

But, as she kept telling me, while money meant she didn’t have to worry about the bills, you couldn’t cuddle up to it at night. Her house and her life were empty.

I worked for myself, mostly from home, but with occasional trips to my clients’ offices. I was a strategic planner and had developed a following through my books and public speaking. My circle of regular clients seemed to appreciate me, and I essentially became part of their management teams.

As a result, I could have retired young but enjoyed the work, and my financial independence meant that I could be picky about the jobs I took.

Over time, our chatting moved beyond just being supportive to the point where I was making up stories to soothe her to sleep at night.

Then, one night, she asked me to stay with her through the night. Since we texted back and forth, I asked what she meant, and she asked if I would call her on the phone, that she needed to hear my voice.

That was a big step for both of us – but I called her, and we chatted until finally, she drifted off to sleep. Shortly after that, I did, too, but left the line open all night. It added another dimension to our relationship, one we both appreciated.

One night we were chatting in bed, and she asked if I ever got an erection when I was talking to her. I was dumbfounded but also felt a bit guilty as I frequently did, but never mentioned it because I didn’t want to freak her out.

I was quiet for quite some time, but when she started to backpedal, and make apologies for offending me, I interrupted her.

“Stop! Yes! Yes, since you ask, most nights I have an erection. You…uh, you turn me on, Colleen. You always have, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to say anything. Why do you ask?”

I kept quiet but was hoping it was because I wasn’t the only one who was turned on.

She was silent for a long time, then said, “You make me wet every night, Alex. Your voice turns me on instantly when I hear it. I’ve taken to sitting or lying on a towel when we chat because I was soaking the sheets.”

I was stunned. “Are you…wet now?” I asked.

“No, Alex, I’m not wet – I’m dripping.” She was quiet for a moment, then flummoxed me again. “And I love to dip into my…my pussy and taste my honey while I’m talking to you.”

We were both silent again, then I heard the unmistakable sounds of her sucking on something – and I guessed she was licking her honey-coated fingers so that I could hear her.

“You must think I’m terrible,” she said, sounding like a little girl.

I swallowed, then said, “Um, well, if you’re terrible, then I’m worse. Lots of nights I’ve jerked off while we were chatting, but with the phone muted so you wouldn’t hear me.”

She giggled, “Actually, one night you goofed, and I did hear you! That’s how I got up the courage to ask, silly!”

My face burned at that. I closed my eyes and couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Alex? Are you still there? Tell me I haven’t offended you, please!”

I cleared my throat, then said, “No, I’m just embarrassed is all. Oh, God! Caught in the fucking act!”

And we both burst out laughing and kept going. It was one of those belly-busting, spirit-cleansing laughs, one that we had both needed since…well, since.

That set the tone from then on. We flirted shamelessly, and I especially delighted in making sure she was wet every morning when she got out of bed, teasing her, and asking if she was enjoying “honey on toast” that morning. I particularly enjoyed planting ideas in her head, so that if she was going out to lunch with some friends, for instance, she would worry about whether they would smell her arousal.

Oddly, our virtual sex started to take on a D/s flavor to it, although neither of us had shown any such tendencies with our spouses. We progressed to the point where she was not allowed to cum until I gave her permission – which I frequently refused for minutes, and occasionally hours at a time. It never got any more severe than pinching her nipples, but having her promise to do anything I wanted, and then begging to be allowed to cum became a real turn-on for both of us.

One of my happiest memories was when I edged her while she was in the bath. She had drawn a hot bath and put me on speaker so we could chat while she was in the tub. I put on Stan Getz’s Getz/Gilberto album, the one featuring “Girl from Ipanema.” I told her to play with herself in the tub non-stop, but she wasn’t allowed to cum until the album finished.

Then I alternately said sexy things to her, ordered her to do specific things to herself, or had her describe what she was doing and how she was feeling.

By the fortieth minute, she was almost incoherent, and kept begging, over and over, to be allowed to cum, please, Please PLEASE!

And I refused. I told her that the last song “Vivo Sonhando,” had started, that it lasted two minutes and fifty-six seconds, and that she couldn’t cum until it was finished.

All I heard on the other end were gasps and cries, as if she was alternatively holding her breath and squealing, with occasional cries of “please!” which I ignored.

Finally, it was time: “…ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… annnddd… done! You may cum!”

I heard a high-pitched scream and a big splash, then hysterical laughter followed by happy sobbing.

I kept quiet, letting her marinate in the afterglow, and smiled the whole time. Finally, she spoke up, “Oh my GOD! That was amazing!” Then I heard her mewing, seemingly involuntarily.

“Colly, would you like to cum again?”

“Oh, oh… yes…yes, please yes, Please!”

“Beg, Colly, beg to be allowed to cum again.”

“Oh, God, please, Alex, please! Please let me cum again, I want to so bad! I’ll do anything you want, anything at all, I promise!”

“Then yes, you may cum, Colly. Cum now.”

I heard the water splash again, obviously going over the edge of the tub onto the floor, then another, smaller splash, followed by a gasp and another, quieter cry. I guessed she had ducked under the water, then come up to gasp and breathe.

After she had recovered, gotten out, and dried off, I told her she was going to go for a walk the next day. She gasped, then asked where. I gave her the name of a slightly distant mall, one where she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew.

Then she asked what she was going to wear.

I told her she was going to wear her red raincoat, the one that only covered her from the top of her collarbone to three inches above the knee. That, plus flip-flops – and nothing else. She was to walk, clothed, to the far end of the mall, find a ladies' room, strip naked, put on the raincoat and flip-flops, then walk all the way back through the mall to her car, carrying the rest of her clothes in a shopping bag.

She gasped, and cried, “ALEX!”

“You promised, remember?”

She sighed, and said, “Yes, I promised.” There was a pause, and then she giggled. “Okay, I’ll do it! But you have to talk to me on the phone the whole time.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I replied.

 ~~~~~

But there was one thing Colleen would not do. She refused to let me see her. No photos, Skype, FaceTime, or anything visual. It was text and voice only.

When I asked why, she always said, “Because I’m not sexy.”

I tried to argue with her, but she wouldn’t budge.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t see her. Between knowing what kinds of activities she was involved in, the groups she belonged to, and roughly where in Florida she lived, I felt certain I could find photos of her, and a lot more about her as well.

But should I?

What finally made up my mind was Christmas. As it loomed closer, our dread grew. It would be the second Christmas without our loved ones, and in many ways, it was going to be harder than the first. Last Christmas we were both still in shock and going on auto-pilot, plus all our friends clustered around us, making sure we weren’t going to be alone.

This year, with everything that had happened, people’s attentions were elsewhere, plus neither of us really wanted to pretend to a jolliness we didn’t feel. We'd both rather be alone.

But neither of us was looking forward to a lonely Christmas.

Colly was avoiding the topic, but when it did come up – as it inevitably did – she would hurriedly hang up or change the subject.

I knew she was hurting – but so was I.

I tried to broach the idea of one of us traveling so we could be together, but she wouldn’t even let me start discussing it. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense for us to be together. Finally, I decided I had to do something. I could not just sit home and be miserable, and let her be miserable, too.

It was easy to find Colleen Lennox’s address in Boca Raton. I booked a flight from LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale, just eight days before Christmas. When I got to the Hollywood – Lauderdale airport, I picked up my rental car – almost a clunker, but it was all they had at the last minute. I used my phone’s GPS to lead me to her house, got out…then stood frozen, wondering if this was really going to fuck things up.

I decided I had to do it. It was make-or-break, but there was no way I wanted her to be alone at Christmas. I couldn’t bear the thought.

So, at last, I walked up to her door, then stood with my knuckles poised, ready to knock, undecided…when the door opened, and there she was. She was pretty – really pretty – and several years younger than me, in her early 40s, I guessed.

“Oh! You startled me! Are you the guy who said he might come over and put up my Christmas lights?”

I stood there, mouth open for what seemed like forever, then said, “I’m, uh, Carl, and I’d be happy to put up your Christmas lights.”

I know; I’m a coward, but I figured that if she got to know me a little bit, she might be okay with me being, um, me. And Carl was my middle name.

“Well, the ladder’s in the garage, and I’ve left out the box of lights. Do you need anything else? Do you have tools in your car?”

“Uh, I…”

She looked at me, then said, “You don’t have any tools do you?”

“Uh, no, I don’t. At least, not here.”

She looked me up and down. I hadn’t thought ahead and had worn my usual travel clothes – slightly beat up, but very comfortable. I would never be a pickpocket’s target, and it was better to be comfy on long flights than impressive. But it also meant that she probably thought I was down on my luck.

She paused for a moment, then nodded and said, “I think we have what you need. Come with me.”

Well, one thing led to another, and before long I was up a ladder, stringing Christmas lights while she directed the action. It took a couple of hours to get them just the way she wanted them, and I was starting to get tired by the time I was done – I hadn’t done that much manual labor in years, at least not in such concentrated bursts.

But when we were done, she asked if I’d like to come in for a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted. She sat with me, and we chatted as if we were old friends.

I was trying to work up the courage to tell her when she put down her cup and looked at me. “So, where are you staying?”

I looked down and mumbled something about finding somewhere. Truthfully, I hadn’t even thought about it, figuring I’d find a hotel somewhere. But more to the point, I had only thought about her – not about taking care of myself. I could well wind up sleeping on a park bench somewhere with this level of preparation, which would be truly ironic for a strategic planner!

She looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Look, we have a casita outback. If you need a place to stay for a few days, you can stay there.” She smiled, “And you can do some fix-ups I’ve needed doing. I keep meaning to get a handyman in but haven’t gotten around to finding one.”

I felt a shock go through me from my throat to my…well, to my groin, to be honest. I loved the idea – but hated that it meant I would be near her, yet unable to speak to her as me.

My cowardice won out. I finally looked at her, ashamed, and mumbled, “That would be great. Thanks.”

~~~~~

I spent the next few days doing fix-ups around her place: light bulbs, a loose doorknob, a window that wouldn't close… nothing major, but all little niggly things that can bug you until they’re fixed. And along the way, we both started to feel sexual tension building, like static electricity on a muggy summer’s night.

We would exchange smiles, then say something that would make the other laugh. She would flirt with a minor innuendo – and I would take it further. She would hand me a tool, and our hands would touch, then we’d both look away and pretend that it hadn’t happened.

She wound up cooking suppers for me – she liked the company she said – but I ate breakfasts and lunches in the casita. And I always kept to myself early mornings and after-supper evenings – as did she.

Ironically, that was the only time I got to be myself with her on the phone. We would chat as we always did, and engage in phone sex. The difference was that I could look out of my window at hers. I would sit there, staring at it with longing as I heard her cum.

After a while, she caught on that something was different. “Are you all right, Alex? You sound…strange.”

I was on the verge of saying something – I’m not sure what – when there was a sharp noise that might have been a gunshot, then a loud siren in the street. I heard it outside – and then, a fraction of a second later, I heard it through the phone and knew she would have heard it the same way.

There was a long pause, then she said, “That was…odd. Did you hear that?”

I couldn’t think what to say, so I panicked and said, “I don’t know Mrs. Lennox. I should go!” and hung up. Then I realized that I’d spoken to her as if I were Carl, her handyman.

I started sweating, and looked out at the house. Nothing happened for a while, then the back door opened, and I saw her walking slowly towards the casita. I bounced out of bed, and pulled on my trousers, just as she opened the door.

“It’s you, isn’t it? All week I wondered why you seemed so familiar. It’s you!”

I hung my head and said, “Colly…I…”

“NO! No…no no nononononono…NOO!!! Get out! You can’t be here. I won’t let myself be hurt again. I CAN’T! GET OUT!”

I looked down, working my jaw, silent and feeling incredibly stupid.

“I said, GET OUT! NOW!”

I turned, stuffed my things into my bag, shuffled my shoes onto my feet, grabbed my coat, and walked out of the casita, down the drive, and onto the street – wondering what I could do next.

Reluctantly, I put my bag down, found and put on a shirt, got into my rental car and drove to the airport.

The plane ride back to New York seemed far longer than the ride down had been, as was the limo ride from the airport to my house overlooking the Hudson River. I spent the entire trip kicking myself for being a fool.

I got home, dumped my bag, collapsed onto my easy chair, and dropped my head into my hands, wondering what the fuck I was going to do now, having destroyed the only good thing left in my life.

 ~~~~~

I woke, and found myself sprawled uncomfortably on my chair, cold, stiff, and miserable. The doorbell must have woken me, and I considered ignoring it. But when the insistent pounding started, I got up and answered it.

It was my neighbor, and she absolutely insisted that I come to their Christmas party. Try as I might, she wouldn't take no for an answer, especially because she said she had a present for me.

I reluctantly let her drag me across the street to their party. Her husband pushed a drink into my hand, a big smile on his face, then told me to stay right there. So, there I stood, miserable while everyone around me was laughing and happy.

Then I almost dropped the drink when I felt two bare arms snake around me from behind and hug me. I turned, and couldn't believe my eyes – it was Colleen, wearing her red raincoat, and unless I was very much mistaken, nothing else!

Her eyes were full of tears, and she was trembling.

“Alex…I’m so sorry. Please forgive me?”

I grabbed her and lifted her off her feet, and hugged her tight. “YES!” I cried into the shoulder of her coat, “…on one condition.”

I drew back to look at her.

She gave me a wary look. “What’s that?”

“That you forgive me first!”

My neighbor’s wife was beaming at us. "She knocked on our door by mistake," she said, "She was crying and she looked so cold that we insisted she come in.

"When she told us you two had had a fight and she wanted to apologize," she grinned and winked at me, "we figured this was a Christmas present you would want to unwrap!"

I blushed – but happily.

I guess Christmas stories really do have happy endings.

I think it’s a law or something…