Hermes Online (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Rose Anderson

  After paperwork and dinner, I made a cup of tea and went to see if any comments had been posted. I felt a measure of panic when I looked for the title and it didn’t come up right away. The spectre of self-doubt looming over my shoulder immediately determined the site managers declared it “too dull, had to delete.” I was surprised to discover my story had been moved. Within a week it had a string of peppers and made the Hot List. More than that, I now had a dozen comments, and they were all very complimentary. One in particular stood out:

  V,

  I long for a sensuous weaver, a sensual dreamer, a companion to write every hedonistic facet of human desire. Are you such a person? I wonder.

  S

  I stopped and reread. This was an intelligent person. In some respects the words written here might even be considered a challenge. I sent a coquettish reply, the words implying far more confidence than I really possessed.

  S,

  I am intrigued. How shall we begin?

  V

  I bit my lip, debating to the last second if this was something I should do. What if this person wanted more? I wasn’t sure I liked the C2C world of the internet where computer cameras linked conversations—and come to think of it, I really wasn’t all that into chat either. Needing human interaction tonight, I eventually convinced myself that as long as this person stayed talking in email it would be fine. I clicked send.

  The happy male voice announcing “You’ve got mail” over the speaker came loud enough to make me jump. The reply was so quick it startled me.

  Dearest V,

  Since I have pondered this a long while I shall move forward. I am going to tell you one thing about myself each time we correspond. I desire for you to take your sensual palette and lay the colors out for your use. Your character’s physical descriptions were perfect, and I find myself wondering if you paint from life. I couldn’t help but see the glimmer of heat reflected in your story and want that heat to scorch me. Are you up to this task?

  S

  Wow. Another challenge. I wrote back,

  S,

  You have not yet told me “the one thing” yet. My paint box is waiting.

  V

  Once more the tiny envelope popped into my mailbox. “You’ve got mail.” He was on the computer at the same time as I was. Imagining that somehow he could see me there through the computer screen sent a small shiver up my back and across my shoulders.

  Dearest V,

  My eyes are green like Jonathan’s in your story. I would like you to be these eyes today. Describe yourself to me in full vivid color. Head to toe, V, leave nothing out. Dazzle me with your brilliance.

  S

  Green eyes. I smiled. I loved green eyes, especially ones that changed shades with the color of clothes or the mood. Sighing with my visual memory, I searched my mind for what he called my palette. The paints in my personal paint box had long since dried out. I reread the last email... Describe yourself to me in full vivid color. Did I even have anything beyond shades of gray anymore? I pictured Dan with erectile dysfunction. The thought added water to my dried-out paints.

  S,

  Where to begin... I suppose we should start at the top and work our way down...

  My hair is long and falls straight to the middle of my back with wispy bangs. The color is cinnamon, copper, golds, auburn, and reds. Not Irish setter-red nor ginger red but red-gold like autumn leaves.

  My skin is alabaster, not pallid, not ashen but the faintest pale pink. I am all pinks and reds really...pink in places and rosy in others. My eyes are gray like the lining of a storm cloud. I stand five-foot-six and, at a medium build, weigh one hundred forty-three pounds.

  I’m a rounded woman, not chunkily so. I’m round—round rumped, round breasted, defined waist. I have a spattering of freckles on my shoulders and nowhere else. A lover once said they were like stars sprinkled there.

  I have smooth, lithe arms and long legs, and delicate feet with a frosted peach pedicure that matches my fingernails. Over my left breast close to my heart I possess a small indelible crescent moon and three twinkling stars of henna brown. Is this color enough?

  V

  I read it, and then, surprised by the image these simple words evoked, I read it again. I could see this color, yes, I did look this way, this was me. I wasn’t a black and white and gray being after all. These simple words I found to describe myself implied I was filled with color. With that realization making my heart beat faster, I clicked send.

  There was no instant reply. I could feel it, feel the rise of doubt coming up like a bubble from a sinking submarine. But this time I pushed it away. I looked in my email’s sent folder and reread my painted description once more. To my surprise, my smile returned, and somewhere in my mind, a rainbow started to form—a monochrome rainbow, but a bridge across the pallor of my gray sky.

  * * * *

  The next day I flew home from work, rushed through a shower, wrote checks to pay some bills, fed my goldfish and myself and went to the computer. My heart was fluttering as I called up the literature site before checking my emails. Overnight I had acquired five more appreciative readers. Their genuine compliments toasting my sensual nature made me feel wonderful. Another color was taking form in my rainbow.

  That being done, I accessed my email program. “You’ve got mail,” the happy male voice announced through the speaker while I lip synced.

  V,

  I can see you in all your glorious color. That was excellent. Your choice of words makes my mouth water. A redhead with star-kissed shoulders, are you? I thought as much. Your description of Lily sounded too personal to be fiction. Do you realize of nine hundred and ninety-nine other people born the same time as you, it is only you who possess red hair? No, I must amend. You have hair of autumn reds and golds. A lovely painting, V. You are unique, one in one thousand. My hair is brown, chestnut brown. Describe this alabaster roundness of yours. I find myself anticipating what words you might choose.

  S

  I thought a while.

  What do my breasts look like? Walking down the hall to my full-length mirror, I pulled the thin, worn, but extremely comfortable sweatshirt over my head, ruched my sweatpants down my hips a bit, and stood half naked before the glass. Hmm, I said to myself, eying my breasts critically. I wanted to see them as a man might, wanted to figure out how best to describe these most female attributes. But more than that, I wanted the color my own description might add to my drab life.

  Cupping my breasts in both hands, I assessed. They were a good size. My hands were small, and the flesh spilled over and between my splayed fingers. They’d be smaller in a man’s large hands, but still, I was confident they’d overflow. I recalled seeing a lover’s hands doing just that. They did spill over.

  Hefting them and making them jiggle in the reflection, I imagined the tag the last time I went bra shopping—thirty-six B, not too big, not too small, cushiony, dense tissue, fairly heavy weight. My nipples poked from between my fingers on both hands. I pressed them together, trapping the buds in a pinch to make them firm up.

  Dropping my hands, I assessed the shade of my skin. The contrast between it and the erectile tissue of areola and nipple offered three very distinct shades of pale pink. “Pink like variegated English roses.” I smiled, finding the words in my reflection.

  Not bothering to re-dress, I took the shirt and headed back to my computer. I sat there a moment looking down at my chest. My nipples still firm from their tweaking stood straight ahead like the headlights on a ‘58 Ford Fairlane. It made me smile.

  S,

  I’m glad you did not ask for bra size. I find it rather crass when men do that online. Really, what man understands the complicated mathematics of bra measurements? My breasts are full and rounded, symmetrical with perfectly centered nipples.

  As to size, were a man to cup them in his large hands, his fingers would overflow with soft velvet flesh the color of the palest pink rose petal. My rosy areolas are large, and my nipples are t
ipped in a darker shade of rose. I’ve determined their coloring to be that of a variegated pink and white tea rose. When warm, my breasts reflect the heat. The nipples go soft, plump, puffy. When cold or excited, they tighten and harden. Over my heart my skin wears an indelible crescent moon and the three stars from Orion’s belt visible as the constellation rises in the fall. Their meaning is precious to me, precious enough to wear forever.

  I reread the email knowing exactly how my words appeared in the flesh a moment ago in the mirror. Yes, this was exactly how my breasts were. Not too shabby actually. I clicked send and stood to pull my shirt over my head.

  Just as my head poked through the neck of my threadbare sweatshirt, “You’ve got mail” came through the speakers. The sound made me jump. It was him.

  V,

  That was lovely and very descriptive. My hands are darker than yours. I can imagine them touching these exquisite rose-blush breasts of yours, spilling over of course. I can imagine your large areolas and heat-soft nipples, imagine too the reaction a warm breath might inspire were I to lightly blow there.

  S

  That’s it? I read the email again. “Where’s the challenge?” I said aloud. I didn’t know this person, but I found myself really wanting to play this descriptive game. I sat awhile formulating a response.

  S,

  Thank you for your appreciation. Dark hands, I am wondering if you were planning to say more...

  V

  I suddenly felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. My pen pal had lost interest. That’s why he didn’t go further. I sighed. My niggling doubt came in from the sidelines, the dullness tried to get a hold of me again, and this time, I found it a struggle to push it aside even though my delicate psyche had been reinforced by the nice responses to my story. I recalled some of the nicest, and these simple comments of strangers somehow made me stronger. They made Dan’s hurtful words, “You are so dull in bed I had to have an affair,” lose some of their steam.

  I was just ready to go to bed when the familiar “You’ve got mail” electronically sing-songed through the speakers again.

  V,

  Your email brought a smile to my lips. Yes, as I said, my skin is darker than your alabaster hue. My hands are large. What exactly does that imply to you? You are no naïve schoolgirl. Work this riddle and tell me the answer, and I will paint a description for you. Then you will do the same for me.

  S

  “What the heck does that mean?” I asked the computer as if it could explain. I looked at the clock. Too bad, it was getting late. I wanted to stay here and work the riddle but decided to go to bed. After all, my eight o’clock breakfast meeting with three key county board members was looming on the horizon. Creatively inspired yesterday, I’d called this meeting together on a whim. The mansion might make a wonderful annex for the historical society. Even a reading room would be better than a big box site or another mini mall. It was one final and extremely thin chance at saving the old building. It was a chance I had to take.

  * * * *

  After my shower the following morning, I caught my reflection in the mirror as I passed. Still damp, my just-showered skin sparkled in the morning light streaming in through the hall window. A towel held my long hair up in a twist. My nipples were hard, having gone from hot water to cool air, and the rest of me was covered with goose bumps. I looked myself up and down, my pen pal’s words coming to my mind. He has large hands. A bright smile greeted my reflection. I laughed. “Later, buddy.”

  I wore red and surprised myself over my choice from the back of the closet. Redheads can go two ways with color—the right way and the wrong way. I was fortunate to have emerged from the gene pool with hair and skin coloring that allowed me to wear just about any color I chose. For nearly a year I wore black, brown, gray or drab. In fact, whatever color drab might refer to, I wore it. But for some reason I felt different today.

  I turned this way and that, assessing. The bright color made me look... what exactly? Younger? No, not exactly. Bold? Hmm. I closed my eyes and opened my mind to the colors of me as reflected there and let them seep into my brain. The descriptor came to me. I opened my eyes and met my own gaze staring back. Yes, that was it. I looked creative today. More than that, I looked dynamic.

  I headed home at the end of the day, my mind occupied with positive prospects. The meeting was good and if all went well might actually have a happy outcome. People had told me I looked great today—perky, confident. I knew it was the red dress. It accentuated the colors of the me I was coming to remember. The bright color helped me feel possibility today instead of hopeless.

  Not bothering to change or sort the grain bin of mail the postman stuffed in the slot, I fed the fish and grabbed an apple and a stick of string cheese and went right to my computer. I knew what his riddle was, and it thrilled me that I figured it out. In fact, my heart pounded over the wordy intimacy to come. On top of that, I could swear I felt him at his computer waiting for me to answer when I sat down.

  S,

  I can tell by your large breast-cupping hands that you are a well-endowed man. Paint me a picture.

  V

  Four minutes later, “You’ve got mail” came through the speakers. This time I was ready for it.

  V,

  Nicely deduced. I will paint a vivid picture for you, but I would ask that you go first. Be my eyes as if I were there beside you. Do you have a mirror? Paint your succulent self for me in rich hedonistic detail. My response will be all the more impressive if you do.

  S

  My heart was racing. I rose to find a hand mirror.

  Digging through the third of three bathroom drawers, thinking to myself how it always is that whatever you are looking for always seems to be in the very last place you look, I found the hand-held mirror and buffed the glass surface with a dry towel. I looked at myself in the oval glass. What I was about to do, I had never done before. Gray eyes smiled over how incredibly sexy I felt in that moment, and when Dan predictably popped into my head, I gave my reflection a smirk and wished him a swollen prostate and the frequent middle of the night unproductive urge to pee that came with it.

  Back at my desk, I bent the long crane’s neck desk lamp low to shine on the seat of my chair, set the mirror down, reached under my red dress and proceeded to pull my panties and pantyhose down. I saw a problem—my tea length dress was going to hinder my self-portrait, so I took it off and tossed it over the printer, and wearing only my bra and slip, I sat down. The lamp had warmed my desk chair and my bare bottom.

  Feeling almost naughty, I picked the mirror up by its Bakelite handle and spread my legs. The kickback reflection from the bright lamp bulb nearly blinded me, but I swiveled in my chair until I found a place that was both well lit and revealing.

  My heart was racing. Sure I had made love in front of a mirror before, even used a mirror as I trimmed my pubic hair short on occasion, but in all my life, I never really looked at myself this intimately before, never had I searched for a sensual description in a mirror held between my legs so I could relate that information to another. The thought left me feeling rather giddy.

  I discovered the theme of roses carried over. I arranged myself with my fingertips stretching both sides of my labia and letting the soft dangling inner lips fall where they might. I chuckled seeing something in the glass I had never had occasion to notice before. My lips were a tad asymmetrical down there.

  That famous self-portrait of Norman Rockwell came to mind, the one with him painting off his own mirrored image. I laughed out loud, the sound almost foreign to my ears. My mind touched upon the laughter…it had been a while. Sure I laughed with my girlfriends, but more to keep step than to actually reflect how I really felt since Dan took a baseball bat to my soul. But now hearing my own real laughter felt good, like my voice had come back after a year-long bout of laryngitis.

  I set the mirror in the handle of my file cabinet then tossed one leg up to rest on the edge of my desk, feeling pleased at
how resourceful this little erotic excursion had made me. The view was perfect. “Norman, I’ll bet you never did this.” I was feeling turned on by the words forming in my mind and, more than that, by imagining how this anonymous man might take them. So with my palette loaded with crimson peach and damson plum, I turned to my keyboard feeling tingly all over.

  S,

  I sit here with mirror in hand, my legs spread wide in my attempt to be your green eyes gazing at me in this most intimate pose. This is what I see...

  My thighs are smooth, the same creamy paleness as the rest of me. My hair has been trimmed short, and as I am a natural redhead, the fleece is a soft ginger, a full shade lighter than the rest. Or perhaps this is an illusion—perhaps the color difference is the backdrop of my alabaster skin through the red-gold curls.

  My vulva is plump, split, and succulent in appearance like two halves of a ripe peach. My lips pouting slightly peek from the center seam. And were I to part my outer lips, I find my inner lips softly wrinkled. One side is ever so slightly longer than the other, creating a wanton sensual asymmetry.

  To carry over the peach theme... this flesh is colored exactly like the juicy heart of the fruit. The texture is like velvet, and if I part them, they stay pinned back, posing as a velvet butterfly. If I tug they stretch. If I follow their path upward, they join in the center in a most delightful knot, a hard little nub of pleasure half tucked away under a tiny little sheath.