Dear Friends,
That's how contrary I am. One day I say I can't stop writing and then I write nothing for two weeks. In my defence, I have been away, and whilst away, I had little connectivity. It is hard to believe, I know, but there are parts of the world not yet afflicted by wi-fi, by 3G, never mind 4G, and some of them exist on my beautiful green and sceptered isle. And so, with no prospect of feedback or adulation, the need to write deserted me.
However, one particularly lonely and horny evening, I found time and signal enough (I had to drive into the next village, furtively park, and piggy-back an unsuspecting and unsecured yokel) to log onto my favourite cam site. Those among you who know me well (which, ironically, excludes all the people who really know me well) will know I am a sucker for a shadowy, grainy cock, a low resolution pair of balls and a three-frames-per-second ejaculation, and that night's entertainment turned out to be the peak of its genre. If anyone in the surrounding cottages had access to infrared spy technology, they would have clearly seen the rocking VW contained a thirty-ish woman with her hand up her short dress, her tits rudely out, their erect nipples being vigorously tugged, while her brown eyes popped out at the delicious scene unfolding on her dimmed iPad (cleverly hot spotted to her iPhone 6).
It was a beauty. A thick and meaty fucking beauty. And he was cute. Not some flabby sorry perv wanking himself for his own satisfaction, but a fit, sweet and sexy guy showing all for anyone who cared to watch. And he cared who watched, engaging us all by name with his intimate whispers, his witty asides and his graphic descriptions of what he wanted to do to each and every one of us. My name that night - and it summed me up perfectly - was Wet'n'wild, and he used it flagrantly, repeatedly, its every utterance causing my lubricant to gush. Soon, the heated leather seat was dripping, my thrusting fingers were squelching, and my vocal exhortations (which he could not hear, but which inestimably helped the inexorable progress towards my own climax) were becoming ever more expletive-ridden.
Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.
Have actually experienced this same situation. Regret? Maybe, would have been interesting, for sure, but I have found my best decisions are to follow my first thought as that is usually my voice of reason. It has worked out so far. I have never woke facing "Molly Hatchet" thanks for sharing and I liked your poem :-)
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