Fingering myself is lovely. I've done it for years, can tease the most glorious orgasms from my loins, orgasms that have me gasping and yelping, and leave me sweating and breathless, turgid and tingling. However, there isn't a fingering on this digital Earth that can replace a gently lapping tongue and simultaneous vaginal and anal finger insertion. No virtual penetration compares to a pussy-stretching, cervix-battering ramrod of a broad curved shaft replete with pulsing, swollen, purple head. And no self-stimulation can replicate the pleasure of being pinned helplessly down while being repeatedly and painfully violated to the very edge of legality... nor replace the wanton straddling then joyous pogoing onto a hard, hot and slippery cock till its owner pumps you full of his jism (which I love to eject onto his still-heaving chest and lap up like some crazed and twisted feline).
And so, with the above very clearly in my mind, and with the arousal such admissions inevitably engender still reverberating around my petite but very desirable frame, I asked him. Asked the man who says he loves me, wants me, and will one day care for and cherish me. The 'why' and the 'who' were beyond question, so I posed the only interrogatives immediately important to me, and posed them as succinctly as I was able.
'When? Where?'
He answered with a smilie approximating raised eyebrows and a quizzical grin then quickly typed.
'When what? Where what?'
To which I hit him with my accustomed bluntness.
'When will we fuck? And where will we do it? As you well know, I can accommodate, in every sense of the word.'
He didn't type anything for ten minutes, which is not unusual in itself, as his wife is often snooping about, getting in the way of our sordid exchanges (he spends so long in the bathroom tugging, videoing and photographing his cock for me that the poor woman must think he has serious toilet issues); however, I knew tonight she was going away on business and we would soon have all the wi-fi bandwidth to ourselves. And all the time in the world too.
In the habitual and still relaxed pause, I continued.
'I am willing to drive, to set off now (it was 7pm) and meet at some prearranged spot between us, spread myself thinly on the back seat of either your or my vehicle - or even across the bonnet - and let you pork my fit, lean body into crackling, penetrate all my holes in an order of your own choosing then squirt your cream wherever the fuck you like. We don't have to make love; we don't even have to talk. I simply want you inside me. Fucking me. Having me. Using me. Would that be in any way appealing to you?'
Twenty minutes passed. In growing desperation, I lifted my skirt, pulled aside my sopping knickers and took a picture. Beautiful. Though I say it myself, my pussy is very photogenic, whether glistening, gaping, dripping or even pissing, and I knew he would not be able to resist sending a response. I posted my pic across the ether. And waited. Nothing. I tried again, peeling open my lips and zooming in on my stiff little clit. Again, no reply. In the sure knowledge that videos always get him going, I propped my phone into position and brought myself to a swift and unnecessarily noisy climax, metaphorically causing the camera's eager eye and moist mic to almost pop from their shiny case. Lovely. Send. Wait. Wait. Wait...
I'm still waiting. Twenty-eight and a half hours, now.
I've explained in earlier posts how I rarely take risks, and often find myself regretting my hesitancy. Now here I am, sailing full steam into a bank of fog, with no way to know where I am, where I am going, where I've been, or - and this is only just exaggeration - whether I am either dead or alive. I'm in limbo. How could he be so heartless? How could he be so gutless? Yet, for some reason, I love him still and will sit here staring at the screen, waiting for Skype's banner to fly high with that unique combination of smilies that accompanies my lover's every hello. My lover. That's a laugh. My hand is my lover. My fingers are his fingers, my thumb his tongue, and my fingers pressed together are a poor facsimile of his magnificent tool. I know he is real, for I glimpse him every day, yet today as we passed he could not even look at me.
It broke. I pushed so hard that it broke. Dreams break with the sound of sobbing, and if you listen very carefully...
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