Into December we go. Another twelve months, from J to D, almost over. I've looked back on my first year spent here (I actually started this blog in April, but, with the end of the calendar year growing ever nearer, it seemed like a good time to take stock) with mixed feelings. Those who read my sporadic posts will have got to know me quite well by now. Indeed, you know more than the people who imagine themselves to be closest to me. For example, if my friends knew I loved to cam in the naughty naked nude - bring myself to a breathless climax while ogling another solitary human somewhere else on this dirty little planet doing something very similar - they would be appalled. I say appalled, though, for all I know, they may all regularly (though surely not as regularly as me, I hasten to add!) do the same. As another example, no one I know in the flesh has any inkling I write erotica. I am too prim, too proper, too sickeningly nice, for them to consider something so perverse, and yet there it is. So, as I said, mixed feelings. I'd love to be the me I am on here and let everyone see it. Flirty and naughty, suggestive and foul-mouthed, open and honest and constantly gagging for it. But I can't. I just can't let myself go.
Last week, while camming (anonymously of course) on my favourite site, I actually read one of my stories out loud, hoping it might encourage someone to buy one (it actually worked: five tomes were snaffled during that short salacious spell). I was wearing my favourite pleated kilt, my most sensuous silk shirt, black lacy hold-ups and nothing else. My nipples were beautifully poky. My winking pussy was beautifully smoothe. The cam was occasionally allowed down my cleavage, given gory glimpses between my knees, and savoured sticky sojourns up my skirt. Fuck it turns me on to be so brazen. What a buzz! It feels so incredibly good, I constantly wonder why all the civilised world isn't constantly doing it. Yes, that's what I want to know. Why? After all: all the world is a virtual stage.
And this week, I hear you ask. What happened this week? Well, I got fucked this week. No, not at a distance, through some fish-eyed all-seeing lens, but in the sweaty spunky, seedy flesh. Actually prick-piercingly fucked. It was good. Not great, but good. He was a little lazy, let me suck and tease him for twenty whole minutes, then encouraged me to climb onto him, forcibly positioned me to sit astride him. After all, I am very petite and he is very strong. I was more than ready for him (so ready it appeared I had wet the bed), though would have loved him to reciprocate on the oral front, even imagined that he might at any moment roll me over and dive between my slippery thighs, eat me out till I yelped in ecstasy (please note: should we ever meet, I absolutely love being licked out). But no. He merely lay beneath me, feasted on my tiny tits, sucked my generous nipples and bounced me up and down, rather like some doll he'd just bought. Or some whore he'd just paid for. Whenever he needed me to stop, he clenched his imperfect teeth, grabbed my (lovely rounded, if I may say) buttocks, till his impending orgasm subsided, then started again. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy. Sucky, sucky, sucky
It was nice, though a little repetitive, and a little 'distantly intimate', if that makes sense, almost as if he were imagining me being there, rather than enjoying me being there, as though he were inventing me in his head, creating me as wanking fodder. Actually, I didn't mind, was enjoying contemplating my own sexy (there were three of him, one for every hole) scenarios, but suddenly realised I needed a change of stimulation; though my pussy could have stood his cervix-battering incursions for a good while longer, my nipples were getting a little raw. Being suddenly and uncharacteristically decisive, I donned my captain's cap, grabbed the rudder and took us on a different tack.
Laying flat upon his slender-though-muscled torso, I brought my legs together, nudged my knees between his, and assumed the inverse of the classic missionary pose. He quickly accepted his new role, splayed his legs like a bitch and lay back to take it. In this position, I was squeezing him very hard and obviously causing him not a little pain, though he persevered, probably as much in curiosity as anything else. With me between his legs, pumping in and out, ownership of the cock became blurred. Who was doing the fucking? Who was the penetrator, and who the penetratee? It was him then me, then him and him, then me and me and me, me me! I wrested it from him, rammed it so hard and deep up between his body-hugging balls and into his belly that he squealed. Bitch indeed.
As I moved - actually more back and forth than up and down - my clit was brushing deliciously against his hairy pubis. Now I had a cock and a clit. I shoved my tongue down his throat, pressed my breasts to his chest, intensified my horizontal oscillations and began to cum. He grabbed my buttocks, clenched his teeth, but I was having none of it. My twisted grin was of the dominatrix variety; it overflowed with silent authority. I'm in charge, mister. I choose. I decide. And I'm ready. Yes, I'm ready, so fuck you.
In fairness, and if the subsequent river of cum that pulsed down my leg in the shower was anything to go by, so was he. Anyway. My orgasm was long, intense, and went on much longer than his post-orgasmic discomfort could stand, but, as I said, today I was doing the fucking. He'd softened and slipped out before I had finished, my continuing horizontal oscillations suddenly bringing to mind a Yorkshire Terrier that had shagged my outstretched leg in the park one recent unseasonally sunny day. That thought instantly stilled me. I bit my lip then flushed and raised my eyebrows at his incredulous face.
'You done?'
He sniffed.
'Yeah, all done here.'
'Cup of tea?'
'No, thanks. Better get back. Julia will be wondering where I am.'
I wish to fuck, with his cum still swirling inside me, his sweating body still pressed to mine, and our hearts still pounding in post-coital bliss, he would not use her name like that.
So there it is. I got fucked. Is it better than writing about it? Almost. Better than camming? Some parts, definitely. Others? No, not really. Who could possibly be better than what I can imagine? Fitter, harder, prettier, more thoughtful, dirtier? I mean, he didn't rim me then lick his spunk from my cunt before pissing on me in the shower. It was nice, but decidedly lame. You would have done all that, wouldn't you, my imaginary fuck-buddy? Mmm, come on then. Let's do it now. After writing all that down, I'm wet enough, ready enough. Whip it out and have me quickly! Or, if your intensely curvy femininity means you lack the requisite parts, climb on top and let's get sixty-nining. Hurry! Before the kettle boils. You have precisely fifty-three seconds to have me before Earl Grey seduces me away.
See you soon.
Love,
Alexandra :) xxx
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