I wish I had an overseas pen pal

I live alone. No immediate family, no friends who live nearby.  And certainly no one who lives like me. I’m fairly sure that most people who know me believe me to be practically asexual. They see the face and hear the accent, and believe me to be cold and dispassionate.

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Hair with a touch of red, and you’re there….

And social media, which I’m active on, lacks the tactile permanence I seem to find myself wanting these days. I find myself wishing for some kind of correspondence, some overseas pen pal that would send me long and involved letters,  black ink spilling out thoughts over cream paper. I wish to know another again, but without the inevitable intrusion that seems to be an obligation when a woman asks a man into her life. (One of my last lovers tried to tell me where I was going wrong in my writing; seeing as he had never read my work under any of my nom de plumes, it was not welcomed.)

An element of correspondence, not explicitly erotic, but not removed from it either. But I know that wishing for such things does not make them so. Such matters must be grown from gentle things, and nourished until they evolve into the heart’s wishes, moving on to whatever maturity their nature will allow.

Could I be lonely? Me?

 

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Rudi’s prompt…

My poor little body was all hungry that day. I knew it from the moment I woke up, I could feel myself with that hot itch between my legs. It makes me so sad when I get like that, and the mirror agreed with me; all big eyes and pouty lips. I let the hot water of the shower wash over me, but it was only teasing me more; Hot droplets running over my breasts, my thighs… I towelled off and got dressed, all lonely and sad.

I got to work on time, which was good, because I have a strict boss. He can be really mean sometimes, especially if he thinks I’m not paying attention to him. He came in at about ten am and stood at my desk while he checked the post. I was typing away as he did so, my hands moving over the keyboard. I was sitting there, all sad and lonely, aware of him. He’s not very tall, but he has lovely eyes, and I love the way he smells. He was looking as I typed, and I became aware of his attention on me.

Of his eyes on me.

I looked up, my hands still typing, and I saw he was staring at my breasts. I had worn a white blouse, with a button undone because it was so hot, and he was staring at me. I didn’t say anything, I just kept typing, but I bit my lip as I took him in. His eyes moved down, further, taking in my waist, my hips…

“Miss Clarke,” he said, “I can smell your want.”

My hands froze.

“Excuse me?”

He’d never spoken to me like this before. I’d come to think of him as a moving thing; he didn’t engage with me in any real way.

“Your want, Miss Clarke. I can smell it.”

I sat there staring at him.

“It is quite distracting, Miss Clarke, that hunger that you have.”

“My .. hunger?”

“Your hunger.” And here his voice became a whisper. “Between your legs.”

I withdrew my hands, swallowed.

“You distract me.”

I said nothing.

“You … entice me.”

I looked at the keyboard. I think I was panting.

“You entice me, Miss Clarke. It is quite distracting.”

I didn’t say anything; what could I say?

“I think, Miss Clarke, that I’m going to have to answer that want first of all. I think that I am going to have to deal with your behaviour. Miss Clarke, stand up.”

I looked at him and slowly, stood up. There was sweat on the back of my knees.

“Good. Now, Miss Clarke, lean over on the desk.”

I was suddenly aware of my nipples growing hard. I stood there for a moment, feeling the shape of them protrude through the sheer fabric of my blouse. I wanted him.

“Miss Clarke, lean over,” he whispered.

Very slowly, aware of every sound, I put my elbows on the desk. My skirt was tight around my hips. He moved until he was behind me, his feet between my feet.

My desk is dark brown. Up close you can see the grain and the varnish.

He smelt so wonderful.

“Miss Clarke, what am I going to do with you…”

I saw his arm reach leisurely forward and pick up the ruler I keep on my desk. I gasped as he gave it a few swings, the air singing as he did.

He wasn’t really going to smack my bottom, was he? He wasn’t really going to spank my bottom?

I jumped the first time the ruler hit me, and I yelped a little.

“Miss Clarke, control yourself,” he whispered. It stung a little, but was only a little sting, it didn’t go far enough. Smack went his ruler again, and I didn’t jump this time. Instead, I just gave a low moan, half a whimper, as I felt the burn move and dissipate on my skin. Oh, he was teasing me with these strokes, half-felt through my fitted skirt and tights. I wanted to feel the real pain, as well as the release. He gave me four or five more slaps with the ruler, but my reaction told him I wasn’t elated by them.

“I see that I need to take it further,” he said, panting slightly.

“Raise your skirt.”

Slowly, I slid the material up, until my cheeks were visible.

“Beautiful, Miss Clarke, just,” he breathed, “beautiful. I may need to have you after this, Miss Clarke.”

I swallowed again. More, please, sir.

I still hadn’t moved from my position over the desk. His hand rested on my cheek, and I could feel the heat through them. His hand reached back and

Smack!

The sound of his flesh touching mine made me let out a long moan and gasp. Oh god but it felt wonderful. I grunted as he hit me again and again, his arm beginning to swing to and fro as he did. I felt myself grow even more wet with each stroke, and oh, how did I want him to solve my throbbing cunt.

He hit me with a barrage of slaps on my cheeks, the high pitched slaps coming so quickly I lost all count. I could feel myself getting high from the pain, but I wasn’t there yet, I needed him to keep going.

Then,  I heard the sound of his belt buckle opening, and I closed my eyes with joy at the sound. His belt was soon folded over into his hand, and as I lay there I heard him whisper.

“This is because your cunt is so wet, Miss Clarke. I … need to teach you a lesson.”

The belt? No, that was too much, too hard! But before I could, his arm was raised and he was swinging the belt as hard as he could.

Five, six strokes were all it took to reduce me to a crying wreck. Then his legs stood even closer to mine, and I felt his long, hard and very hot cock slide into my throbbing cunt.

His size was amazing, he filled me completely, so much he almost hurt me. Yet strangely, when he did so, he didn’t move at all.

“Say it, Miss Clarke, say it now.”

Please fuck me!” I said, through my tears, and that released him. His delicious cock moved against me like a want answering a need. All I was aware of was his own body trembling as he did so, and I realised he must have wanted me for a long time. All I could do was mutter ‘Oh my god!’ as he fucked me again and again against the desk, his legs and his entire body pounding into me.

“Miss Clarke, Miss Clarke, Miss Clarke!” he yelled, as he fucked me over and over again. ”

“Oh oh oh!!” I gasped, feeling his orgasm rip through him, being brought to orgasm myself by his insane need.

Oh God. Oh god. Oh god!

Dripping, destroyed, I lay there for the longest time with him on top of me. Then, and I’m not sure when, he got up, and carefully rearranged himself.

“Miss Clarke,” he said, his voice coming from somewhere above me, “You are remarkable. I will have you again.” And he went into his office and closed the door.

I made myself pull myself together, somehow. My skirt was down. My tights were up. What did I look like? Swollen lips and mauled breasts.

I went to sat down and

Ow!

I jumped up again in pain. My poor bottom! The ruler, his hands, (his hands!) and then his belt. Oh, too much, just too much!

I gingerly touched my cheek then snatched my hand back. Too hot to touch! Far too hot to touch. I would be sore, and bruised, for days.

And so, that’s why I’m not wearing those short shorts this week. And I think it was very much worth it.

 

 

At a dinner party…

I attended a dinner party recently. I had sat next to a man who had in turns been sweet, probing, suggestive, bored, and eventually dismissive. I do not, for one thing, flaunt my wealth. I was raised to believe it was the height of bad taste, and also that the other person will not be led to show good character in the face of such behaviour.  The gentleman I was sitting beside seemed to conclude that I had no great passions or sensuality at all. His eye contact became less, and less, as the evening went on. His occasional suggestive comments weren’t taken up by me; the dinner party was being held by a close friend of mine, and creating a liaison with a fellow guest would not have been respectful to her. So I was a picture of amiable blandness in my green velvet all evening. He was not unattractive, though. He was wearing a suit, which always makes me notice a man, and his face was soft, but intelligent. He looked the type to intellectualise his passion, but be led by it all the same. He was very fair, and I normally go for dark haired men.

Eventually we reached the liqueurs and coffee. I don’t drink at all, but have no objection to those that do, and as the evening began to unwind towards its end, there was an inevitable relaxing of conversational standards. The hostess and a few fellow guests moved towards the stereo to find some vinyl they’d been talking about; Maria Callas, I remember. I remarked that she wasn’t the most skillful of singers, but that she was indeed the most passionate, and that was what was so delicious about her voice. I was getting ready to go, conscious of the late hour.

“Passion? That is an attribute you appreciate?” he said quietly.

“Certainly, don’t we all? A passionate life is the only I would prefer.”

“And would I strike you as passionate? Would I make you wonder?”

His question was bold, and I looked at him. There was a certainly flushed look to his face that made me see he was more drunk than I had realised. There was no one paying attention to us, so I decided to be indiscreet.

“Well, yes. I imagine you would be very well taught if I used ropes; ropes around your wrists at just the right side of stinging. That, and I imagine, you would be a Tenga man, if I put my mind to it. The sweetest toy ever invented for a man’s desire; how it makes the male member buckle with the want, but without bringing it to fruition too soon. That, and ropes; beauty like yours should be punished, I suspect, if only for my own pleasure.”

The look of stunned amazement from him, as I rose to leave, was the nicest form of satisfaction I have received from a man without undressing for a very long time. You know, I almost hope he finds the blog….

Night night all.