A letter to Myself

Four weeks ago my world imploded as my M decided he could not continue to be with me, after some familial intrusion into our personal lives that some of you will be aware of.
Ten days later, nursing my poor, shredded heart, I wrote this letter to myself.
I have since reread it twice, and though it still makes me weep, it also calms me enough to press on.

Some minor things have been changed, names omitted (the copy I have in my file uses my real name), but other than that, it’s as it was then.

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Muse

Let me tell you about my muse, unintentional fueller of my fantasies.
I do not think of him and feel my mind begin to wander to delicious places.
I do not hear his name and immediately find myself transformed, come pooling beneath me, my knickers sodden as I picture his assaults on my body.
I prostrate myself at the altar of his knowledge, of his words which cut so quickly to the sordid beauty in everything.
And he arouses my skill like no other.
Despite never having laid a finger on me.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that his words inspire my own and I am forever grateful that I am gifted his time, his light.

***

Let me tell you about my muse, her sweetness and her darkness.
I think of her in a hundred ways and every one fits comfortably, completely together.
I see her body and give thanks for it, remembering the one occasion I allowed my dormant dominant side to flourish and turned her arse a healthy pink.
I marvel at the chaste beauty of her body, at the endless, nurturing power of her love, of her freeness and ease with her world.
She makes my words burn with untold feelings;
In the year since first I touched her.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that her existence inspires my own, and I am forever grateful that I am gifted her time, her light.

More Wicked Wednesday stories below!
Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Blurs

I don’t remember why I wrote this exactly. I know I wrote it for someone who wasn’t much impressed with it, but I like it well enough.

Consensual, caring BDSM. All characters over 18. No one is a blood relative. NSFW. 18+ only. Copyright me.

“I’m scared.” I say, looking at the bed nervously.

“I’m not.” He replies, half-smiling.

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Watching

Cuckqueaning is my new jam, apparently.

I knew what I was there for. They didn’t tell me but they planned it between them. And one night, invited me over after work. We watched TV, ate pizza and he felt me up during an extended edition of Newsnight, after noticing how obvious the imprint of my nipples was through my T-shirt. He was sat between us, groping my tits as she slid her hand inside his flies and watched us, stroking him firmly.

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This. 

Short drabble from my journey into work. 

“You were born to suck my cock.”

She looked up with china doll eyes and nodded hungrily, conscious of the obscene bulge of him filling her cheek.

“and don’t you ever forget it.” he went on, weaving his fingers around her hair and jerking her forwards, moaning with satisfaction as further inches disappeared down her eager throat.

“You are MINE.” He said finally, and she tensed around him, gasping for air as she felt the base of his cock stretching her lips.

All she could do was look up at him with tear-stained cheeks as he used her, enjoying the wash of subserviant serenity over her face, faking her innocence well.

He adored her for many reasons, so many they clouded his brain and he couldn’t think straight. But when he pulled out just in time to aim his load over her pretty, chubby face and watched her mouth form his favourite phrase, his heart swelled with pride.

Watching his cum drip down her neck, he made her repeat it. And she did so with quiet glee.

“I am desperate for your cum. Always.”

He stooped over to kiss the top of her head.

“That’s my girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.”