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

Lady in Red (Sinful Sunday) 

Title chosen under duress because it was number one the day I was born. Yuck. 

Another entry in the accidental series of photos referencing our habit of matching, this one sees M tenderly redoing my toenails to match his own (red for LFC)

I can’t stop looking at this image and smiling. My M looking after me.

See who else is being sinful this Sunday by clicking below

Sinful Sunday

The past is another country (with better spelling)

I have a lovely and caring boyfriend who often brings thoughtful and charming gifts – a bunch of flowers in my favourite colour, chocolates that bear an uncanny resemblence to his chosen pet name for me, every brand of throat sweet when I came down with tonsillitis two months into our relationship…. He’s pretty wonderful.
Not long after we’d started seeing each other, he was going away on a business trip, involving an internal flight.

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Something about not climbing trees

I almost talked myself out of it, knowing a punishment would be over relatively quickly but my honesty would be valued.

It was a simple enough task, though.

“Lipstick, eyeliner. And no underwear. ”

Gulp.

I hate not wearing underwear, knickers especially. I wear them in bed. I wear them under my pyjamas. They’re comforting, even though my mum tuts and says I should let my vag get some air, only in a much more mum-like fashion. And he wanted me out in public, without them. Without my security blanket.

I was already flustered as I left the house. He rang to say he was at the gate. I rang him back sixty seconds later to double check I had knickers at his (“Yes. Lots.”)

He watched me take out the bins, and totter towards him with bags.

“You look lovely.”

“I did as I was told.”

He nodded and opened the car door for me. I slid my bum awkwardly over the seat, trying to make sure there was sufficient skirt protecting his mother’s upholstery.

He stroked my knee and started the engine. As we turned onto the highstreet, I took the hem of my skirt between my fingers and raised it until I could see my cute little pubic mound. He glanced over and groaned. I thought about how damp my inner thighs were getting.

We parked up outside Marks and Spencer and I exited the car gingerly. He grinned. When I bent my knees to take a packet of buns from the bottom shelf of a display, the low murmur of ‘Good girl’ in my ear was everything.

I can’t wait to do it again.