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Confession of a virtual cumslut

"A letter of candid explanation; a poetic plea for understanding"

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Dear Friends,

That's how contrary I am. One day I say I can't stop writing and then I write nothing for two weeks. In my defence, I have been away, and whilst away, I had little connectivity. It is hard to believe, I know, but there are parts of the world not yet afflicted by wi-fi, by 3G, never mind 4G, and some of them exist on my beautiful green and sceptered isle. And so, with no prospect of feedback or adulation, the need to write deserted me.

However, one particularly lonely and horny evening, I found time and signal enough (I had to drive into the next village, furtively park, and piggy-back an unsuspecting and unsecured yokel) to log onto my favourite cam site. Those among you who know me well (which, ironically, excludes all the people who really know me well) will know I am a sucker for a shadowy grainy cock, a low resolution pair of balls and a three-frames-per-second ejaculation, and that night's entertainment turned out to be the peak of its genre. If anyone in the surrounding cottages had access to infrared spy technology, they would have clearly seen the rocking VW contained a thirty-ish woman with her hand up her short dress, her tits rudely out, erect nipples being vigorously tugged, while her brown eyes popped out at the delicious scene unfolding on her dimmed iPad (cleverly hot spotted to her iPhone 6).

It was a beauty. A thick and meaty fucking beauty. And he was cute. Not some flabby sorry perv wanking himself for his own satisfaction, but a fit, sweet and sexy guy showing all for anyone who cared to watch. And he cared who watched, engaging us all by name with his intimate whispers, his witty asides and his graphic descriptions of what he wanted to do to each and every one of us. My name that night - and it summed me up perfectly - was Wet'n'wild, and he used it flagrantly, repeatedly, its every utterance causing my lubricant to gush. Soon, the heated leather seat was dripping, my thrusting fingers were squelching, and my vocal exhortations (which he could not hear, but which inestimably helped the inexorable progress towards my own climax) were becoming ever more expletive-ridden.

Incredibly, as his climax approached, his clientele dwindled, till there was just the two of us. At that point, I invited him to Skype me and, remarkably, he did so. It transpired that he was no more than twenty miles away. Yes, all the fucking world to choose from and we were twenty miles apart. Twenty minutes away from cock-sucking pussy-licking bliss. From pelvis-thrusting arse-slapping heaven. Yet I chickened out. Though I could have regretted meeting him for the rest of my life (and perhaps a very short life if he'd turned out to be the axe murderer my fertile imagination had created), I'll actually regret not doing so for eternity.

He showed me everything, spoke fluently, was intelligent, thoughtful and kind, while I merely typed and showed nothing (except a couple of pre-snapped pussy pix which he received with real gratitude). When he finally shot his load - and what a load (I am quite a cum slut yet it's unlikely I would have been able to swallow all of it) - I was ready too and squirted almost as much as he did. When I told him that fact, he was aghast that we had not physically got together, proclaiming he had never witnessed the like. We stayed and chatted till I began to feel the night's chill, then I reluctantly said goodnight, drove back to my holiday cottage and made myself cum again, imagining his firm athletic body riding me, pressing my sweating silhouette into the mattress. Then I slept like a fucking log.

The next two nights, we repeated it.

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Again he asked to meet. Again I declined. Again he shot his copious load from his most beautiful cock. Again I soaked the seat. By night four, I was determined to take him up on his offer, was showered, shaved smooth, made-up and coiffured, and dressed in my naughty knickerless best. I was dripping as I drove. Heart pounding as I parked. Almost cumming as I logged on.

I waited. And waited. And waited. And he never showed.

I'd never asked him his real name, never enquired whether he were married, engaged, taken, or single. To be honest, I didn't give a fuck, just needed him to get me off, to sate my rather voracious and sordid singular sexual needs. He never showed me all of his face, just a tantalising glimpse of his splendid smile and his stubbly chin, yet I felt I knew him, felt he had really made love to me. Yes, he was that good. Now I felt cheated, and wanted him more than I've ever wanted anyone. And I felt stupid. Selfish. Stupid. Simple. Stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I never seem to give enough of myself, either in real life or in my hidden, virtual life. It is a flaw that constantly plagues me and leaves me cataloging all the ifs. If I'd told him my name. If he'd heard my voice. If I'd shared my cam, pointed it's prying eye down my cleavage. If I'd shown him my tits. If I'd opened my legs, played with my glistening lips. If I'd shown him how I tease my clit. If he'd heard me groan, call his name, asking him to shove it in. Hard. Fuck it. Fuck me. Do it. Shoot it. God, oh god, I'm... I'm... Fuck, I'm...and if he'd seen me convulse, thrust my hips, squirt... All those fucking ifs. Perhaps then he would have logged on one more time.

The virtual world is similar to real life but speeded up a thousand times. Three dark nights virtually fucking the same girl is thirty years' worth of fucking in broad daylight. He suddenly had other fish to fry, other legs to splay, other quims to fill. All the fucking world is out there and begging for it, and when I didn't give my all, he simply moved on. I should have known. Should have fucking known.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

So, as usual, at such times, I wrote a poem. Seems I write poems every time I don't get fucked. To date, I have thousands of them; some are written down, but most are waiting to be written down. This is my latest. It's short, but - for me at least - is almost longer than I can bear. I could have made it longer - as some have suggested - but I set myself a target of under eighty words, decided to ditch every extraneous syllable while retaining every ounce of emotion. And that's hard for me. I often find the word I need is somewhere just between two others, in a place where the language has not yet created the perfect expression, and thus I use two, or three, and sometimes even four. Forgive me. I am only learning. Developing. I will get there. And I will take those chances, accept every erotic opportunity to expand my experience. And get fantastically fucked while trying.

Elegy on watching a man wanking

I met you in the strangest place

Where love is seen but has no face

And played a while

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We stayed an hour, a day, a week

Where love is too afraid to speak

And shared a smile

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I risked more than I dared to lose

Where love is too confused to choose

And loved you when

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You asked is this how we must live

Where love is too afraid to give

And lost you then

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Published 
Written by Alexandra_A
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