I thought we were quite done with these, but it seems that my publishers, 'The Daily Heil Publications Corporation', have a different opinion. We batted it back and forth for a few days without reaching much of a conclusion so they sent a couple of their brown-shirted and heavy-booted 'representatives' around to pay me a visit. Well, after a completely unjustifiable trampling of my hyacinths and the crystal clear implication that they were going to go all Kristallnacht on my greenhouse, I reached the conclusion that it might be in everyone's best interest if I answered one of the dreary letters currently lying in a heap on my doormat.

And so, with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever, and definitely not giving a shit about the pathetic whinging words that follow, and chosen completely at random because I'm buggered if I'm going to sit down and read any of them, and in complete realisation that this sentence is going on forever and has five ands (six now) in it, shall we go 'to the letter'.

I mean what sort of catchphrase is that? 'To the letter'!!! How limp-dicked, arid-cunted and anally uninspired is that? Is that what I'll be remembered as? The 'to the letter' Lady. It sounds like I'm some super tight-arsed, anal-retentive bitch with a pussy stuffed full of different coloured biros all lined up neatly in rainbow order. No doubt I've got a different purpose for each one and take great care and pleasure over their removal and insertion. Ohhh ohhh ohhh fuck me, Mr Purple Biro, dive into my sopping snatch, twiddle in my twat, sunder my slit, ooze your purply goodness into my juicy, cum-coated, honeypot. Ohhh. Ohhh. Ohhh. Pathetic. 

So, to the letter:

Dear Cummy Cunny,

For the past five years, my life has been blissful and all because of Trevor. He is my night, my day, my sun, my moon, my stars, my firmament. He is my morning and my evening, my waking and my sleep, my (no, that's quite enough, any more of that and I'm going to vomit; babble, babble, nonsense, nonsense, sickening shit, ahhh). He is an Interphase Production Facilitator with a well-known national Resource Interruption Specialist. It's a really good job and I'm really, really lucky to be with someone who is a bona fide middle manager. Admittedly, he spends a lot of time on the road and the travel can be a bit much, but he does get a company petrol card and a mileage allowance (apparently, nobody gets company cars anymore unless they're SM2 or above because they're benefits in kind and just aren't tax-efficient). His base salary isn't great but there is lots of potential upflow in his salary band and with the performance bonuses, we've been able to put down a deposit on a new-built two-bedroom terrace with its own allocated parking space. 

What about me I hear you ask (I wasn't but I doubt that would stop her from her insipid, empty-headed ramblings). I was going to get myself a nice little part-time job, perhaps in a boutique or a scrummy cafe or as a receptionist at a beauty treatment centre but truth is I really don't have the time. What with the pilates and yoga and spin classes, and the pottery, book club, life drawing, knitting and gardening there really isn't enough time. Did I mention the pilates? That's my favourite. Tuesday and Friday mornings and the instructor is just to die for. I'm definitely a sopping little yummy cummy of deliciousness after those sessions I can tell you. 

Anyway, Sexy Aunty, I'd better tell you why I'm writing (about fucking time). Now although my life is blissful, I must admit that the sex has always been a little lacklustre. Not that I mind, even princesses can't have everything their hearts desire. So I was very excited the other evening when, whilst snuggling on the sofa watching Top Gear, he suggested that we might like to spice up our sex life with a little role play. Well, Aunty Sex, my heart instantly started going boomdy boomdy boom and my fanny was fluttering like a flutterby. I was so excited imagining him as a Caveman Freddie Flintoff and me as a Moulin Rouge dancer all bustles and stockings and garters and basques or as a sexy air hostess, or perhaps a schoolgirl outfit or, or, or, well anything from a Britney Spears video really. I was so excited I could barely manage to whimper "Yessss" as I surreptitiously slow humped the hand I'd somehow managed to trap between my squeezing thighs. 

The following week was delicious expectation; wondering every day what 'roles' he might choose for us both, what scrummy super-sexy outfit I'd be encased in, what sort of character I might have to inhabit. I could barely focus daydreaming my days away; even pilates was more of a damp squib than a drippy quim. Would the weekend never cum? Would I ever stop cumming cum the weekend? 

Saturday morning and there was a lovely package sitting waiting for me on the breakfast bar. My fingers trembled awfully as, with him smilingly watching on, I carefully peeled off the cellotape and pulled the paper apart to reveal. 

Ohhh I can barely bring myself to utter the words. 

No sheer stockings, no delicate tiny triangles of lacey fabric pretending to be lingerie, no belt masquerading as a skirt, no semi-sheer top that barely covers my stiff, expectant nipples, no tassels for me to flick across his face, no stripper heels, no clinging latex, no hobble skirt to restrict my movement, no corset to shrink my waist and crush my ribcage, and not even a princess tiara. No, the only thing in the package was an outfit that could be best described as a thickly fleeced onesie.

I did my best to swallow my disappointment; along with a nibble of toast and a slurp of coffee; and because Trevor was looking so hopeful and expectant, I stripped off my jim-jams and wriggled my way into my new fleecy outfit. Well, it was quite lovely; all snuggly and warm with little mittens for your hands and feet and a hood you could pull over your head with cutesy ears. Trevor sat watching my transformation wearing only a pair of boxers and looking like the hunkiest middle manager ever, and I couldn't help but notice that he had a truly impressive pole tenting in his pants; the sort of pole that a marquee salesman attending a wedding planning weekend would be very proud of. 

I was a very wet and throbby little bunny at the sight of all that engorged manhood, though a bit shocked as normally he requires a bit of persuading to come to attention, but not today. Oh no. Quicker than you could say "Mary had a little lamb" his boxers were around his ankle and I found myself pushed down onto all fours with his cockhead grazing at my nether lips. It was then that I discovered that my onesie was faulty, that it had a fabric tear along the gusset seam, but before I could inform Trevor I felt his meaty muscle spreading my dribbly petals as it thrust into my tight, surprised tunnel of loveliness. 

"Oh My God." I could barely bleat the words. I could barely bleat any words, my mouth filled with incomprehensible animalistic sounds as his manhood drove deep within my pulsing sex. I've never known him so engorged, so stiff, so swollen. He was utterly rampant, his hands on my underbelly stroking the fleecy softness, his cock bludgeoning its way into my sloppy snatch as my muscles spasmed in orgasmic delight, clasping and gripping at wondrous him as his hips slapped against my proffered hindquarters. 

I was in heaven. Bleating out my bliss at every thrust. I was his little llama. His alpaca. His lambykins. My fleece as white as the thick creamy spunk that I could feel coursing up the length of his cunt ravaging cock. My ears filled with his caveman grunts and my pathetic whimpers, clinging to the floor, driven forward, shepherded by his mighty member until penned in a corner, I felt his body tense, his hips cease their movement as he emitted a mighty growl, buried himself deep, and flooded my oviney cunt with his glorious seed. 

Anyway, to cut a long story short (it's a bit fucking late for that), Trevor kept it up all weekend; both literally and figuratively. So now I'm sitting here on Sunday evening my fleece pilled, tufted, cum splattered and most definitely not as white as snow, wondering what has become of my happy, blissful life and what the future might hold. 

I know it's not right, Cum Aunty. I know it's all sick, perverted and degraded, and I really don't want to spend the rest of my days suckling at my fleeciness to get all the cum out. Though I must admit the fuckings I've had these last two days have been the bestest evers. 

What's a girl to do? 

Please help. 

Merino Sparkles

Dear Miss Sparkles

I have Good News, and you'll be pleased to hear that it's not the sort of Good News that comes knocking at your door with a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses attached. I've so much Good News in fact that I am going to write it out all bullet-pointed in proper middle management memoranda stylee. 

1.  I worked out how to scan your letter and, even better, overcame my technoshittery to learn how to successfully attach it to emails. 

2.  Having found you on Facebook, I was able to identify Trevor's place of work. 

3.  I had a lovely chat with Melanie at the Global Services office. I hope you don't think I'm tittle tatting but she thinks Trevor is an insufferable, self-entitled knobhead and was more than happy to provide me with his boss's email address. 

4.  I have used my newfound techno-brilliance to email your letter through to Trevor's boss. 

5.  I've contacted your Mum via Facebook and suggested she might like to get some extra provisions in and clear any junk out of your old bedroom. 

6.  There is a shelf stacker job going at your local Poundland. I've managed to get you an interview for 12.15 on Wednesday. Don't let me down. 

7.  Back to Facebook and I managed to identify Rodrigo, your pilates instructor. He was happy to hear that you'd be available for a pity fuck both Tuesday and Friday. He did say that it was up to you whether you wear the onesie. 

And that I believe is that. No, don't thank me, I'm just doing my job. Besides, I was bored off my tits anyway. 

Aunty Cum