Oh my lover! How can I live sanely after that wild and unbelievable week? I still find it difficult to accept that it actually happened, that I - that we - did all those things that had only ever been a fevered fantasy of my darkest nights. Maybe it is this lack of belief that forces me to write to you like this, put it all down. I don't know if I will ever send this to you, but as a diary of that momentous week, it will help me come to terms with the change you have brought to my quiet, sheltered life. Maybe reliving it, writing down all those things - may help me accept their reality. And, of course, I can reread and relive it each night I lie alone with only my fingers for company.
How innocent it had all seemed, those late night online chats with a distant stranger. A stranger who seemed to be able to read my secret soul, my hidden inner self. And read it so easily! It was frightening - and at the same time, so strangely liberating. You confused me so much, you made me question so many of my long held beliefs. What did it all mean? - That I had come across the one person in the world who not only understood, but seemed to share my depravity? Or more wondrous yet, that those fantasies, those desires, were not at all that unusual! They were fantasies shared by a great many people, from different countries, different cultures. That the things I felt were only part of the greater human norm? Oh, you tried to reassure me of the latter, but despite my own desires to believe you, I found it difficult to shake the convictions, and constrictions, of my upbringing.
You wrote about things that I had only dreamed about, not even knowing exactly what those feelings meant, or even how to label them - never mind how to put them into actual words. You freed that part of me, gave me those labels, wrote about those things and feelings that made me understand what it was I was seeking, however unconsciously. I told you things that made me blush when I recalled them in the cold light of day. I told you things that I had not even told myself - if that is possible - but it certainly felt like it. Your words, your seductive burning words, had me squirming in my seat, wet between the thighs. It got so that I would take my knickers off before logging on to read your latest depravities... and then rub and finger myself into a sweaty, quivering wreck. You made me tell you what I was doing, describe the intimate features of my life, of my body. Even now, I can feel the heat in my cheeks at the memories of those early, liberating acts.
There may have been a few thousand miles separating us, but you were fucking me every night - mind fucking me. When I begged you for pictures, images to feed my fever - you gave me more than I bargained for. And that photo of your veined and gnarled erection filled my dreams, as nightly I would fantasise, squatting over you, sinking down onto its length, of you filling me with your phantom seed, feeling it oozing and dripping out of me. I tasted you in my dreams, swallowing you despite the fact that I had always found that so unpleasant in reality... and contemplated acts that I had never dared. I indeed had enjoyed plenty of sex... but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing depraved. Vanilla sex you called it. Clumsy fumbles, muttered apologies and embarrassed silences. All so polite, as if it was too difficult to contemplate the crude slapping of sweaty skin, the flowing juices and sheer animalistic nature of being soundly fucked. Your became the raspberry whirl, the chocolate chip, sex of my imagination - and I ached for you each night, for the things you did inside my head, the forbidden desires that you caused to blossom in my darkest, wildest dreams. Rest easy, my lover.... You lived up to your promises.
When the chance came to accompany my boss, and most of the sales team, to the London office arose, I seriously considered not telling you about it. I was fearful, of my own fantasise - which could all too easily become a terrifying reality. I considered refusing the chance to go... but that dark part of my soul exalted, thrilled at the prospect of experiencing even that slimmest chance that maybe... just maybe...
You sounded pleased to know that I was due to visit your part of the world. And, reading between the lines, fearful of just what might be expected of you. You talk the talk, but could you walk the walk? I made it as plain as I could that I would be busy, surrounded by colleagues, not free from the nosey snoops and eagle eyed gossips, for any cosy meetings or assignations. But looking back, I guess I did drop enough hints to make my unspoken desires plain. If not, you did a wonderful job of reading my mind.
I was a nervous wreck all during the journey from the airport to the hotel. Sonil (my boss) and Shamila, one of the pool secretaries, both remarked upon the state of me - which I passed off as mere jet lag, or maybe something of the airline breakfast that disagreed with me. Shamila, a dark skinned, quiet girl had been assigned to share a room with me. She had been chatty for most of the trip, working hard to be friendly, and more than a little puzzled at my distracted indifference. Arriving at the hotel, unloading under the carport, I recognised you straight away. Standing casually near the revolving door, smartly dressed and as if waiting for a tardy partner. I thought my heart had stopped for a moment. It was an intense and frightening experience. You were not simply a fevered figment of my imagination, an electronic phantom that lived inside my home pc. You were a person - rather ordinary looking, harmless even - but I knew how your circumcised penis curved upwards when it was hard... while you, you knew my most secret, deeply hidden inner thoughts. You knew details of my sexual fantasise and darkest longings. I think I actually spent the rest of that week in a state of semi-shock - spine tingling, electrifying orgasmic shock after orgasmic shock.
The hotel lobby seemed very crowed, since a party seemed to be checking out, just as ours attempted to check in. Shamila, chattered on inanely as we joined the queue for the concierge. Being girly and exited, about sharing a room, seeing the city. I knew little about her, but so far had found her rather dull, her childlike enthusiasms wearing - I knew that I was being unfair, preoccupied with darker thoughts that jarred with her girly chatter. I was very conscious of your presence, having to fight hard not to stare at you. You photo's had been a good likeness. I had recognised you instantly. You had moved inside with the crowd, leaning casually against the wall, well out of the way. You were looking straight at me, each time I risked a glance in your direction. Once you gave me sly wink, then looked away innocently as if you were a total stranger. I almost wet myself. You were here, breathing the same air as I, surrounded by my company sales team in a hotel lobby - and I was juicing up just thinking about that simple fact. You turned your gaze back to me, then glanced pointedly at a service corridor the appeared to lead towards the bathrooms. You jerked your head in the direction of the corridor, and then walked nonchalantly down it. Your meaning was clear enough. Heart in mouth, I turned to my prospective roommate.
"Hold this a moment, Sham - I need the bathroom." And I handed her my shoulder bag, and hurried after you, my legs feeling leaden and clumsy. Around the corner, there was only a line of unmarked doors. I had no idea where you had gone! Then one door opened and your hand waved me towards it. As I approached, the door opened wider and you reached out to pull me roughly into the small room.
There was a dim, naked bulb lighting the small room, allowing me to see that it was some kind of store room. It was dusty, with little space amongst the racks of cases and boxes. You held me at arms length and paused long enough to take a long and thoughtful look at me. I panted wordlessly under your scrutiny, feeling the wetness between my thighs. Seeing the obvious pleasure in your gaze, I felt the fear in me recede slightly. I breathed you in, male scent, hint of tabacco and spicy aftershave. I felt dizzy, hot with shame and lust.
"I so wanted... " I started, but you placed a finger to my lips and hushed me quiet. "Don't talk', you breathed. You reached between my thighs and rudely cupped my sex through my skirt. I froze with shock, the sudden crude touch of you turning my blood to ice. Your palm pressed against me, and you lips formed the words,
"You're not here to talk. You came here to be fucked." The crude truth of your words numbed me to my core. Your unsolicited touch was the only reason I had hurried into this grubby closet with you. My outraged protests died unspoken.
It also felt weirdly good, a relief. Nothing needed to explained, nothing to be worried about. I knew why I was there. I was there to be used by you, in whatever manner you choose, just as I had fantasised. It was a release, an abdication of responsibility. What ever was going to happen was not down to me or my actions. Stupid I know, but I had given myself into your hands. Your hard, capable, and oh so cunning hands.
When you leaned forward, brushing your lips over mine, I heard myself moan like some kind of animal. My pulse throbbing in my temples. The hand between my thighs moved down and up under the hem of my skirt. Your free arm slipped around my waist and crushed me to you, you mouth pressed roughly over mine and your hand once more cupping my sex. Despite my mental clamour, my body hungered for you touch, and I whimpered when you pulled the cover of my knickers aside to slide a couple of long, hard fingers deep into my cunt. A final mental scream, and my years of respectable behaviour blew away in cloud of animal lust. I sucked on your tongue and squirmed moistly on your impaling fingers. Foolish me... I never gave a thought to what doors I had just opened. You brought me back to shocking reality within seconds. Your mouth moved over my cheek and nuzzled my ear, and your softly whispered words turned my boiling blood to ice. I blush to remember the whimper that escaped me as your rough fingers withdrew from my body, the outraged shame I suffered when you lifted them to your face, inhaling the scent of me. Your eyes held mine, blatant, challenging, as you licked and tasted me. I cringed as you pressed a pussy flavoured finger between my lips, then shuddered as you spoke.
"Do you spit or swallow?"
