Diary, picture this.
Nestled between three wings of an ivy covered, multi-turreted gothic pile is a sun terrace shaded by a lemon tree. On the terrace's open side, a mirror-still ornamental pond reflects half a mile of landscaping and lollipop topiary. Some have called this the most desirable house in the world.
Between the potted tree and the pond sits a woman. The wind ruffles her sharp, black bob. The marble is warm against her bottom through her silvery silk dress, and her toes are cool in the pond. Some have called her the most desirable woman in the world. Though not enough for her liking. This is because her mouth and bottom are too big and her eyes too scarily dark and because she's too short.
Glimmers dance on ripples as the woman kicks her podgy little feet. Across the lawns, pine trees wave like benevolent giants while her own benevolent giant, Bill, gives a dying tree a short-back-and-sides with rhythmic strokes of his mighty saw.
An innocent scene. But take a peek in the black windows of the girl's eyes and it's a different story...
It's flushed purple in there. They say the brain is the largest sex organ and this girl's brain, this morning, is swollen to bursting with her imaginings. Diary, of course, the girl was, is, me.
No prizes for guessing why I was so... engorged. Before Bill started sawing I'd been happily lost in my prime considerations of the day: What is the best oral sex one could ever have? I awoke pondering the question and had decided to describe to you today the absolute best sucking or licking someone might ever give or experience. Then -- as is my wont -- I'd enact it later with my long-suffering manservant. For this reason I'd even sent the staff away so we had the house to ourselves. My oral imagination would not be restricted to my bedroom!
So I was happily lost in things licky. In fact, I'd had a marvellous idea and already set it in motion with a few choice texts to relevant parties. So on top of my steamy dreaming, I was a little giddy with anticipation. That's when Bill -- invisible in the woods somewhere -- started his relentless, manful strokes.
Diary, I needed those strokes on me, in me, so badly it actually raised a lump to my throat. My need was so keen because, remember, fucking is something that Bill and I agreed we wouldn't do. And when I say, "we agreed" I mean, "father insists". My father doesn't approve of me, a lady, enjoying the beefy delights of my commoner boyfriend. He would split us up if he could, but Bill and I persist because a: We're adults and make our own decisions and b: We have videos of my in-denial father in flagrante with a rent boy--what can he do to us?
Perhaps I shouldn't leave you lying around for him to read though, dear Diary. Father's response to my juicy stories was to take Bill aside. "Enjoy my daughter's lascivious attention if you must, but she's been bred for a prince, not a gardener. I have read how she likes to please you. I suggest you make the most of her mouth because a man like you can never have her hand. Or her cunt." Classy! But he went on. "And if you dare impregnate my potentially royal daughter I will have you executed for treason."
"Contraception!" I hear you cry, but remember Bill's larger than most and hasn't found a condom that doesn't split. And yes the pill is effective, but not protect-us-from-murder effective. It's difficult to fuck with a gun at Bill's head. So. Hence my oral fixations.
Part of my plan for today involved a promise to myself that I wouldn't come until later with Bill. The best oral, surely, had to follow a period of abstinence. However, with a head full of head, and the steady, hard push of my man in the woods, I found it difficult not to scratch my itch.
Impossible, in fact.
So, I lay back on the warm stone. I shut my eyes and considered my Ultimate Oral while I rubbed my tingly bits through my dress. I wasn't breaking my promise to myself. In fact, if I thought only about sucking and licking, while keeping said fidgety digits out of my hole, then rubbing out a quickie was even a kind of therapy--like methadone for a heroin addict.
I was very pleased with my plan for today, it was going to blow our horny little minds.
I'd considered all kinds of ways of coming on Bill's tongue, from my favourite dirty girl crouch on his mouth, to him spreading me on the breakfast table and devouring me, to me bent double and him devouring me. Me up a tree. Him up a tree. Either of us tied naked on the chaise. Sixty-nine on the chaise. I considered silly things we'd done already, like when he squeezed under my desk while I wrote, and made me come by humming on my clit with his sexy, deep, boomy voice. (I returned the favour one afternoon swinging on a garden seat. I hummed all five verses of "God Save the Queen" on his cock, quite tunefully too, until he came and I got a fit of rather messy giggles.) In my oral fever, I even recalled how a French tourist girl shouted something at Bill once, and her friends all laughed. Later he asked me what they'd said. I told him. "Turn me upside down and eat me like an ice cream." He grinned malevolently and right there in the potting-shed flipped me--like I was light as a seedling--straight to his mouth. This has been his favourite position since. And what about Bill, other than that-- what would be the best for him? Well, I asked his opinion first thing. As he hauled a stump past the terrace where I sat ruminating, he doffed his cap good morning and I said, "What would be your ultimate blowjob?"
He didn't bat an eyelid. "Ma'am, if I had a favourite, that would imply others weren't as good. And they're all the best with you."
Sweet! And that's what gave me my idea. I was SO going to prove him wrong.
So, back by the pond, I stirred at my clit through my dress. The tingling had spread, flushing across my belly and tits where a cheeky kiss of wind brushed silk across my nipples. Perhaps my imagination wandered to Bill's thick phallus plundering my depths because that's when I noticed his sawing had stopped.
I opened my eyes to find him standing over me, glittering. "You've had a fall, Ma'am?"
"Fuck me."
He folded his arms.
I sighed a trembly breath. "I'm not wearing any knickers."
"I presumed you didn't own a pair, Ma'am."
I laughed and walloped his thigh, then resumed my silky stirring, peering at the bulge in his trousers.
He sat beside me, eyes darting from my lips to my fingers. He adores my big, plump mouth. Sometimes I find him just staring at it while I speak.
I rolled my hips. "You like this?"
He cleared his throat.
"I'm madly wet." I squirmed. "It's dripping between my bum cheeks."
His eyes narrowed. Isn't it funny how deadly serious horniness looks?
"You don't believe me?" I ducked a hand up my skirt, wriggled two fingers between my slippy folds, and withdrew them, stringing and glistening between us.
"You need to come." He took my small hand in his great paw and kissed my wet fingers tenderly. He licked his lips. "Ma'am."
"Make me. Fuck me."
"No."
