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 Bostancı Escort 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 Bostancı Escort Bayan 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 Escort Bostancı 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.