Confession of a virtual cumslut - Sex Stories

Confession of a virtual cumslut

... 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. 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 ...