Running high

That is, my frustration levels are running high.

My thoughts have been plagued by memories of the nights spent with the economist, the (now) pipe dreams about Moriarty and an evening spent at a lecture with a number of men in the audience I could quite happily have shagged. One in particular excites me. I met him last summer. He is oh-so-young. Probably 21-22. But a James Dean look-a-like and frankly, has a lingering eye contact when he talks that turns me on. The lecture was about to start, the lights dimming and we spotted one another across the room. He inclined his head, raised and tipped his glass, mouthing ‘Salute’. I blushed.

Talking to him briefly after the lecture, I felt the tingling, expectant sensitivity of my sex and cursed his young body, intelligent gaze and flirtatious manner. For now, I am home, alone (he, naturally has returned to his girlfriend). My levels of frustration are bubbling dangerously close to the surface. I have had a few glasses of wine and my breathing is shallow. What I wouldn’t give to be touched right now.



Filed under General

4 responses to “Running high

  1. This is a tinglyshort story with a poignant ending. Thinking of you at a lecture, something not exciting, imagining the things you’d like chosen men in the audience to do to you, is very arousing. And you pick one, the best one, a young man, a James Dean bit of a bad boy, viril, self assured, and not too shy to tell you with lingering glances that he notices your longing.

    You blush. You’re shy but not too shy to talk to him. You go to him, talk with him, try to give yourself to him, offer all of yourself and try to get him to take you. Please take me you beg, silently.

    You swell between your legs. You feel him there already, touching you, readying you, preparing you so he can enter you. That’s what you want–to be entered, to be his, his, his–a woman to be used for his pleasure.

    He knows what you want. Surely he does and would gladly give that to you, take it from you, if only he was not expected home, if only he could find a way to cheat his girlfriend and not get caught. Surely you are worth it.

    But you are home alone. Your frustrations are bubbling, dangerously, close to the surface. You drink your wine. Your breathing is shallow. What I wouldn’t give to be touched, you think.

    I’m sad that you can not be touched now, the way you crave: lovingly, lustfully, tenderly. If I could I would touch you. I’m trying to touch you now, the only way I can. I feel for you. I like you. You’re open, introspective, giving of yourself, and, can I make you laugh? Horny.

    Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings. You describe them well. You’re a good writer. I’m going to subscribe to your blog and come back to you often.

    A friend at a distance,

  2. The pleasure is equally mine, my dear. I’ll visit again.


  3. Pingback: No reprieve | Serialadulterer's Blog

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