Painfully Honest and Introspective

A sex site’s raison d’être is is to offer choices. Much like catalogue shopping. One can scrutinize a deluge of supposedly willing cocks and tongues and choose which one will suit your purposes best.

Of course, you are selling yourself as well. Will my legs as displayed in my avatar to the right please a man whose primary interest is breasts? Will my proclivity to be pinned up against the wall and penetrated in a position which may allow for unsuspecting voyeurism be arousing?

For the most part I find the men on those sites to be only marginally discerning. The men who are and generally those more worth getting to know. However for the most part, the naïve and simultaneously amusing hope of the vast majority of men on those sites is that they will connect with some willing slut who will, within hours, be presenting themselves to them as an offering like to a God. A naked whore-virginal sacrifice there to satisfy their needs with no past, no baggage, no health concerns.

Of course each woman will be beautiful, sexy, talented with her tongue, tight, and insatiable. Why wouldn’t they be? Each God-like man on that site is endowed with an enormous cock, loves to eat pussy, can go for hours, minimal refractory period and loves to do precisely what you like and need. Only they can satisfy you.

These sites are simultaneously arousing, amusing and tragic. It screams out society’s need for intimacy and connection while at the same time extolling the virtues of selfishness and isolation.
The apparent contrived-ness of it all occasionally spirals me to the depths of desolation. While the ill-written poetry and blunt offers to fuck me hard are on the surface flattering, they are in essence unconscious demonstrations of a person’s attempt to find some sort of solace in their search to find meaning in their lives.

This week, having spiraled down to such depths, I temporarily turned off my account, and decided to join the real world for an evening. Tight jeans and equally tight sweater – while still appropriate enough for work, also suggestive enough for an evening out. I’ve been losing quite a bit of weight and this was my attempt to show it off a bit.

While I wasn’t opposed to meeting and taking someone home, it wasn’t my aim for the evening. I was out with a girlfriend, and this was a social/work function. Now while I had given up on him as an object months prior, I confess, the fact that Flynn was going to be there wasn’t completely meaningless to me.

My friendship and flirtation with Flynn had cooled considerably. A few of his personality quirks had succeeded in cooling my ardor, coupled with the fact that he had a girlfriend. Though he never failed to mention how good I looked when he saw me, our rapport had definitely lessened.

The girlfriend was of course there that evening. She was the stereo-typical version of gorgeous. Blonde. Tiny. Cute. Outgoing. Clearly impressed by Flynn.

Both of them had at least 10 – 15 years on me. To my mind, I was a young girl who should be married but wasn’t, could still stand to lose a few pounds, and not very good with small talk in social settings. Translation? Not a threat.

It is only in the context of the internet that I can play the Duchess role. On sex sites where we’re all searching and presenting hyperbolic caricatures of ourselves. On the sex sites where our desperation to connect, to touch, to feel where we force ourselves outside of our comfort zones in order to achieve our aims. Because we unconsciously realize that each person there is engaging in the same struggle. Those sites are only a reflection of a compartmentalized version of ourselves. A version of ourselves that we attempt to diminish in importance, when in essence that longing for connection might be one of our fundamental driving forces.

In the real world? I do mousy and polite with much more ease. But it’s impossible to know how others view us. Impossible to know whether that gorgeous blonde waif-like goddess berates herself each day for some barely discernible flaw, whether physical or otherwise.

Midway through the evening, Flynn and his waif left unexpectedly with nary a glance in our direction. Rude, but soon forgotten. However, when I mentioned this to my ride home, she mentioned that the reason for their departure was in fact because of me.

Speechless with shock I attempted to go over the evening in my head and find the source of this outlandish statement. I realized that I had barely spoken 12 words to Flynn. As I said, the rapport was gone and conversation no longer flowed with ease. I think I had at most smiled at the blonde waif, and then gone on my way.

My ride carried on to tell me how the waif was shaking in outrage at my behaviour towards Flynn. She thought there was something going on between us and one more move on my part would have resulted in physical violence on hers. My ride continued to assess the situation stating that the woman was clearly insecure, viewed me as competition and who are we to know whether I had ever come up in conversation with them before.

I simply could not (cannot) reconcile my behaviour of that evening with what I know I’m capable of. When I play the Duchessy coquette role online I understand the ramifications and possible consequences of my behaviour. I know that I could get myself into trouble in a variety of forms. I know that my search for intimacy and release comes with it’s own complications.

But to be vilified as competition by the waif is simultaneously laughable, flattering and shocking. Shocking at the injustice of it. Laughable at the unlikelyhood of it. Flattering at the fact that someone like me could possibly be viewed as anything other than less somehow in comparison to her.

My ride has admonished me to “not own” what went on that evening. Such a reaction from the waif is surely indicative of something far deeper that in actuality has nothing to do with me at all. But while I am surprised and saddened at the apparent lack of harmony in their relationship, a tiny part of me feels the slightest bit triumphant. Maybe something of the Duchess is finally spilling out into my real life persona without me realizing it. Maybe the desolation of sex sites will soon be replaced with real live seductions, and I can come out from behind the safety of the screen and keyboard.



I lay in bed thinking about him, wishing that I wasn’t. Thinking leads to touching. Touching leads to feeling. Feelings lead to associations. The thought of him associated with those intimate touches. So easily slipping into a fantasy of him touching me, rather than the stark reality.

I am alone in my bed, squirming restlessly at the image of him in my mind. Inescapable. Taunting.

It’s true what they say- that there’s a fine line between love and hate. Fortunate then that I wasn’t in love with him. This was merely a crush. An infatuation. A passing fancy even.

But the fine line I was straddling? Not between love and hate – but between lust and decorum. Decency and recklessness. Propriety and carelessness.

I wanted him. Perhaps he knew it. Perhaps he recognized the symptoms. He continued to be as agreeable as ever, yet gave no sign of encouragement. Disappointing.

The passion and unfulfilled lust fueled my anger and frustration. What is at the moment a mere crush, could quickly turn to resentment and rejection. Soon I would become cold and aloof in an attempt at self-preservation.

All this was in my head of course. The possibility exists that he knows nothing at all of my yearning. Surely he would react in some way if he suspected what he became to me at night. Alone. In my bed. How he became my object. My slave. There only to venerate and pleasure me.

It seemed impossible to me suddenly that the acts that he and I practiced in each night would not psychically resonate with him in some way. How as is it that each night for hours on end, he could engage in the most primal acts of carnal violation and not know it?

How could he not sense how intimately and thoroughly and creatively we explored each others’ bodies? I felt that my longing should have crashed over him in waves.

How I wanted to taste his tongue and let my hands roam all over him. That I wanted to experience his arousal. To own it. To create those same associations of lust and heat in his head that he had already created in mind.

Could the universe have such a cruel sense of humour? To gift one person with this sense of passion and heat yet grant the other with obliviousness, or at best neutrality? Surely the gods would plan it better than that. It seemed like such a waste to allow such discordant energies to simply waft into obscurity.

But I sensed no such mystical connection between us. No surreptitious glances from him, nor any heroic effort at self-restraint. He was simply…content as we were. Or so he believed that we were. Or worse, as he hoped that we were. Friendly acquaintances.

Has there ever been a more desolate sounding phrase? Friendly acquaintances. Who in the history of man has ever wished for such mediocrity?

Why wouldn’t you covet surging passion and incapacitating desire? To know that someone longs to enslave you in a state of sublime wanton bliss. How could a person settle for anything less once they’ve experienced that?

But he doesn’t know. Perhaps he’s never tasted it – the knowledge that someone next to him is quivering with licentious ardor and he is the object. That while I smile pleasantly and respond inanely my eyes are devouring him.

My demure lowering of eyelashes disguises the truth. The image flashing through my head of crawling into his lap, putting my tongue in his mouth while feeling his mounting hardness, and brushing my breasts against his chest.

If he could catch a glimpse of the fantasies in my head I wonder how he would react. Shock? Alarm? Or would the heat penetrate him? Create unexpected sensations in the most intimate of places?

Although far from virtuous, my intentions towards him were honourable. I had no plans to lure him to my lair and seduce him unwillingly. No schemes to flirt and grope and make him uncomfortable.

Such a pity that one cannot simply revel in the make-believe. That one cannot merely covet and be coveted without thought for the consequences. Consequences. Those intangible results utterly tainting my caramel-flavoured thoughts.

So I lie in bed each night. Continuing the violation of bodies alone. Struggling to command feelings of resentment and imaginary rejection with those of liquid heat and arousal.

If He Only Knew…

He was older than me, and his smile was both experienced and knowing. I sat next to him at the meeting and found excuses to touch him. I slipped back his cuff to look at his watch. I leaned in close and told him how intoxicating his scent was.

He wore no ring, but that really doesn’t mean as much anymore. All I knew was that I wanted him either way.

I considered putting my hand on his thigh, but didn’t have the nerve. It wasn’t the right time or place.

He was a runner and had the lean hard body to show for it. I longed to feel it pressed up against mine. I wanted to feel his his caressing my naked breasts and to feel his erection straining to escape the confines of his proper suit. I ached to feel his bulging cock slipping back and forth, teasing my moistening pussy.

I could feel the throbbing in my cunt as I glanced sedately at his profile. Each look he threw my way was simultaneously shocking and arousing. As if he had placed his fingers and tongue inside of me while sitting appropriately a few feet away.

I struggled to pay attention to the meeting, but it was a losing battle. One that I wasn’t convinced I really wanted to win anyway. Because each time he glanced at me, it sent a new jolt between my legs, and resulted in increasing wetness and distraction. Even now, I can feel my temperature rising, and my clit throbbing at the thought of him.

I was certain that everyone must have been able to see what was going on just barely beneath my distracted smile. Yet the meeting carried on. And on. I approached him after the meeting. Any excuse to keep him in my sight for just a few more minutes. He seemed to enjoy the conversation, but it was a fairly platonic chat.

It seemed he would only take the flirting so far in person, but via text I could say whatever I liked. Surely a married man wouldn’t engage in text conversations with a young girl for tow hours, would he? I hadn’t pushed my luck too far yet though. Only to offer to buy him a drink “sometime” and to tell him that he was both adorable, and that his presence at these meetings was absolutely imperative to my well-being.

I’d only managed to manipulate him to one social, yet committee-related outing to date. I had fussed over the length of my skirt, so he quite blatantly checked out my ass, assured me it was fine, then insisted on buying me a drink.

I teasingly asked if he minded if I had a crush on him, and he responded that it sounded hot. Oh if he only knew what was going through my head….

Like how I wanted to feel his hands all over me. For some reason he brought out the most exhibitionist fantasies in me. I wanted to pull him into a dark corner of a crowded room, undo his pants, kneel down and suck on him. I wanted him to put his hand up my skirt, pull down my panties and finger my clit. I wanted him to bring me to orgasm right there where anyone close enough could see exactly what was happening.

But for the time being, I merely wished him a good night, went home and brought out my vibrator…