email like tupperware

I read debauchette’s post first thing when I got up Saturday morning. It made me think of you and I immediately had to get myself off. Twice.

I’m really sorry. I know this is terribly inappropriate and I really have no business writing you at all– let alone with the intention of telling you things of this sort.

But it seems I still have some residual sexual energy stored up in whichever of my synapses are associated with my internal image of you. I think about the weight of your cock in my mouth. And I think about pressing the flat of my tongue against the head. Fuck. I shouldn’t be writing this.

I’m wondering (hoping) if dumping some of this energy into an email to you will help exorcise it. I’m sorry. Please understand that I’m not writing to try to change your mind about the decision you made. I don’t think you’re wrong to have made it.

I think about the way your cock stretched my pussy open, pummeled it. And the way you couldn’t keep your hands out of me. About how you could bring on my orgasm early and fast. Even when I thought I was miles away from it. About how you’d watch me come. And about how I could feel you bringing yourself to the brink inside me. About how we could still fuck even when we were both way past the point of being too tired to fuck. And how delicious that was. And how I only got to experience that kind of sex a few times with you. And how no one had ever fucked me past my limits like that before. And still wanted more of me. And I still gave it.

I so should not be writing this.

I understand why we shouldn’t see each other. It all makes very good sense. Undoubtedly, all I’m feeling right now is pedestrian rejection. If we’d tried and you had still come to the same conclusion some months on down the road, it probably would have hurt more. I know this is true. I know you made a good decision— a kind one that lets me off the hook now, as opposed to later.

But I had to make myself come two more times over the course of my afternoon.

This really is completely, completely inappropriate and totally disrespectful of boundaries and all that. I know that. I do. I’m not a stalker and I’m not needy– not like that.

I am, however, wet and underfucked and not quite sure what to do with myself.

That married guy from my old job called me last night. His wife and kids are out of town. He invited me over to his house. The invitation held allure only because I was hungry for some connectivity. Even if it was fake. I went; I saw him. He wanted to fuck me in his wife’s bed. From my end, fucking him was not even an option. And not because I was feeling some moral compunction about fucking another woman’s husband. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to fuck him. So, I didn’t. I did, however, let him undress me. I spit in my hand and jacked him until he came on my stomach. It felt like mercy.

You know how I used to stray off into sleep, letting your cum dry on my back? I showered his off the second I got home.

My refusal of cock (any cock) makes no sense at all, given the state in which I’ve been stewing.

I don’t get it. I don’t get why I need to write this. I don’t get why I need you to read it. I don’t know why my desires are, simultaneously, so urgent and so picky. I don’t know why they’ve picked you when it’s clear you don’t want me. I’m not the kinda girl who gets off on the chase. And also, I can’t imagine that the sex would be near as good if I felt like you were holding back. Or if I was.

Is it strange that I find it a little sad that I no longer want him? At all? I mean, we’ve been fighting off that affair for over a year. I felt so strongly for him. And for months. The not-feeling feels like something of a loss. I know I will eventually feel that way about you, too. But right now, I don’t. Instead, I feel this need to engage in this exercise of humility and ego-sloughing. And I feel this need to tell you about this flood of sexual thoughts I’ve been having. About you.

Please don’t feel any obligation to respond. Unless you want to. Fuck. That would probably egg me on. Fuck.