Dare I, or dare not?
Live to touch or touch to live?
Must I? Yes, I must.
Sorry, about that little massage … message at the end of my frog … um, blog yesterday. Please disrobe … disengage … distance … err, disregard.
I shouldn’t have answered the prone … phone today. He didn’t know what bit … hit him. Him? I don’t know who, and I think he forgot what he was ringing about. He is mine now, wherever he is. He might have been from my UK bank, since my account now seems to have £230,000,000 in it (or thereabouts). I’ve sent them an email to double … err, correct it … after I tried to ring them … another mistake. Another new slave, some heavy breathing … and a delivery coming tomorrow from Amazon. He had a lovely Scots accent … too bad.
Richard Loughton – that’s his name (or one of them, I’m not sure which). An email just arrived from him, professing his undying love for me … and his desire. “Your voice is like heaven itself, a heaven I am lost in without you.”
James McDonald – he must have been the Scot. “Hearing you is like bathing in the scent of a thousand roses. What is mine is yours … what I can do for you I will … you are everything … and deserve riches beyond price.”
Uh oh, £40,000,000,000 now in my account. I expect the Feds to come knocking on my door …
erp … they just did. They knelt before me, and slobbered on … kissed my feet. They are still outside my door, but they are much happier now, especially the one I nudged on the shoulder so he would get up. (He more than got up.)
There is now a pearly soup on my doorstep where they sleep naked as babes.
They have promised to never bother me again about the money. I was welcome to it, as it was a gift.
The EMPRESS. Love, beauty, pleasure, success, good fortune.
Sorry, Marcel, I had to answer the door. They were going to break it down. You might come and rescue them before the police arrest them for indecent exposure. Don’t knock. I’m not home.
… Yes, come knock … love, riches, pleasure are yours … submit to me … I’m am your goddess … turn her and your heaven has no bounds …
Unfortunately, Jem had to leave first thing in the morning. Today turned out to be one of those days. I was free from the spell – or at least so I thought – but something hung over me all day. I was late for rehearsal – somehow I thought I wasn’t needed at the start. I had also forgotten there was a concert tonight, so I had to whip myself … um, slip home for my concert dress. Of course, it was rush hour, slowing my journey, but not as much as being shopped … err, stopped by the police for crossing a solid white line. At least he was kind enough to let me off with a warning. I put on my most pristine English accent for him, but that only encouraged him to chat me up. In spite of the wedding band on his finger, he fancied me in a big way. He had my address from my drivers license, and somehow he was able to extract my phone number from me. He complimented me on my blouse, while staring right down my minuscule cleavage.
I made it home and back without time for sex … err, dinner, so I played big … um, the gig on an empty stomach. Stupidly, I agreed to go out for food afterwards – with probably the most lovely … (Huh?) … lecherous guy in the orchestra. (He was the only one that wanted to make out … err, go out after a weeknight concert. Like the cop, he stared at my breasts all evening. Why? There isn’t much to look at! That made me more than a little self-conscious. I was plagued by the worst Freudian slips throughout the meal, all sexual, and I could tell that it was turning him on a fig leaf … uh, in a big way. As it was getting late, he offered me a head … um, bed to spend the night on – presumably under him.
I dyed my hair … err, lied about having to give a blow job … uh, a lesson in the morning. (I’m not doing that yet here.) Then I was stopped on the way home by the same policeman whose shift conveniently ended at midnight. He manufactured an excuse to slap … pop … poke … stop me – a vehicle check – and to have me out of the car. There was nothing wrong (hell, the car was only 8 months old!), but he really took his time and did his best to stand as close to me as possible, brushing into me several times, and undressing me … (NO!) … discussing the results in the back seat of his cruiser.
“You should be careful on the way home,” he said, finishing. “You’ll be passing through a dangerous part of town. Would you like an escort? I’m at the end of my shift anyway.”
I said that I would be his love slave … um, careful, but I didn’t need his help. That didn’t stop him from following me home. At least, he didn’t cum … come to the door.
Fortunately, the few seconds in the pool last night didn’t damage my cards too much, so I drew today’s:
QUEEN of WANDS (inverted). The water part of fire … (the hair on my forearms stood up immediately) … Adaptable, persistent authority, and with a great power to attract. Can be revengeful.
Shit! There was still a ghost haunting my house, a powerful one. I dreaded turning my computer on.
I somehow waded through an email from Max about how he wouldn’t hold last night against me, and that he would come on alone tonight and do whatever I wanted of him … anything. He wanted me, he loved me, he desired me, and hadn’t realised how much until last night. He adored me – my body. I was the goddess he worshipped … etc.
Too much of what I never wanted, and it was too late. I was freed from his spell.
That, however, wasn’t what frightened me. My spam filter must have gone down, since I received about 200 emails – all sex spam, but not the usual male enhancement drivel. These all looked like real mail – men all purportedly wanting me. They started harmlessly, but inevitable turned towards revealing sex talk. Strangely, the focus of their desire was my breasts. (Not again!)
After trashing them all, I opened my blog. I received over 1000 comments to last night’s post. Some were Mormons saying that I misrepresented them, but most were fans expressing their desire for me (my body actually). I’ve deleted all but the lucky ones … legitimate ones now, but I apologize that I can’t have sex with all of you … um, to anyone who might have read the others first.
Obviously, there is still something thong … um, long … dingdong … dripping down my naked breasts … (slam … damn, I can’t seem to delete that) … I … love it … come with me … now … I need you …
I don’t know what happened there. I ran a virus check, and my laptop was clean, unlike what I’m typing … oh damn … Max just pinged my Skype … I need to … touch … (no!) … myself …
I can’t erase any of it, and the only button that seems to work on my browser is SUBMIT.
Something definitely long … thong … dingdong … dripping …
Must go …