Call me Elspeth.
I want to be clear. I am not cheating on Richard. It's just that I finally have come to terms with what I am. Who I am and what I will become.
I am special.
I knew they were weird feelings. I thought it seemed odd to feel them. I always believed that. But they would not leave me alone. Why should I not have what my heart and mind and body told me that all of my parts yearned for? All of it.
Loren told me he needed them too. And he told me how he knew me so well. After months of learning to trust.
It started innocently enough in the Spring when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. He was just someone who informed me he admired my work. I'm an artist in several media. I am known for creating literary works and doing illustrations for them, as well. And, at times, I've written and performed songs that complement my stories and poetry.
So, even though I am rather shy, I did allow him to enter my world on occasion. At first, it was with letters that were forwarded from my publisher here in Edinburgh. He was always quite proper and respectful. When I had become trusting we did talk on occasion over the phone. Not usually texting. Both of us needed to communicate more easily and fully than short bursts of words would allow.
So we phoned. And then we Skyped.
At last, we met. He was right here in the City.
Did I mention that my work is intended for adults and is rather erotic in nature? Which was rather out of character for me. Deep inside I had discovered the talent to compellingly express ideas that I had not actually lived and experienced.
I had completed my university education and moved on to do my life work. I had somehow gained my boyfriend, Richard, who seemed just as shy and callow as I. But we two had never become as physically close as my dreams encouraged me to be.
Until four years ago I had still lived with my mum in her terraced house in New Town while I attended uni. I had my own room upstairs and Richard had never visited there. That's not to say it had not been a place of some sexual activity. It embarrassed me immensely to admit what I had done and dreamed about doing in that room. Just after entering uni, I had begun having these deeply troubling but compelling ideas running through my head.
Not just troubling. They seemed outlandish. Macabre. Sometimes even grotesquely sensual.
While sleeping I would dream of caressing myself in a way I never would have done while awake. It had always been a source of shame that I was so easily damp, even copiously wet, in my nether parts from a simple passing suggestion of something sexual. I often wore an extra pad down there. But why could I never achieve an orgasm from such self-touching?
One reason I was so concerned was that I had such seemingly abnormal urges. It did not seem that the things I wanted were appropriate or even accepted by most people. Surely these things were not what regular people wanted.
But in my dreams, I would tease my shy pearl until I would awaken myself with my own cries of joy. I called my tender clitoris 'pearl' because, in my heart, I knew she was a most precious jewel, beyond price. Once or twice Mum had called up to know if I was alright.
I had lost my virginity to my boyfriend in a way we both knew was regular and normal. It was not what I dreamed of upstairs in my room. At night I would awaken feeling my hair grabbed and pulled roughly back, on all fours with my face pressed roughly into the bed, while I felt a thick member being thrust deeply into my minge, stretching it so much but being just what I was wanting. Continually ramming so fecking hard, roughly. Why did I want it that way? But, oh lord, so good.
Sometimes, I seemed obsessed with bodily fluids. Drinking down the spunk from another thick cock after spending hours nursing it, licking and caressing, nipping the ballocks with my teeth, then sucking so vigorously he had to cum for me. Giving me my pleasure.
I know it seems gross but saliva itself was so sexy in my dreams. I would be opening my mouth widely as he dripped his spit down my throat and I would not gag or get ill, rejecting it. Oh, no. I would actually have an orgasm, crying out and disturbing Mum once again. Then I would want to return the favor to the ghostly presence surrounding me in my bedroom. Trading juices of almost every kind. We then spread it all over our bodies with our lips and tongues and fingers.
Even more, I wondered at my urges to have my arse made love to. I could feel the eager tongue coming at me from behind lapping up from my hairy gash to the winking hole. That could go on all night and I would be happy, but the presence surrounding me would move on to enter my bum with its fat pecker and pump me over and over.
In real life, it would not occur to me to ask Richard to do such things. Nor would he be likely to. I think. How does one ever know for sure?
But I could be certain he would not treat me in the rough manner I had seen in some films that always aroused something inside me. To be looking up into the eyes of a man who smiles and then slaps me, once with his cock, then with his hand. Just enough to let me know he cared. That was what ran through my mind. Was it sick? I don't know. I only know it made my lady garden wish to be furrowed.
For the past year, I knew Mum had run her home as a small B&B renting out a couple of rooms. She did tell me with a shake of her head that, at first, she could never seem to rent my old bedroom out for more than one night, even if it had been booked ahead for longer. The guests complained of hearing odd noises, like moans and groans, and smelling strange odors.
For the past several months it had been rented long term by an older Yank who had never complained. He rented it for a week, then suddenly decided he had to stay in Scotland for much longer.
Then I started my unusual relationship with a veritable stranger three times my age.
Finally, after weeks of learning more about Loren, the urge became too great to resist. I had refused to a great extent to discuss my work with him. But aspects of it did come up in conversations until we reached the point where I trusted him. He trusted me.
And we both shared our secrets.
He felt the same doubts about his inclinations. They did not always fit his personality. I had felt the same way.