But again, Sophie wouldn’t get it and the next month I’d get a story about a hunky young shop assistant being dragged into the changing rooms by some old cockaholic housewife. It was very frustrating.
In the end, I tried to demonstrate my point to her by saying (at the end of my latest email to her) ‘Look, let me put it this way. If I was to tell you to come down here and suck me off, you wouldn’t, would you?’ And she wouldn’t. She was way up there in Birmingham, she had a husband and a couple of kids, she’d never met me and I had nothing to offer her. Of course she’d never do it.
Her email comes back. ‘Who says I wouldn’t? I’ve always fancied a trip to London. I’ll be in touch. x’
Well, I thought to myself, sew a button on that one.
The next day Sophie sent me a story in which I summoned her down to London, took her into my office (yes, in this story I had this lovely plush office with thick shag pile carpets and old 70s leather furniture) and made her do everything she’d ever written about with me to prove that she knew what she was talking about. This story was the best thing she’d ever written and I couldn’t help but print off a copy to take to the bog for a second read.
Boy, I needed that one.
At the bottom of the letter, just after she’d written ‘Hope you liked the story’ she added ‘Your turn. Tell me what you want to do to me.’
I got back to my desk, sat down and reread Sophie’s covering email. I looked over my shoulder at Roger but he was redesigning his CV for the third time this week and paying me no attention. Neither was anyone else for that matter. Everyone who was in today was in their corner of the office, either working or shirking, so I started quietly tapping my keyboard and didn’t stop for another two hours. I attached my story to an email and sent it to Sophie, with the words, ‘Hope you don’t mind but I got a bit carried away’, then went and had another 15 minute bog stop.
It was quite unnerving giving a complete stranger a glimpse into my darkest desires and I hoped I hadn’t misread the situation. What if I had? What if I’d just emailed her a great long pornographic wish list of what I wanted to do to (and on) her when all she’d actually meant was ‘Tell me what stories you want me to write for next month?’
I suddenly shat myself. I reread her email again and again, trying every which way to see how it could be interpreted, then sat there all afternoon panicking and working out a plausible excuse as to why I’d done what I’d done in case the jizz hit the fan.
Just as I was about to leave for the day I received Sophie’s reply. This in itself was a small relief as I always hated those emails that disappeared into thin air. Like the email I’d sent Sophie, they almost always contained incredibly personal or highly incriminating stuff and I’d always panic that I’d somehow sent them to Stuart’s computer or my Auntie Pat by mistake.
I stared at her name for a few tense moments, looked around the office to make sure no one was paying me any mind, then clicked onto it.
‘Oooh Godfrey, aren’t you a wicked boy? I don’t think I’ve ever read anything so rude and filthy in all my life. It got me going like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t think I’ve wanked that much since I was a schoolgirl. Guess where my fingers are right now (I had a guess). You made me cum Godfrey. I just wish you could’ve been here to see it. And no, I don’t mind at all the things you wrote. You can’t say anything that’ll shock me. The harder the better as far as I’m concerned. You want to fuck my arse next time? Write to me again and let me know how you’d do it. Sophie xxx.’
This gave me a woody Pinocchio could’ve laid claim to.
That night I worked till 8 o’clock bashing out another story for her and when I clicked SEND I almost popped in my pants.
I rushed into work the next day and logged onto my email and there was another reply from Sophie. This one said similar stuff to the first but she’d also attached another story in which I took her to a London hotel room and made her pose for the camera, then spanked her bum till it glowed like Rudolf’s nose. Well, I didn’t really go in for the spanking bit, especially when it was my turn and she used a big spiky hairbrush on my arse (yeah, try that with me in real life love and you’d get your lights punched out) but the rest of it seemed like something I’d definitely be interested in.
I wrote back to her, asking when she was coming down to London and she replied something along the lines of ‘All good things to those who wait’ or something like that. She thought we were being terribly naughty and it was turning her on no end just knowing I was a short train ride away. ‘Tell me what else you’d like to do to me. You can be as filthy and as dirty as you like. Go on, try and shock me,’ she challenged, so I answered.
Over the course of the next week or so, her emails became the whole focus of my attention. I could barely concentrate on anything else as I fantasised about finally meeting up with her and nailing her through the wall. My wank-count went through the roof, so much so that Paddy asked me if I was eating okay.
More and more stories would arrive and more and more replies would be sent. It got so that if I didn’t get a reply from her that day, I’d stay late into the evening then go home all frustrated. I badly wanted to see her naked, and I didn’t even know what she looked like. She’d described herself in one of her emails and she didn’t sound half bad; early forties, big knockers, slim, brunette, big knockers, long legs, big knockers and big knockers. I could almost picture her... slamming up and down on top of me with her great big knockers in my face.
Oh man!
‘How about this week? Can you get away for a night?’ I’d email her.
‘Aren’t you the impatient little man? Are you hard right now thinking about me? What would you do if I came down tonight? Tell me what I can expect.’
I’d then run off 500 words of absolute depravity, send it to her, she’d read it and tell me how hot she was and how much she wanted me to do these things to her, but unfortunately she couldn’t get away, so we’d just have to make do with our imaginations tonight.
‘I’ll fuck you in my head, my love,’ she’d sign off and I had half a mind to reply, ‘Well you’re certainly fucking me in mine.’
I spent the next week trying to pin her down as to when we could get together with similar success. Each time I’d suggest a day or a week, she’d sidestep the question with some flirtatious reply and tell me what a bad boy I was being.
I told her if it was inconvenient for her to get away I could go up to Birmingham, check into a hotel room and she could come and see me one afternoon. Even if she could only manage an hour or so, at least we could finally get together and take out some of this pent up frustration on each other. If she needed it as badly as I did, even five minutes would’ve done. The next day I received a story in which she went along to some hotel room in Birmingham and fucked me silly for an hour during her lunch break.