Author: MyEroticAlterEgo

Cemetery Gates. [F][mast]

What am I doing here? The picnic blanket is scratchy, but it’s all I have for warmth. The graveyard where I find myself is cold at night, but I was told to come here with no clothes on, and I did.

It’s the old kind of graveyard, with concrete slabs over each grave. At first I had the picnic blanket in between me and the cold concrete, but since the blanket is now around my shoulders, my ass is on the concrete. There’s a pebble nudging my vulva.

The grave I am sitting on belongs to a man who died in 1919. I picture him, stern and Victorian – a frown in a bowler hat, scandalised my my current state. His disapproval only heightens my excitement – the excitement that allows me to endure this discomfort.

And I keep hearing voices from the nearby road…

Goths are weird. He asked me to meet him like this, and I was too intrigued to turn him down, but of course it hit me how utterly bizarre and dangerous this is. But I flirted with him. I broke the ice and made the first move. Who am I to say no to him. He is older than me. Jet black hair and a goatie, and a beautifully sculpted face. He reminded me of the devil, or Jonny Depp. Read more »

Haley’s Game. [Fdom]

I still get letters from him. Who writes letters nowdays? I guess he feels our previous intimacy warrants it. I know them as soon as they come. The awkward handwriting, the cheap stationery that’s made to look expensive. But they’re charming. I love receiving them. He is, after all the boy I used to make myself a woman.

My father disapproved of sport, and as a result, I was a solemn girl. To compete was to make something of myself, to prove myself to a disapproving world and parent. When I won, and I won often, I was good enough. I always made sure that we had a comfortable lead before the end of the first quarter, leaving me three quarters to feel good enough.

Except on that day. Timothy, as he was known then (Tim now, I know from his letters) was on the opposing team. I saw myself in him; he disliked himself too. Though unlike me, he was less able to do anything about it. My body was my project, my hobby. I turned my height, a flaw, into a strength, and made my body into a perfect piece of athletic equipment. But Timothy only had his height him equipping him for basketball. He had a large waist that needed to be dragged around the court; he often lost control of his movements, as his weight added momentum to them. Read more »