About a decade and a half ago I had a sort of cyber thing with a slightly older lady who worked as a speech and language therapist. I say “slightly older” as she was, by her admission, but in reality she was only a couple of years my elder. (Maybe she’s reading this right now. Who knows?)
The fact that she was (and probably still is!) a SaLT is important, so keep that in mind.
When I say we had a sort of cyber thing, I want to make it clear that we did have a lot of cybersex, but – unlike the majority of cybersex I’ve had over the years – this didn’t involve me waxing lyrical, employing lexicography or adroit prose style. Those things have their place, especially if you have 45+ minutes to enjoy me rhapsodising about how well your inner walls feel surrounding my smooth, firm, throbbing cock. This lady didn’t want that. She wanted it hard, fast and urgent.
SaLT says:
pushes u back on the bed and climbs on top of u
ILB says:
*falls back and watches you climb on me* That's a surprise too...
SaLT says:
good… lay back and enjoy ur surprises!
ILB says:
I can't wait!
I didn’t take a lot of convincing. She wanted it quick and dirty and I was ready to give it to her. In the end we stopped flirting and just started cybering whenever I saw her pop up. Neither of us seemed to have any resistance any more.
The whole arrangement (if you can call in an arrangement) was tempered slightly by the fact that she lived less than twenty miles away, or about an hour by public transport, in South London. If I could travel to Harrow to see Alicia, which took approximately the same time, I would easily be able to make it to Norwood. If I had ever managed to be in a relationship with Leaf I’d be going there anyway – as that’s where she lived – and I’d worked out a route.
But it wasn’t going to happen. She teased that it could…
SaLT says:
i would be very happy if it was real!
…but it wasn’t really a workable plan. Neither of us really entertained any fantasy that it would happen, as much as I wanted to beetle down and give her what she needed all weekend. I didn’t tell her this, of course, because I’m a coward, but it wasn’t worth risking what we had by attempting to shoot my shot.
Tempted though I was. I mean, she was pretty and funny and sexy and said things like
SaLT says:
hold onto ur sides… run my fingers down ur back… sex with u is good
and, as if to tease me further, later on she moved to the next London borough to me, rendering her fifteen minutes away by bus… except, by this point, I was in a real relationship. We talked a few times – the usual sexy discourse without any of the sex – but, after a while (and with the dearth of Windows Live! Messenger, which put the kibosh on a lot of stuff), we unconsciously uncoupled, and drifted apart.
On Monday last week my boss told me that a SaLT would be visiting our company to do a training session for some of the middle management. I’m most decidedly not middle management – because of course not, I’m a millennial – but she wondered if I would be interested in attending, so I could feed back the benefits of speech therapy to the other guttersnipes on the floor that I work directly with. I politely declined, saying that I had quite enough to do, but I also enquired, if I might, that the SaLT who visited last year would be running it?
No, she said, it wouldn’t be her; it would be…
And she gave a familiar name.
“HOLY SHIT!” I said, although I didn’t say that. “That’s the girl I used to fuck on MSN!” I also didn’t say. “I couldn’t possibly be in the same building and not speak to her, but just what would I say?” I asked the empty room. It probably wouldn’t be kosher to walk up to her and say, “hi, you once told me to fuck you like a whore, and then you put your legs on my shoulder so I could go in deeper, ANYWAY TELL ME ABOUT ARTICULATION AND PROSODY!”
I could write it down, I reasoned, but then that might get me into all sorts of trouble.
In the end, I just decided to go past the training room and have a leer perv letch look. Just to make sure she was real. After all, she could have been a big hairy trucker (who happened to have multiple pictures of the same lady in various outfits getting a little older in candid social situations throughout the years). I could surely have a look – just a quick one – and maybe share a smile, possibly a nod. I couldn’t communicate anything about spunking on her stomach like she asked, but I could at the very least…
It wasn’t her.
Because of course it wasn’t. I mean, it’s a very common name. There are probably hundreds of women working as a SaLT with that name. The Venn diagram of those who are called that, working as a SaLT and having had explicit sexual encounters online with ILB is probably very specific, but then again, never say never. It would have been terrifying funny if it was her, of course, but it wasn’t.
And the amount of relief I suddenly felt was almost as good as the orgasms.
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