Lonely without Amy

The warm summer air whispers through my open window, like the final breath of a dying man. It wraps around me, cooling my hot skin, and making my nipples stand firm.  I sigh, and not for the first time. I stare out of my window into the night. She is so far away, for so long.  Even the mere thought of her makes my womb swell, and wetness appears unbidden between the soft petals of my quim.  Amy. The thought of her name brings a thousand memories of her touch, her smell, her voice, her softness, and yes, sometimes, her coarseness, harshness, even her brutality. My mind locks onto that night when we explored the dark side of pain and humiliation. I remember dressing in that black leather basque at her request. I remember her leading me out into the street, dressed like a whore. Ok, it was 1:00 in the morning, but villages like this never sleep. She led me to the "witch’s trees" where she tied me to an ancient holly tree. Then, I remember the whipping. Each slash delivered with such unspeakable love. The pain made me so wet. The memory makes me wetter still, as I sit on my bed. I look down between my legs and see the stain spreading on the sheet.  I close my eyes, and am transported instantly back to that wood. My bum cheeks burned and stung. Then there was Amy, kneeling between my legs, and unpacking the gusset of the basque. Then her hands were on my hips as she licked me, sucked me, and probed me with her tongue. I rubbed my back against the tree, my hands still tied high above my head.  In the distance, an owl hooted in frustration, having missed its kill. I walk to my window, naked. The doors to the balcony were already open and I walk out into the night and sit on the wooden chair. I place my feet on the rail and spread my legs wide.  I am her whore. I am her slave. My quim is hers to order as she will. If she wants me to take a cock, I will do so willingly. If she wants to taste another woman's cunt on mine, then so be it. My fingers find my clit: so hard, so in need. I remember our last conversation when we charged each other with tasks to achieve before we fall into each other's arms again. I wonder if my sweet Amy has already achieved one of hers? Is she, even as I think of her, on her back being fucked? Or is she bent over, taking it from behind? My fingers quicken at the thought. Before she returns to me, she will have been fucked, have masturbated in public, and will have seduced another girl. My mind turns to my task: Amy's very effeminate brother. She wants me to fuck him, as a boy or, if he wishes, as a girl. She will be surprised when I tell her.  James. Dear, sweet, effeminate James. James of the "here, let me dress you." I stripped. Placing each item of my clothing on James, including: my socks, my panties, even a bra, which I wore just for him, my t-shirt, and my skirt. Me, I was naked while James was fulfilling his dream. Oh, how carefully I applied the makeup, using the least I could to get the effect.  Then, I gently lead James to the bed, telling “her” how beautiful she was. Telling her how wet she was making me, and, finally, telling her how desperate I was for her to fuck me with her strap on.  I had lain underneath her as she guided her cock inside me. He fucked me gently at first, then primary, savagely, before he unloaded deep inside me.  Afterwards, his cock back inside my panties, we held each other and we talked, not of sex, but “girl talk”: boys, periods, etc. I don't know what inspired me to take his panties down. I put a sanitary towel in before tucking them tightly up against his “pussy”, but it made him feel feminine and soft.  I project my love to Amy, even as my fingers bring me to the very brink of orgasm, and her brother’s sperm runs out of me onto the chair.  I cum, shuddering and shaking. A million memories, sights, sounds and smells are tearing through my brain.  Twelve-thousand miles away, in Cairns, the love of my life is on Fitzroy Island. I imagine her lying on the beach. I imagine the eyes staring at her, some with ill-disguised lust.  My computer chimes. It’s an email.  Lazily, I get up. I don't want to break this psychic connection with Amy, but I have to.  Just as well, since the email is from her. There is no message, just a picture.  It is Amy's vagina: swollen, wet, and red. Her engorged clitoris peeking from its hood as it does when she has just cum. Between the petals of her lips is, quite clearly, sperm.  I kiss the screen, hoping to lick the cream from her, and hoping she can feel me doing it. I know she did the same with the image I sent her yesterday.  I go to bed and reach for the dildo in my top drawer. I insert it deep inside me and rock myself to another two orgasms. Who am I thinking of? I don't know. Anyone and no one. I just want to cum, thinking of my Amy, my sweet, impossible, Amy. When I wake in the morning, it is still inside me.