Dear Danny,
Why have you forsaken me? I'm wearing your jock-strap taped high in to my inner thigh, rubbing into my manhole. You saw me I think, this morning. I saw the curtain twitch as I took off down the gravel drive and I slept under the old oak, where she used to kick her legs, tired from walking in the graveyard picking off the lichen to reveal ....old names!! And as I slept I dreamt I was a woman and you were my man. Here is my dream.....
"She got up. The sunlight cracked through the broken blinds, and she shuddered. A thin small line of urine, left in her tube these 18 hours of sleep, now seeped from her panties down her inner thigh.
"Christ!" she exclaimed. "Fucking Christ..." But her shrill cry just tailed off into a whimper.
The flannels still sat there, washed and ironed, where she had presented them. As commanded. But so much had happened since. So much of the usual, she thought to herseld as she ran one manicured nail over the crease in the cricket trousers. And, before she knew humanly what she was doing, she was tugging off her cerise pink teddie, tearing at her stockings and replacing them with the pressed cricket flannels. She was wearing his whites.
She vomited a small spew on the floor at sheer pleasure of feeling his trousers against her naked skin.
Awoken to the sheer power of her dress, topless, she made now for the old-fashioned 'jock-strap' he insisted on wearing. Something about "protecting the crown jewels for my little princess," he used to say to her, with one thick hand around her chin and Remy Martin breath all over her face. She picked up the contraption and used a stray piece of elastic to tie it to her upper inner thigh. Next she bounded from the house and away, down the gravel drive, enjoying the pain of the stone 'neath her feet. The jock-strap curiously gripped in to her with every stride, and soon she was coming with every 9 yards. Expiation is impossible, sin is endless, she thought....."
yours,
Roger.
Harbinger,
A telegram to my office? Are you mad, man? The typing pool is awash with rumour and I now have to undergo the ignominy of drinking from the automatic water fountain under the smirking gaze of a dozen bovine wittering females.
As to your question of abandonment, since Furbish-Jennings withered under my coruscating attack on his Commie leanings in the Union, I have discovered a new love, other than you and your myopic approach to living this life we are forced into. My debating society has provided me with a freshly discovered sense of pride in my own abilities and this, my dear Harbinger, has led me into the wanton meadows of onanism and self-exploration to the nth degree.
I no longer require your services, yet, touchingly, wish you all the best with your chosen career path in the work of cricketing merchandise retail.
Should you need to call upon me for anything, do call my manservant Adams and arrange a luncheon date forthwith.
I shall never forget our sun-soaked days on the Cam.
Yours,
D.H.
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