Group Banter Race to a million

Dearest Beauregarde,

I hope this letter finds thee warm and well. This damn war has gone on far too long. We understand that thou hast been called to serve thine country, but we miss thee desperately. Yes, thou battle valiantly, and we are so proud of thee, but what of us? And what of my needs? The cottage feels so empty without thine presence. The bed is so empty. Oft nights the burning in my loins rages so violently, that it simply cannot be quenched at all. Each night before bed, I sit in the sex swing thou crafted with thine own hands, seemingly a fortnight ago. I ponder and tug the nipple clamps thou fashioned from a pair of clothespins and a rusty piece of barbed wire. And I contemplate, Beauregarde. I contemplate what is to be of me in the current state of carnal desire in which I find myself entangled. Canst not the military grant thee a pass? My longing is such that I carest not any longer if they desire to watch. And if thou wouldst be into it, I shall gladly offer my body for a jolly spitroasting. Verily, Beauregarde, all I canst think on, night and day, is the image of thou raw-dogging me in the courtyard with mine knickers stuffed in my mouth while you spit in my face and call me the vilest of whores.

Alas, it shant be for the time. Thusly, I shall continue to find release in other ways. I dare not share them with thee presently, as I wish not for you the embarrassment of pitching a trouser tent in the midst of thy comrades. Until I see thee again, my love.

Yours (for now),
Philomena
 
Bailey94 said:
Dearest Beauregarde,

I hope this letter finds thee warm and well. This damn war has gone on far too long. We understand that thou hast been called to serve thine country, but we miss thee desperately. Yes, thou battle valiantly, and we are so proud of thee, but what of us? And what of my needs? The cottage feels so empty without thine presence. The bed is so empty. Oft nights the burning in my loins rages so violently, that it simply cannot be quenched at all. Each night before bed, I sit in the sex swing thou crafted with thine own hands, seemingly a fortnight ago. I ponder and tug the nipple clamps thou fashioned from a pair of clothespins and a rusty piece of barbed wire. And I contemplate, Beauregarde. I contemplate what is to be of me in the current state of carnal desire in which I find myself entangled. Canst not the military grant thee a pass? My longing is such that I carest not any longer if they desire to watch. And if thou wouldst be into it, I shall gladly offer my body for a jolly spitroasting. Verily, Beauregarde, all I canst think on, night and day, is the image of thou raw-dogging me in the courtyard with mine knickers stuffed in my mouth while you spit in my face and call me the vilest of whores.

Alas, it shant be for the time. Thusly, I shall continue to find release in other ways. I dare not share them with thee presently, as I wish not for you the embarrassment of pitching a trouser tent in the midst of thy comrades. Until I see thee again, my love.

Yours (for now),
Philomena
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Ohhh old timey smut!
 
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