My Writing

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Am I starting to like it? WTF?

I never considered myself the spanking type. I'm not much into pain (small amounts in the right situations...you know, hair-pulling, rough sex). But, it's growing on me, and I'm beginning to understand the need that some people have for serious spanking sessions. That whole "out of body" experience, getting outside of one's self, can be freeing and cathartic. Some people do it with drugs. Others with alcohol. Still others with physical activity like running or sex. It's all about the endorphins. Regardless of how you get there, it's about the build up of tension followed by the intense release.

We all seek it in one form or another. And as I begin to find it in ways outside of alcohol (I can admit that me and wine are pretty close...and gin is a happy third wheel)...mainly through physical activity, and as Daddy and I continue to adapt and find what works best for us, I'm finding that the occasional spanking...that tiny bit of pain...isn't so much a "bad" thing. There's intrigue there. There's just a little fear. A lot of mental build-up. And then a sudden burst of pain followed by release.

The sting...ouch...I can do without (though I don't always have a choice). A nice solid smack with a hand...the flogger (which expands the pain into more than one place so it's not so intense)...the pretty pink rose that blooms on the skin afterward. Yeah, I can live with all of that. In fact, at certain moments, I actually find myself craving it.

Weird.

Plus...he likes it. He likes to smack my ass...he likes to see it turn pink with the shape of his hand. he likes to hear the crack of skin against skin...or spanking implement against skin (whichever). So it's hard to use it completely as a punishment. For now, it works, because I don't love it. But, what if it grows on me? Or better yet, what if I begin to want it? What if I start adding it my requests and it comes out sounding like...



Of course, it has a lot to do with me either being ready for it, and steeling myself against the pain, or simply being off my guard and not being ready for it. If I have too long to think about it, I build it up in my mind. I turn it into a much bigger deal than it is. I panic, and I make it worse than it is. But, I'm finding that my brain is turning on me. It's starting to consider it. It's starting to open up to it. 

I'm not sure if my brain is my friend or my enemy at this point.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

The Mental Process of Concocting a Fantasy

Characters: Me and My Brain

[The room is dark. I am lying naked and alone in my bed, lube and a vibrator close at hand. The curtain flutters a bit - the window open to the night air.]

My brain: So what's your pleasure today? Cowboy? Biker? Athlete? Businessman? What kind of fantasy man am I going to need to conjure up?


Me: (contemplatively) I guess I'd choose biker. But not your stereotypical leather-vest-wearing, long-haired, gold-toothed, Harley rider.

Brain: What kind, then?

Me: The sport bike type. Faster, younger, dangerous, Vin Diesel-y, and a bit out of control.



Brain: Oh. Okay. Next question...now that we've got the guy, what's under the helmet? Short hair, no hair, long hair (I think you already said no to that), mohawk, spikes...?

Me: Clean cut. Nothing showy. No facial hair...well, maybe a 5 o'clock shadow...that's pretty sexy. Bald is good, too...as long as there's facial hair...goatee, mustache...

Brain: Got it. Eyes?

Me: Blue...green...hazel...grey...don't really care...surprise me...

Brain: Alright...how 'bout this guy?



Me: Perfect!

Brain: Done! Now the scenario: day or night? urban or rural? crowd or no? inside or outside?

Me: Hmmm...I guess night, big city...but outside of it...looking down on all the lights...on a hill top? And I'm not really into crowds.

Brain: (Sighs with disappointment.) I know. (mumbles) Damn...I had a good one with a crowd... (speaks back up) but I can save it for another fantasy. Last few elements: romantic, sultry, frightening, frenzied, raw...what emotion are we going for here?

Monday, July 20, 2015

Masturbating for Him

He likes to watch me masturbate. But I hate being watched.

If He tells me to do it, though, I can't say no. It would be against the rules.

It makes me uncomfortable to be so open and vulnerable. So "on display." But, then. I'm His to display as He wishes, right? If He wants to gag me with my own shirt to keep me from crying out, and then asks me to close my eyes, bite down, and slip my hand into my panties, I'll suck back my pride (because I shouldn't have it, anyway, should I?), feel the heat in my cheeks (both sets), and begin to rub my clit.

Image source: MasturbationMonday.kaylalords.com

He won't accept that for long, though, will He? He'll know I'm holding back. He'll sense it, and He won't like it. And as much as I don't like being on display...the humiliation of being watched...I like disappointing Him even less.

So, I'll do what He asks. I'll slip my fingers inside of myself, and though I won't forget He's there, reclined, relaxed, and amused, I will begin to enjoy myself, if only because it's easier to come that way, which will get it all over with faster. Because, see...He'll know if I'm faking. And He wouldn't take kindly to a lie.

I'll go deep into my head, recall something arousing...I'll imagine my fingers are His dick, and I'll feel the heat and weight of him on top of me. I might moan a bit as the image takes over. With Him so close, I'd be able to smell Him, and that would help keep me in the place that allows me to hide.

But He'd figure out my trick. And He wouldn't let me fall back on it for long.

He'd make me open my eyes and look at Him.

He'd make me face His challenge.

He's benevolent, though. He might help me. He might place a vibrator on my clitoris while I worked my fingers in and out, feeling the wetness multiply, soaking through the satiny fabric.

He might have mercy on me.

But he might not.

He might pull the vibrator away, tell me to remove the wet panties, and command me to present.
He'd probably tell me to keep touching myself, so he could watch me from a different view. This one, even more vulnerable...my ass cheeks in easy placement for a smack, my asshole exposed.

I know Him well. He'd have to touch it. He'd maybe lick his forefinger, insert it into my asshole to the second knuckle. Hell...He'd probably go all the way, fucking me with it, slowly.

And I'd have trouble concentrating on my own movements. I'd slow down, maybe even drop my hand away from my pussy.

But, He wouldn't let me stop. No, He'd still be watching.

He'd pull his finger out. And, knowing it would drive me mad with embarrassment, he'd lick my asshole. He'd make out with it as if it were my mouth, tonguing me, loving to make me squirm with discomfort.

He likes to make me squirm...to make me uncomfortable.

He's looking for my limits.

He's mapping them out...keeping track of every curve, harbor, inlet, and peninsula of thought, fantasy, and fear. So He can use them.

He's a very observant man. A detective of sorts. And He misses nothing. Forgets nothing.

I find that terrifying and exhilarating all at once. That He knows me so well. That He cares to. That He can tell me to do something as simple as shove my shirt in my mouth and masturbate for Him. And that He knows I'll do it.

No matter what.




Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Hormones: a cash cow

Check out who else is being Wicked.

















I find it ridiculously amusing that "Hormones" is the topic of this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt, considering the trouble I've had with this particular issue for the past 7-8 years (mental helath and libido).

Hormones, or the possibility of unstable hormones, have pretty much affected everything having to do with my physical, mental, and emotional health. I've gained 30 lbs. (okay...some of that is just my laziness and my love of good beer), my energy levels are all over the place...my moods...my libido. And it's all supposedly (or probably...or possibly) tied to hormones, according to my doctors.

Late last year, I went to a naturopath (because I wanted a "natural" way to deal with my symptoms). I began using natural progesterone cream, to see if that would help. It didn't, really. So my doctor added bio-identical estrogen cream. Then testosterone cream. I've had all my levels checked, and oddly they all show as fine.

So is it all in my head? Maybe I'm not a hormonal wreck, but a mental one instead? That's a great thought, isn't it? I'm not hormonal, just crazy.

And you know...I'd take crazy if it came with horny, because that would work out for my marriage. Instead, it comes with depression, which makes me lethargic and lazy and fat...and does nothing for my marriage but cause stress...and I need more of that like I need a hole in the head. Or, it comes with manic episodes which won't let me sleep and make me irritable, agitated, and forgetful. Good times. Anxiety is the spice of life.

Hormones have ultimately just not been my friend. And hormone-related complications are hard to diagnose. Because perimenopause can cause all of my current symptoms, and because all of my symptoms can be hard to diagnose and attribute to a cause, it's hard to counteract them all.

Basically, what it comes down to is, if I don't want to be on a hundred medications, I just need to eat healthy, exercise daily, practice yoga and mindfulness, get acupuncture, drink less, develop a sleep routine, and keep seeing a shrink. Sounds easy, I know. And for some people, it might be. I wish I were one of those people.

I could probably do without all the meds, honestly, but now that I am on them, all my docs are reticent to take me off of them. Western medicine does love its prescriptions. I've managed to get the dosages down. As for the hormone supplements, those are complicated. While using them may be beneficial, especially if you really are low in one or more of them, using them also presents a host of fun side effects: weight gain, oily skin/hair, acne, hair growth (in odd places), aggression and irritability (yay...cause I need more of that), fatigue...and on and on. Seriously, it's a case of the side effects being worse than the disease. (A decent book on hormones and their functions is The Hormone Cure. It was suggested by my naturopath, because he refused to prescribe anything until I was educated on the issues...smart guy.)

I feel sort of like I started getting old at 30...because my body has seriously railed against me from childbirth on. Aren't we supposed to be friends, or something like that? Isn't my body supposed to be my temple? Because really, it feels like a war-zone...me against it, and it usually has the upper hand.

What I've found over the years, too, is that issues having to do with hormones and mental and emotional health (even physical health, actually), have provided the opportunity for a booming business in books, programs, supplements, and medications. And there are sooooo many "answers," it's hard to know which to try, if any. I've read my share of books, spent hundreds on supplements and medications, and have found myself choosing the more natural paths, because...hell, they do less damage even if they help less...and mostly I see them helping more.



My biggest issue for the natural methods of mental, emotional, and physical healing is the time it takes. And actually...the money, as well. Yoga is expensive because it's trendy now...and because those little yoga studios have to make a living, right? The time, though is trying to fit in yoga, along with regular work outs. If I were doing what I am supposed to do, I'd be working out/doing yoga 1-2 hours per day...add showering and such to that...twice...and now I'm at 2-3 hours. But, I work full time. So now I've used around 11 hours working and working out. And I have a child and family. And...well...I HATE working out!

As far as I can tell, however, exercise and diet are the keys. The two things many of us really don't want to accept. Why can't there be a magic pill? Instead of all that hard work and time? It'd be one thing if I liked exercise...and believe me, I've tried all kinds - I'm just not a "physical" person. I'd rather sit on a couch and read a book.

Speaking of that...I'm off to run from zombies (see, they were sneaky and sucked me in with STORY). One of the ONLY...besides yoga...physical exercises I like to do. And later...I'm off to see my shrink to discuss my "thought distortions."

You know, I'm starting to come to the realization that the Western World wants us all to be mental, emotional, and physical wrecks so it can capitalize on our suffering and keep us feeling "broken" so we'll keep seeking ways to fix ourselves by adding to the gross national product. And blaming hormones is perfect...because it's so hard to pinpoint the cause...and so easy to spend time and money on a "treatment."



Here's a complimentary set of blog posts of you're interested: an on-going review of Sex Again: Recharging Your Libido (covers issues regarding hormones but really pushes to counteract them with natural methods).

Does she know any tricks?



"Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Are you seriously questioning me? I just do...and that's enough."

"I couldn't possibly go to the banquet on a leash, Michael," her voice was an octave higher than normal, incredulous to his suggestion.

"I believe you could...and you will."

She gave him a look of utter horror, "But..." He placed his finger to her lips to silence her protestations, and she lowered her gaze in resignation.

"No whining. It's not allowed." 

Michael pulled a small bag from the back seat. Inside was a red collar, studded with clear, sparkling gems and a matching leash. It was the exact color of her dress and heels. And her cheeks bloomed a complimentary shade of scarlet as he slipped the leash around her neck, clasping it in front, and attaching the leash to the silver loop meant for such purpose.

"Stay," he commanded. She rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of his command and closed her eyes, humiliated to be treated like an animal, but she refused to let him see it. It would only encourage him.

Michael came around the front of the car and opened her door. Normally, he would have offered his hand, taken hers, and helped her up from her seat. This time, however, he reached in, took hold of the red leather leash, and pulled her gently from the car.

"I hope I won't have to spend much time leash training you, my love," his eyes glittered with mischief, "you've always been such a smart, good girl." He eyed her in that way that warned she had best behave. She said nothing in response, but began to dutifully walk behind him as he made his way to the front door of the building. He yanked the leash a bit, pulling her forward and upsetting her balance. She caught herself before stumbling, her eyes wide with surprise. 

"Honey, do walk beside me like the obedient slut you are. Behind me is so...timid...so meek. You aren't weak, my dear...are you?"

"No, sir, I am not." There was a slight, and noticeable edge to her voice which caused Michael to frown and "tsk, tsk" his disappointment.

"Are we being spoiled now, pet? You know that will lead to nothing good, don't you? Nothing good." He shook his head disapprovingly, and she bent hers in submission and apology.

"I'm sorry. I'll behave. I promise."

"That's a good girl, Lauren." He turned again and began walking forward. She stepped quickly to catch up and remain at his side, the benefit to her being that the leash was less noticeable if she stayed close.

As he opened the door and walked in front of her, pulling her behind him, she nearly jogged to keep the leash slack and to match the speed of his gait. Making his way to the front desk, he asked the receptionist which ballroom the medical awards banquet was being held in. She smiled pleasantly and gave him the requested information. He glanced sideways at Lauren, clicked his tongue as if in warning of his movement, and began to proceed to his destination. The tapping of her heels on the marble tile echoed in the high-ceilinged lobby. They were uneven and sounded something like Morse Code...possibly a call for help...surely a message of supreme embarrassment. What would the other doctor's wives say? What would they think? Surely they would judge...possibly even call Michael in for abusive behavior. What was he thinking in doing this?

When they reached the giant arched doorways of the ballroom, Michael turned to Lauren. 

"Turn around, my pet." She did. And he began to unzip her dress. 

She turned quickly toward him and hissed," My god, Michael, what are you doing?!"

"Ah, ah, ah...you do not question me, love. And never take that tone. I can see I have a lot more training to do." He continued to unzip her dress, then pulled it from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor, encircling her feet like a puddle into which she wished she could sink and drown on the spot. Her facial expression was one of complete horror, her cheeks burning, her body shaking.

There she stood, her back to the doorway, in nothing but her underthings, red heels, a collar, and leash. Her face blazed heat that spilled down her throat and onto her chest, which was heaving with fear.

"Pick up your dress, love, and give it to me." She did as requested, but refused to look at him, her embarrassment turning to anger.

"Come now. Let us join the party." He tugged the leash gently and she followed, her eyes lowered and nearly closed in shame. She could see several sets of feet in shiny dress shoes and heels as they made their way into the crowd.

"Kevin! How are you? I was hoping to see you here. And this must be your lovely wife, Anne, that I've heard so much about? Lauren, say hello to Kevin and Anne." His voice was jovial as he shook hands in greeting, leaned forward to kiss Anne's cheek, and put his hand beneath Lauren's chin, pulling up to force her to look at Anne.

In front of her, Anne stood naked, in nothing but a pair of open-toed stiletto pumps and black fish net thigh high stockings.

"What the....?" Lauren looked around the room filled with mostly men in tuxedos and naked women in striking heels and sparkling jewelry. A few women in expensive evening gowns led naked and semi-naked men from table to table, glasses of champagne in hand as they toasted each other and laughed. 

"What kind of medical awards banquet is this?" 

"It's not, my dear. That's simply our cover. Now follow me to our table. There are a few more people I'd like you to meet."

She looked around the room in awe as he tugged her gently to keep her at his side. Her body betrayed her embarrassment by donning trails of goosebumps like tiny pearls along her skin and triggering her clitoris to twitch and her pussy to moisten. 

So many naked bodies.

When they came to their table, Michael pulled out his chair and sat down, leaving her to stand beside him. He looked up at her, pushed the chair beside him back far enough to provide space, and then glanced at the floor meaningfully. Lauren's eyes widened imploringly, but she dared not refuse his silent command. She lowered herself to her knees.

"Take off your shoes, my dear. I want you to be comfortable at my feet."

She did as requested, turned her feet inward, her big toes touching. and settled her backside onto her heels. A man sat beside Michael and they began to talk, but he never let go of her leash. She sat there, at his side, blushing hotly, trembling, and fuming inside, mostly at herself...mostly at her body, which seemed to enjoy every second of what her mind felt was torture. 

"Is this your wife, Michael?" Both men gazed at her from above. 

"Yes...yes this is Lauren. Isn't she beautiful?" He ran his hands through her soft curls.

"She's gorgeous. Does she know any tricks?" The man laughed deeply, but looked at her admiringly.

"Oh, plenty. Would you like to see?"

"Of course!" His eyes widened like a school boy's in the presence of an ice cream truck.

Michael patted her head, "Lauren, touch yourself, please."

She looked up at him with a look of pained questioning, her lips parting, sucking in sharply.

"Go on...you can do it. Pull your panties aside and touch yourself."

She spread her knees, pulled her panties aside, and touched herself.

"Keep going...that's wonderful..." He reached down and pulled her breasts from the cups of her bra, letting them set on top, plumped up, her nipples erect from the cold of the room and the illicit nature of her situation.

"Lay on the floor, Lauren, and continue."

She sighed, her breath growing quicker and more shallow as she lay back on the floor, one hand holding her panties out of the way, the other still circling her clit.

"I want you to make yourself come, Lauren."

Lauren closed her eyes in shame. She wanted to recede into the floor and become one with the basement. But she did as Michael commanded. Her fingers slipping inside of her, the palm of her hand pressing against her clit, she rubbed herself to orgasm quite quickly, cried out softly with the climax. Her cheeks flamed a red that trailed down her throat, across her breasts, all the way to her belly. She pulled her hands from between her quivering thighs and looked up at Michael. His face beamed with pride and lust. 

"Come..." He patted his thigh, and she came back to her knees, back to his side. She could see the lump against his thigh and knew that he was hard beneath the fabric of his dress pants. He took her hand, inhaled the scent from it deeply, and then slipped her first two fingers into his mouth, sucking the wetness from her. He licked his lips, closed his eyes briefly, an smiled.

Click image to visit the site and
read what others have
done with the prompt!
"There is nothing sweeter, love, nothing sweeter. You are amazing. And I love you."

Lauren smiled for the first time that night. Looking up, she saw in him a man she had yet to meet after fifteen years of marriage. And looking inward, she began to see a woman she'd never realized she'd wanted to be. How was it that he could know her desires better than she knew herself? Fifteen years provides a lot of time for study.



Monday, July 13, 2015

Daydreaming

She looked at the large pile of dirty clothes, sighed, and shook her head. Walking out of the laundry room, she glanced at the kitchen sink full of dishes, the counter cluttered with papers, keys, and wayward items that just never seemed to find a proper home and stay there. There were toys on the living room floor, and her office desk was covered with piles of bills and to-do lists.

"Fuck it," she mumbled under her breath.

Sometimes that's the only solution.

She wandered in to check on her napping children and then padded back to her own bedroom, drew the blinds, and then closed the door and locked it.

She lay down on the unmade bed, buried her head in his pillow, and inhaled deeply. His scent still permeated the room. She'd been up early with the baby, and when she'd come back, she'd found him naked, the sheets drawn back, his cock in one hand, and his other teasing his own nipple.


She'd smiled and slipped in beside him, her hand cupping his balls while he continued to slide his fist up and down his shaft. He'd moaned softly with her touch. Leaning over his chest, she took his other nipple in her mouth and sucked hard, letting it recede back to his body through her teeth. He'd pulled her on top of him and slid into her like a knife into butter, smoothly and slowly, both of them letting out a sigh of release as she settled at the base of his cock and squeezed her vaginal muscles around him. His hands on her hips, she rocked back and forth slowly, rhythmically, speeding up and slowing down as he willed her, wordlessly, with his body. It took only a few moments and his stomach muscles began to contract, his hips jutting upward into hers, lifting her and taking control even though she was on top of him. His head went back, his chin up, neck muscles strained and taut, face looking pained with the intensity of the pleasure and the imminent nearness to climax. Just the sight of his expression caused the beginning of her own orgasm, and as he exploded into her, her cunt began to pulse like the mouth of a hungry fish around his rigid cock. Every muscle in his body was tightened, but as the orgasm subsided, his abdomen let go, twitching its way to resting. A sheen of sweat beaded up on his forehead. He'd looked up at her and smiled, his hands reaching up to hold her breasts and squeeze her nipples until she giggled and pushed his hands away playfully.

He'd left for work shortly thereafter, leaving her here in this mess that never seemed to go away.

Now as she lay in the dark, in the blissful and brief quiet of the afternoon, she spread her legs and found release again as she breathed in the smell of his sweat from the pillow.



Check out the other Masturbation Monday posts by clicking HERE.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Oui



It's what her t-shirt said that caught his eye: Oui. It was an answer. And he had a number of questions he hoped would elicit that response from her.

He followed her in, waited for her and her friend to find a stool, and then sidled up next to her at the bar. She glanced sideways at him, unconsciously looking him up and down. He looked back at her..."Damn hot today, eh? Couldn't wait to just come in and get a cold beer to cool down."

"Yah." She said little, but her eyes showed interest, and she smiled. Oui number one.

She looked back at her friend who was ordering for them. Two margaritas and two shots of rather expensive tequila, which the bartender poured and scooted toward them. The two girls took hold of the shot glasses, giggled, and counted to three before bringing the glasses to their lips and tipping their heads back.

"Celebrating?" he asked.

"Yah, I got a new job today." Oui number two.

"Oh," he smiled, his impressively straight, white teeth framed perfectly by his curved lips.

"Let me buy you another shot? To congratulate you?"

She giggled a bit and looked back at her friend, who also giggled and gave her the look. The one girls give each other when they want to encourage their friends to do things...the raised eyebrows, the smile, the nearly imperceptible nod.

"Okay..." Oui number three.

She blushed, her pink cheeks round and high beneath her sparkling green eyes. The bartender put the second round of shots, this time three, in front of them. They all took hold of the glasses, clinked them together in a toast, and quickly drained them, simultaneously slamming the glasses back on to the bar.

"So what's your name?" he asked.

"Amber."

"Well, nice to meet you, Amber. I'm Greg. And I'm going to head on over to that table back there. The one by the pool tables. I'm going to order a pitcher of beer, and if you ladies would like to join me, you'll know where to find me." He nodded toward her and smiled again, a slight dimple in his cheek. He was tan in a way that showed he either worked outside or spent a lot of time out in the sun. He was also muscular, and his t-shirt was tight enough that it followed his shape all the way to his waist. It was hard not to notice Amber's shy but obvious gaze downward along his torso before she looked back up at his blue eyes as said, "Okay, maybe we will." Not quite a Oui. But close.

He grabbed his pitcher of beer and three glasses and headed to the back of the bar. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away and smiled to himself.

He put the pitcher down on a table, poured himself a glass, and chose a cue stick from the wall. He heard her voice behind him, "You going to play by yourself there, hot shot?"

He turned toward her, "It wasn't my first choice, but I figured I could make do...mess around a bit, wait for someone to turn up. You know how to play?"

"Yes. My dad taught me when I was a kid." Oui number three.

"Where's your friend?"

"She's back at the bar with some of our co-workers."

"And you thought I looked lonely?"

"Well, yes, a little." Oui number four.

"And you felt sorry enough for me that you decided to come on a back a share this pitcher of beer with me?"

She blushed, but confidently answered, "Yah, I didn't want you to look silly playing pool alone. A guy like you...I'm sure you've got an image to uphold." Oui number five.

"Oh..." he leaned back a bit, eyes opened wider, brows up, questioning, "...and what image might that be?"

She stammered a bit. He'd flustered her with the question.

"I'm not trying to assume anything about you..um..but it looks like you..uh...care about how you look...so maybe you care how...um...others think you look..." She had that deer-in-the-headlights expression.

"Right now...I just care about how you think I look."

She smiled, blushed, and looked away as she stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, causing her chest to jut out toward him, her breasts stretching the fabric of the t-shirt in an irresistable way.

"So, Amber...what do you think? Do I look alright?"

She looked back at him, breathed deeply, and replied, "Why the hell would I be over here right now if I didn't like what I saw?"

"So you like what you see?"

"Sure, yah...that's pretty much what I said, genius." Oui number six.

"Well, then, Amber, that makes two of us. Two hot geniuses who know how to play pool, just hanging around not playing pool and not drinking beer. So shall we remedy that?"

"Yes, Greg...we shall." Oui number 7. She headed to the wall and grabbed down a cue stick of her own.

"Pour me a beer, Greg...I'm gonna kick your ass." She smiled at him and looked at him rather seductively through her lashes while she chalked her cue. He watched her hand move around the tip and felt a slight twitch in his groin. Good god he'd love to see those pretty hands doing a similar dance on his own stick.

"Wanna chalk mine up, too...you're awfully good at that." He grinned.

"All in good time, mister. All in good time. What's the game, Greg? Standard 8-ball?"

"Sure...you wanna rack the balls?"

"Yep...I do, indeed, want to rack the balls, Greg. But can we play a few games of pool first?" Oui number 8.



Just a short, flirty story...nothing too sexy today. I'll be off on vacation for the next few days and, because I guess I sort of suck...I have not written and scheduled posts. So, I'll be off the grid until Saturday. That means no EFF this week...unless I post it late again on Saturday instead of Friday. Regardless, I wanted to at least get my Wicked Wednesday post completed before I turned off my computer for good (I'm sure it could use a rest, too.)



Check out who else is being wicked...click this LINK!

Monday, July 6, 2015

I know you're watching....

Patricia walked into the storage room. The floor was swept clean, the garage was down, and Jeremy's work truck--hitched to it's trailer--was parked toward the back. She knew he'd be back within the hour, lunch in hand for the both of them.

A wicked little grin tugged at her lips. Wouldn't it be nice to surprise him?

She slipped her dress from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground, puddling around her feet. Stepping out of it, she kicked off her shoes, unclasped her bra, letting it slip from her shoulders and down her bare arms to join her dress on the ground.

Laying down on the cold tile floor, Patricia arched her back and inhaled sharply. She giggled with the delicious shiver that the shock sent through her body. Picking her ass up off the floor, she pulled her panties down around her ankles, kicking them aside, leaving her naked, goosebumps covering her from neck to thighs.

She placed her hands on each of her breasts, rubbing over her nipples softly, though they were already erect from the cold. Licking her right forefinger and thumb...then her left...she began to tease her nipples until she could feel the rising pulse and heat between her thighs. Her clit began to tremble from within, and her pussy began to open hungrily, waiting for something to enter.

Her stomach began to feel hollow, as her pelvis tilted upward, ready to receive. Patricia trailed one hand between her breasts, down her torso, across her navel, and into the soft, clean-shaven folds of her twitching cunt. Touching her clit felt like a low level electric shock, vibratory and warm, and she let loose a soft moan of release upon contact.

Her whole body relaxed, heat extending to every extremity, a buzzing under her skin.

She slipped one finger into her wetness and felt her muscles contract in response. Her pussy tightened around her finger, hugging it greedily, unwilling to let it go. But she pulled it out and slipped it back in again. Each time, her muscles grabbed hold, and her body melted with the effort.


Patricia lifted her feet up off the floor and opened herself up as wide as she could...to the point that she could feel the cold air of the store room on her exposed asshole. It, too, began to pulse in response to the new stimulus. It fluttered softly, being so fully exposed, and Patricia licked her lips and moaned a bit, arching her back and feeling the cold tile on the back of her head, hard and unyielding.

Her eyes closed, writhing on the floor, she made quite the spectacle for Jeremy in the doorway. As Patricia worked herself into a frenzy, the telltale pink rising from her belly to her breasts and up her throat to her cheeks, making obvious her state of ecstasy, Jeremy smiled. He leaned against the door frame, with one leg bent and crossed in front of the other, and interlaced his arms across his chest. He cocked his head a bit, ran his tongue across his teeth, and licked his lips. He wondered if she'd intended to be caught, or if he was simply just this fucking lucky.

Patricia's back arched, she squealed a bit, and nearly rose from the floor as every muscle in her body clenched in orgasmic rush. She cried out, grunted in a rather unladylike way, and her face pinched, as if in pain. Her thighs clamped on her hand, as if unwilling to let it go. But within seconds, Patricia lay on the floor, one leg bent, knee pointing to the ceiling, and the other splayed to the side, exposing her glistening cunt toward the door. Toward Jeremy...who was clapping, slowly, and emphatically.

Patricia smiled to herself before pretending to be horrified with surprise.




P.S. Head on over to the Masturbation Monday page to see what everyone else has come up with for this photo prompt. Delicious, isn't she?

Sunday, July 5, 2015

The Chair

Check out who else is being sinful.




A little help from Daddy behind the camera this time...thanks, Honey. It's not easy to be the cameraman for a very self-conscious subject.