did someone say "picnic"?

I thought this was the cutest picture. I have no idea if this is a tame or wild bear, but even if it's someone's pet, it can't be that easy getting one to sit like this.

she won't suck his cock

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little black dress

Darling husband, my friend Celeste, her new husband, and I had a couples night out recently. She snapped a picture of me in the loo for this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday.

I bought this little black dress at Mervyns in Los Angeles for eight dollars, but it had originally been priced at sixty bucks. A West Coast chain, Mervyns only sold closeouts and end lots of stuff originally stocked at better department stores.

The place was one of my favorite shopping haunts because you could rummage for fantastic deals on clothes that had been drastically reduced in price. I was sorry to read the chain went out of business at the end of 2008, a victim of corporate raiders who stripped all the equity out of the company and then dumped the carcass in the bankruptcy courts.

I have a friend who I know loves my HNT tush shots, so hopefully he'll give this one three thumbs up when he sees it. The lovely Ed gave me these shoes.

good morning romp

I awaken and stretch carefully. My back feels entirely healed now. Outside, I see dawn stealing over the horizon.

I turn to find him breathing softly beside me, one thick arm thrown above his head, the recumbent colossus. Because he had an exhausting schedule yesterday, this is a rare morning where I have awakened before him.

Inching down the sheet, I discover him half suppine on one hip with his legs pressed together. This half-twisted pose pushes his sagging balls and half-hard cock away from his body where they bob ever-so-slightly in the humid air. With his manhood now exposed, he murmurs slightly in his dream.

Easing slowly down the bed into position, I snake out my tongue and probe inside the foreskin to find his musky slit. The wet contact causes the bulb to push forward involuntarily. I tongue his awakening cockhead with a circular, gentle rhythm as his phalis begins expanding in unthinking anticipation. Still asleep, he sounds an inaudible grunt and sigh then rolls more onto his back, spreading his legs and freeing his penis as he moves. He is now three-fourths hard and his testicles roll slightly upward as the sack tightens, readying for battle.

I raise myself on one palm and take his dewy bulb into my mouth, easing it down slowly while pulling in my cheeks. Gently, carefully, I begin to use his ever hardening member to fuck my mouth. Suddenly, he gasps and slaps his palms against the sheets as if catching himself while falling.

He calls out my name in uncertain surprise, his voice still thick and husky from sleep.

With my mouth full, I can only murmur in response. I look up and, in the dim light, see him smiling while rubbing his eyes to gain focus.

"Hey, look who's hungry," he says as he chuckles in his sleep-heavy timbre.

Now awake, he is fully hard and slightly thrusting with his hips to meet my increasing momentum. His gentle fingers begin to play tactile games with my scalp as he tenderly urges me onward.

After a few minutes of contented, sucking bliss, the rising wetness I feel between my legs beckons me. In a sudden move, I pull away from him, pivot on one knee, and ease down with him inside me.

"She couldn't wait any more," he says quietly as if to an offstage observer.

He laughs softly and caresses my thighs as I slowly rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. His hips thrust slightly upward to meet me on each descent.

As often happens, I begin to feel like I'm losing my balance as a giddy dizziness consumes me. I can no longer maintain the lead. He knows this and begins to subsume my momentum as his strong hands grab hold of my buttocks. He rises from the bed and, to maintain my balance, I must wrap my arms around his thick shoulders.

"Just let me take over now baby," he says softly as he kisses my neck. I relent to him willingly as he begins fucking me faster and faster, with free abandon. He plays my body like a maestro so I allow him this symphony. Once again, he possess me with his gentle domination, and I permit myself to be willingly consumed. Soon, I fly into ecstasy as the first orgasm engulfs me, but he continues on without pause, because the morning is still new with room for countless elations.

Oh fuck me lover, long and hard and all morning long. We don't have to do anything else today. Unemployment is bliss.

Yola's sex blog

I recently stumbled onto a very interesting sex blog where a woman who calls herself Yola appears in artistic erotica sets that she does with friends. The subjects wear wigs and dark glasses so their identities are shielded. Many of the images are enhanced with Photoshop to create an interesting, surreal edge, as the samples below reveal.

Darling husband and I have been in conversations with a photographer here in Sydney about doing some erotica. We want it to be both frank and tasteful. I suspect that's easier said than done.

Neither of us would be timid about coitus in front of a stranger; however, if you've ever done a photo shoot in a studio with lights and all the equipment, the whole set up and test process can take considerable time. Now add into the mix that you're actually having intercourse while trying to remain aroused, you can imagine all the things that can go wrong.

Be sure to check out Yola's site. She currently has up eighteen sets with titles like "Cigars and Anal Sex" and "Porn, Art, and Bullshit."

mugshot monday

I have long been fascinated by mugshots. You find plenty of disgraced celebrity arrest photos on the Internet, but my personal favorites are unknown people who could never appear in the same sentence as the word "ordinary."

My mugshot collection has now grown quite sizable, so I'm thinking of making "Mugshot Monday" a semi-regular feature here. Should I do more?

Here's Cheryl, arrested for domestic violence, which I guess means she beat up her husband or boyfriend:



Here's Sam, arrested for buying drugs, as hard as that may be to believe:



Here's Conrad, busted for attempted murder, who so thoughtfully helped the policeman booking him by pre-answering his question about prior arrests:



Here's Cynthia, arrested for prostitution in a town with apparently far too few women:



And last, but certainly not least, here's cuddly Dion who was arrested for murder:

the USS Enterprise company picnic

Around the time I went through puberty, I had a phase where I wrote patently ridiculous questions about fictional characters in a notebook I kept.

I saw the picture below the other day, and I remembered my absurd musings.

I don't ever recall if I wondered if the USS Enterprise had company picnics, but it's a question perhaps worth pondering.

Did they go to a fairly cool planet so the potato salad wouldn't spoil?

Who played whom in softball? Sickbay versus Engineering?

And who got drunk, fell asleep, and got sunburned on one side of his (or her) face? That could be a bitch on a planet with four suns.

I once worked at a strip club where someone organized a company picnic at a public park. We had to share the same outdoor grills with an evangelical church picnic. Needless to say it was something of a surreal event.

tatted all over

Darling husband and I do not see eye-to-eye on the subject of tattoos. He has three. I have none. He thinks an artistic tatt on a woman looks hot. I'm not convinced.

I wouldn't mind a henna tattoo because that will only last a few weeks or months. But I'm not wild about the forever aspect of tattoos. I'm reminded of saggy old men I've seen at the beach with misshaped inkings.

Whenever the subject comes up, I don't hesitate to remind him that he doesn't even like two of his three tatts any longer. They were gotten on the cheap years ago and have faded somewhat. He's spoken with a tattoo artist about having them redone, but that wouldn't be easy because of their design.

I might possibly someday get a tiny little tatt like a rose or something where the sun doesn't shine. I'm in no hurry, however.

There are no shortage of weird tattoo pictures online. I did find the following examples memorable because they beg the question, "what were you thinking when you got that?"

slutty adventuress

I happened to overhear two men talking in public the other day whom I believe were Brazilian.

That put me on a little trip down memory lane.

Shortly after I moved to Vegas, a coworker told me about her proven method to hook up quickly with a hot guy. After donning a bathing suit and wrap, she went to a well known nearby casino, walked in through the hotel lobby, then headed for the guest pool area.

No one ever stopped her. Once at the pool, she scouted for potential hunks, located one preferably alone with an empty chaise beside him, then claimed the spot for her own. Unless the man was gay or clueless or married (and faithful), soon a conversation would ensue. Chances are he would be from out of town and not know anyone locally. Chances are he also was on the prowl (what single man isn't?).

This was soon a method I adopted and, more times than not, you could be up in the guy's room inside of two hours. Sometimes they were fun, other times not, but hey, it was meaningless sex. The great thing about the Pool Method was that you could check the merchandise first, unlike hookup sites where guys use pictures from five years ago. And you didn't have to worry about them calling you too many more times because soon they would be on a plane to Deluth or Des Moines.

Hearing the Brazilian men made me remember an adorable guy named Telmo from São Paulo I met poolside one day. He was tall, lean, muscular, and about 30. I noticed him as soon as I walked out on the deck and said a silent thankful prayer that the chaises on both sides of him were empty. I selected one, sat down, and pretended not to notice him at first as I settled myself.

Needless to say, within a few minutes, he attempted to converse with me. His English, however, was so abysmal that he made little sense. Only when a friend of his with better English stopped to chat for a few minutes did I learn Telmo's name and some basic information. The two men were in Vegas on business for a few days.

The friend soon wandered away and, after a while, Telmo pantomimed he would happily put some lotion on me. Although we had just met, he applied oil more like we were lovers. I remember well his dazzling, smiling eyes as he slowly spread lotion all over me with strong, sensual hands. He may not have known much English, but he sure knew how to touch a woman.

The language of lust need not be communicated by words alone. Pretty soon Telmo was dangling his room key in his hand with an inquiring grin on his face. I'm sure some women would have slapped him at that point but certainly not me. We quickly adjourned to his room.

No sooner were we inside the door than he was all over me and I was all over him. We spent most of the afternoon becoming intimately acquainted even though we had no common language. He was one of the best fucks I've ever had.

I have always had a soft spot for Brazilians since that afternoon. I never saw him again because I had to work that night. When I went back to the hotel the next day, he had already checked out and departed for who knows where.

I wonder how you say "slam, bam, thank you ma'am" in Portuguese?

(The hottie in the picture below is Brazilian model Junior Ferreira, who looks something like Telmo.)

nearly naked footsie

Another blogger interviewed me recently for a forthcoming entry in his journal. He asked for a picture of my feet, so Darling Husband killed two birds with one stone and did this shot for him, which can also serve as this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday.

What do you think? Does this angle make my ass look fat?

a voice from my past

I recently signed in to Facebook and saw a message from a man I've called Ron here, someone with whom I have quite a history. (Read this post for some background.)

I was, in short, completely shocked to see this.

I have not heard from nor seen Ron in about nine years. Things ended very abruptly. I was below the age of consent when we connected but above legal age when our relationship ended.

His message via Facebook was quite short. He searched my name, saw my picture, and knew it was me. He said he has thought a great deal about me and what happened in the intervening years.

After I got over the initial surprise at his message, I checked his profile. Ron is now in his mid-fifties, but he still looked really great. His profile includes a number of pictures with a much younger second wife and infant child.

I had a long talk with my sweetie about how I felt and whether I should respond to Ron. James is like a therapist; he mostly listens and then interjects occasional comments or observations. I know I was in love with Ron once but that dissipated with time. I still have fond feelings about him, however.

While I now acknowledge what he did was wrong, I was also wrong to encourage him. I was young, but that doesn't completely excuse me. Had I murdered someone or robbed a bank at thirteen, I would have been held accountable for my crimes. The same must be said for what I did to Ron.

I've often wondered what became of him. When he left abruptly, I felt hurt. With time, that hurt metamorphosed into empathy for him as I came to terms with the anguish I must have caused. I'm sure I put him through hell.

Darling Husband is always very supportive, but he's also the sort who won't let me connive him into making my mind up for me. "You have to decide what's right for you," he said.

So I decided to send Ron a short note. I've often thought about him, how I would like to know how he was, so this was an opportunity. I wrote a few short paragraphs, saying some of the things I put down here. I apologized for what I put him through but also said that I could never really regret what happened. I told him some brief facts about me, that I was now married and living abroad, but with no further details. I saved the message, read it over again the next day, then sent it.

Ron responded within a few hours at great length in what I suspect was something he had written over a long period. His note had the feel of prose that had been carefully thought through over considerable time.

He said he was very glad I answered him. Much of his note was telling about what had happened to him after he left and how he had done a great deal of soul searching. He underwent therapy for quite a long time. He seemed very much a changed man by what had happened, at least based on what he said. He had, as I long suspected, moved away abruptly as the enormity of what was happening overwhelmed him.

He insisted nothing like what happened between us ever happened before or after our encounters. He does not consider himself a pedophile, and I agree with him. He was lonely at the time and there I suddenly was. We both had a need, our unorthodox pairing notwithstanding.

I wonder if he could still be prosecuted for what happened. I imagine some kind of statute of limitations is involved.

We've all read news accounts of "ordinary" people who are arrested for crimes they committed long ago. In the intervening years, such individuals often lead exemplary lives. They reform on their own without the benefit of a trial and incarceration. Ron had a very serious error of judgment, but we both moved on and came to terms with what happened. We are both irrevocably changed, but there's no way it could happen again.

Yet society could still punish him for what we did. Somehow, that seems wrong to me. I guess this is my inner-libertarian speaking. Ron was punished but by perhaps the harshest judge -- himself.

a round peg in a square hole

I must confess I don't understand the attraction of pegging, also known as strap-on sex. For the uninitiated, a woman pegs a man by wearing a strap-on dildo and buggering him.

Apparently, pegging is increasingly popular, based on its references in the mainstream zeitgeist. Entire porn series are now dedicated to the practice. A scene in the hit mainstream film Zack and Miri Make a Porno involves pegging.

So I ask: how can a woman get off doing that? You're stuffing a piece of plastic up his patoot. It's synthetic contact, not flesh-on-flesh. Your erogenous zones are not involved. It's like some kind of medical procedure.

Now I know it's mostly about the head trip. She's dominating him; he's submitting by allowing her to do what essentially is a homosexual act on him. He's her bitch.

But then there are some women who want to peg "in a fun, tender, intimate, and loving way," according to this website. Huh?

I have never encountered a man in the bedroom who asked me to do this. Maybe that says something about the kind of guys I dated. I was not attracted to submissive men.

Now please note I'm not saying this is wrong. If you want a girl to shove a stalk of celery up there while you sing "Rule Britannia," then go for it. Whatever floats your boat.

If you dig this sort of thing, feel free to sound off why in the comments. Let us know what it's all about. Because I sure as hell don't understand.

the 32-year-old virgin

A very sweet guy I know, whom I'll call Phillip here, is thirty-two years old. And he's a virgin.

I imagine at this juncture you're wondering how that came to be.

Phillip is not some pimply social misfit shagging hubcaps at the carwash. He's well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, intelligent, well-read, athletic, with a winning smile and great sense of humor. He's something of a household name in one region of the United States where he has a sports broadcasting career. He loves women and dates frequently. In short, Phillip is a catch.

So you're probably wondering why isn't he getting any action?

There are a couple of answers. First, Phillip got a rather late start in the game. Until recently, he had an unknown tiny tumor on his pituitary which sapped his production of testosterone. That seriously impeded his libido. He felt no particular urgency to get into a woman's pants. His tumor was discovered shortly before his thirtieth birthday and then removed.

Phillip's hormones rushed into the void. His brain started sending all kinds of signals. "Sex! Sex! Fuck her! Sex! Sex! Fuck her!" The problem was, Phillip was now a good decade behind other guys his age in the mating game. He's thirty-two but at about age sixteen in the sexual experience continuum.

Second, Phillip is a bit picky. He knows there are ways to get laid quickly, but he's not interested in that. He wants a relationship first with a special woman and then the sex. He's not some religious prude, but he wants magic, sparkle, fireworks. He doesn't want an $80 release with a girl named Twinkle at Unlimited Outcall.

Unfortunately, I'm far away so I'm unable to provide any matchmaking assistance. But I have to think there are many women out there who would find Phillip a prime catch. Whereas many men are inherently promiscuous and unfaithful, and all they can think about is sex, Phillip is solid, dependable, life-mate material. He's not thinking about how he can bone you three minutes after you've met. He's not thinking about how he can tap your best friend three minutes after he meets her.

In sum, Phillip is a gem waiting to be found.

So ladies, if you're anywhere near the 318, 225, 504, 903, or 214 area codes, let me know by sending me an email: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com. I'll put you two in touch. Phillip travels quite a lot for his job. In fact, if you're anywhere in the lower Central Timezone, let me know. He may be coming to your town soon.

You really do need to meet him. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don't miss your chance. Because there is one very lucky girl out there somewhere just waiting to meet him. I know it.

warning to younger men

This sign was spotted recently. Perhaps you've spotted them in your area, too. Click the image to see a larger version so you can read it closely. Be careful out there. They're watching for you. There's no telling what they'll do to you if they catch you.

valentine's day haiku

his insistent tongue
burrows my womanly fold
I am now helpless

Martha Washington was a hottie

Forget about Martha Washington as that frumpy old dame. Historians are now saying she was a hot number when she got hitched to George. The picture below was generated by anthropologists to depict how Martha may have looked in her twenties.

"When Martha decided to marry George, she didn't marry him just to be a kind stepfather to her two children," according to historian and author Patricia Brady. "He was a hunk, and I think she decided to make herself happy. People are just starting to see her as a real person."

Not long ago I read Willard Stearne Randall's biography of George, which goes into some detail about our first president's passionate love for Sally Fairfax when he was young, before he married Martha on the rebound. I remember thinking at the time George sounded like he was quite the hot stud. At 6'2, he was very tall for his time, a big strapping fellow known for his incredible strength and stamina. Historian James Flexner wrote that "George exuded such masculine power as frightens young women just wakening to the opposite sex." No wonder Martha wanted to be with him in Valley Forge.

If they had taught things like this in history when I was in school, I sure would have paid a lot more attention.

recovering slowly

Darling husband took this Half-Nekkid Thursday photo a while ago.

My back is much better, but I cannot arch my spine like this right now. I hate feeling stiff and inflexible, but at least the pain has seriously diminished. I'm probably at that phase of recovery where things seem like I'll never be back to 100 percent normal, but I know that's just silly. The place where the doctor injected the dye is scratchy now, and I know itchy is better than painful.

My sweetie as been putting in overtime waiting on me hand and foot and giving me fantastic back massages. He does not complain, however, about this latter task. Nor do I.


As usual, you may click on the shot to see a larger version of the same image.

fires

Thanks to those who have written to ask if we're okay after the fires. Fortunately, we're up in Sydney, which is a day-long drive from the fire area down near Melbourne.

If you've followed the news, the tragedy is just devastating. The whole country seems riveted by the disaster. People are organizing spontaneous activities of all sort, including charity fundraising and blood drives. It's sickening to think some of these fires may have been deliberately set.

You may have seen the pictures of Sam the injured koala, who befriended a fireman. Here's a link to more about her at an Aussie news site, including a video, plus details of other animal rescues. That's Sam pictured below.

naughty librarian

I'll post just a brief entry today because I'm rather tired but otherwise fine. I had to sleep sitting up last night, which means I barely slept at all. After a myelogram, seizure may result in the first twenty-four hours if the dye seeps into the brain, hence my non-supine slumbering. Super-dutiful husband felt compelled to stay awake all night to make sure I wouldn't slide down in the bed. So tonight we're both exhausted.

In the meantime, stop by Librarian Vixen, an intriguing blog written by a very naughty bookworm. She's the sort of girl who could tell you the Dewey Decimal code for "blowjob."

patient is fine

hsg is fine, she'll be right, no surgery needed. there was no disc rupture, no tumour found, just a tiny fragment of disc pressing the spinal cord & some nerve swelling, that'll go away in a week or 2. we took a hotel room across from the medical centre so she now is resting quiet, head elevated per doctor's orders, not allowed to be on computer til tomorrow or next maybe. ---james :)

Brad Pitt unzipped

I've never been much of a Brad Pitt fan. I don't think he's that good of an actor, plus he takes himself a little too seriously, as mediocre thespians are wont to do. If he looked like Joe Average he wouldn't get nearly the attention he does.

I did laugh at this photo, however. He's all bundled up with that scarf, I guess he didn't notice the breeze below the equator.

myelogram

Our word for today is "myelogram."

Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with sex.

The doctor thinks my back injury may be more serious than the first diagnosis. The pain has not diminished as much as it should have, and I am now having some intermittent "pins and needles" numbness on my butt and thighs. He thinks I may have a herniated disk.

Monday I'm having what's called a myelogram, where a special dye will be injected into my spinal column while an X-ray is made. Although quite a safe procedure, I will have to rest quietly afterwards until the dye dissipates or I may get a very bad headache.

The overly polite doctor cautioned me with considerable discreteness that women typically must be "disrobed above the waist" when the procedure is performed. He actually blushed while saying this. I guess when I told him I had worked as a dancer, he thought I was with the Bolshoi.

If the disk is herniated, I may need arthroscopic surgery but should recover 100 percent if that happens. I'm thankful I'm now covered by Darling Husband's insurance because, as a foreign national, the surgery would otherwise be extremely expensive.

My sweetie has gone into hyper-tender attentive mode and waits on me hand and foot. As I've written before, he sometimes reminds me of a rottweiler, powerful and protective, thick in the shoulders and neck with big soulful eyes. But when he's concerned, he becomes even more rottweileresque with this constantly anxious face. I have to remind him I'm not days from death's door.

Although my muscle relaxants have made me drowsy at times, causing lots of spontaneous naps, my libido fortunately has not been seriously affected, as long as Dearest Husband is extremely gentle, which he has been. I will have to abstain, however, a day or two after the myelogram.

If I end up having surgery on my back, I might have to abstain for something like a week to ten days. I guess it's somewhat telling I'm worried about that and not the possible pain.

I think I can handle pain better than abstinence, a word I just had to look up in the dictionary because I couldn't spell it. Perhaps that's telling, too.

my secret criminal life

I stole an expensive car radio. I was sitting with my friend Melissa, when suddenly I noticed one of those expensive removable car radios with my things. I didn't remember taking it, but I knew I had stolen it somehow.

Melissa spotted the radio and grew very angry. We were at a sidewalk cafe, and when I tried to hide the radio under my laptop, she raised her voice and loudly asked when I would stop stealing things. People at other tables took notice. I stood and began running. I heard sirens in the distance. Other people began chasing after me, shouting at me to stop, as I ran into a dark alley. I heard gunshots behind me.

I should perhaps mention at this point this was all a dream. My criminal activity only occurs when I'm asleep.

This is not the first time, however, I've gone on a crime spree while in the land of nod. I don't think about these things when I'm awake. The dreams have a sort of similar thematic pattern. I am out and about somewhere in public. I see I have something of value, and I know instantly I've stolen it. I don't remember how, but I know I'm in serious trouble.

Someone suddenly sees me with the stolen property, and some kind of confrontation ensues. I panic and flee. Someone alerts the authorities. Sometimes hoards of people begin chasing after me. The police appear in hot pursuit. The whole thing turns into Run Lola Run. Nonetheless, I always manage to get away after a very exhaustive pursuit. Inevitably, the thing I've stolen is lost in the process.

I asked my shrink brother what this means, but he so sweetly gives me that standard psychoanalysis response, "well, what do you think it means?"

I asked Darling Husband, and he merely shrugged.

When we went to my doctor the other day, we noticed an unattended car idling outside the medical building. We exchanged a look.

"That must be for you," he said with a deadpan face.

don't mention it

I model about once a week at a better ladieswear store here in Sydney. On my way in recently, I heard an older customer ask a salesclerk where she could find the "unmentionables."

That word always cracks me up. If it's unmentionable, then by even mentioning the "unmentionable" word, it's no longer unmentionable.

In celebration of Half-Nekkid Thursday, I'm modeling that which must not be mentioned.

This pose makes me sort of look like I have implants, but I don't. That which may not be mentioned push up my you-know-whats so they look bigger than they are.


As usual, you may click on the shot to see a larger version of the same image.

what's wrong with this picture?

I was looking at an erotica website the other day and noticed the photo appearing below. Darling husband happened to be passing by the computer and commented derisively, "yeesh, he looks like her oldie." ("Oldie" is Australian slang for a parent.)

At this juncture, I reminded my sweetie that I'm fifteen years younger than he.

"Well, that's different," he retorted. "I'm not old enough to look like your father."

So that segued into a discussion about when the age spread between lovers or spouses is inappropriate. I asked what if, say, I was twenty-five years younger. Dearest husband was caught in a bit of a moral bind. Would he not have fallen in love with me? If he had, would he have not pursued me because of my age?

I'm guessing the guy in the photo is about twenty-five years older than the woman, but the spread could be wider. Does the fact he's old enough to be her father relevant? They look to be very much in love. Does their nudity add anything to the mix, taking it into the realm of creepy?

My opinion is as long as both are above the age of consent, it doesn't matter. Yes, it may seem a little odd when the one is twice as old as the other. Older men with younger women also don't raise the eyebrows like an older woman with a much younger man.

What do you think?

a journey into my filthy mind

I admit I'm a little wicked at times. There's a mischievous creature lurking inside me, and sometimes she wants to come out and play. Anything can set her off.

I saw this video linked on Fleshbot recently, and that naughty creature began stirring inside me. I want to do that. I want to tie a girl up and talk trash to her and make her watch while my husband fucks me long and hard.

(The ass-to-mouth business I don't like, nor that skanky rash on his leg, but I looked past that. And ignore her bruises and the horrible porn girl noises if you can, okay, and just focus on my fantasy here, if you can.)

I'd be much more in the girl's face, though. I'd love to torment her. I'd have her tied up, sprawled on the couch, while I straddled her midsection and sucked his cock as she looked up helplessly, her mouth gagged, and watched, her eyes begging to be able to join in. I'd love to bend over and have my husband pound my pussy with her gagged face only eight inches below me, watching the whole thing, desperate to participate, but helpless and unable to move.

I'd love to say, "watch him fuck me, you little whore. Look how wet he makes me. You don't deserve to get fucked like that, do you?" She'd murmur in reply. Then I'd yank off her gag and make her shout out her answer. I'd love to hear her beg for his cock as he slammed into me, oblivious to her. Then he'd carry me into the other room and finish me off, and she'd be left alone on the couch, still bound, unable to do anything as she listened to him loving me and wishing it was her.

Then, later, when we were taking a little intermission, we'd go back out into the other room and untie her. And finally let her join the fun.

Okay, I'm a little weird maybe. But if you came here expecting scrapbook tips and cupcake recipes, you made a wrong turn somewhere.

I showed a draft of this post to my sweetie, in light of our earlier conversations about a threeway, and asked, "if we could get a girl to do this, would you?"

I watched as he read it over and his eyes widened. When he finished, he raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Kitten, you are so wicked sometimes," he said with a mischievous smile.

"Well, would you?" I asked.

"If she's game and you're game, then I'd probably be game," he answered.

"Hot damn," I said.

"Well you've been talking about this for months, but you've yet to even get a nibble from one girl," he said.

Well he's got a point there. But I'm trying.

sometimes I write erotic haiku

his powerful hands
roam the terrain of my flesh
his touch enslaves me

fall down go boom

Darling husband has been putting in a lot of hours lately in the deep blue sea for his advance diving instructor recertification. I've been going out afternoons with him in the boat he and his brother have leased. I'm way too inexperienced to be diving out in deep waters, so I mostly sit on deck sunning myself and reading while they're below.

Wednesday I took a break and was trotting across the deck to get a juice out of the cooler. Next thing I knew I was lying on my back, staring into the sky with the wind knocked out of me. As I tried to catch my breath, I started to realize I had a wrenching pain in my back. After a few minutes, I struggled to my feet and saw the deck smeared with blood where my head had hit.

I sat in a sort of groggy stupor when sweet husband suddenly popped over the side of the boat. He hoisted himself on deck and came rushing to my aide. Clomping around in all his gear, he carried me below like the creature from the black lagoon and checked me out, then had me sit up in case I had a concussion. I told him I felt better, that my head didn't hurt, only my back.

Needless to say, I've been in some pain for the last several days, although the back has been improving, but a short blog entry today nonetheless (fortunately I had written the last few in advance). Precious husband told me that when he was below water, he suddenly had a bad feeling something had happened to me, hence his sudden reappearance. He is more a believer in psychic bonds than I, but perhaps he's on to something.

I still have no idea how I fell. At least I'm lucky I didn't end up like this...