Someday, I'll have time to hook up my new digicam to my 'puter and upload my photos so that I, just like my friend Mikey, can stop writing about my life and use photos to illustrate it instead. But my boyf sent a few photos from his camera, so, here:
bask in the beauty that is Sevilla. And imagine that you're enjoying the beauty fully, only without the tummy problems that you picked up in Morocco.
Posts
3 comments:
I'm glad you and your boyf had a good time. To help welcome you both back, I'm posting a little something for the both you. Bex, I know you like Sumt (you've said so in the past) So I thought you might like this. I picked it up from www.playboydaily.com's Advisor.
It's not a question but more like a small story. Here it is:
Playboy Advisor Qusetion of the day:
Question:
I was thumbing through some of my lover's Playboy issues and ran across your questions on the "fictitious" Venus butterfly of L.A. Law. Well, after reading a few of the responses, I realized that Venus butterfly was the perfect name for what I had been doing all these years with my lover. It not only requires instruction to perform, but it also requires mood. Here's how it happened: The motel room overlooked the slowly flowing river and my partner motioned toward the phone. I knew if I wanted it, I would have to make the call. I lifted the receiver and dialed room service: "Yes, I would like the peacock feathers out of the centerpiece in the main dining room, please. That's right, room 969." As we awaited the familiar knock on the door, my partner and I exchanged baited glances and began to undress. The bellboy would leave our request outside the room; we'd been here before. I took my position on the dresser, my bare back against the cold mirror, legs slightly bent and perched upon adjacent chairs. The anticipation was killing me. My nipples were growing hard as the tingling in my most sensitive place was beginning to hurt. The knock. My partner lowered the lights and walked toward me, tapping the flowing feathers on his hand like a sensuous riding crop. He began with my half-closed eyelids, working his way downward to my throat, then my breasts. Like the wings of a butterfly, the feather brushed against my skin, lighting only long enough to cause immense pleasure . . . . It wouldn't be long now. The feather brushed down my torso and touched upon my most sensitive place, the most imperceptible fluttering, causing my body to shiver with desire. The dancing flicker provoked the fierce need for a hard, tangible object inside me to complete our rendezvous. He gave without query. My partner (husband/lover) and I meet twice a week - any more often would drive a woman insane.
Answer:
Thanks.
sumt? what's sumt?
I meant to type Smut. I've gotta lay of the coffee - It's fucking up my typing big time.
Sorry about the Typo, Bex.
Rock on !!
Post a Comment