Eyeing the box containing my newest vibrator as I enter my bedroom, it occurs to me – and not for the first time today – that my pussy needs attention.
I’ve only used it twice since we bought it together – the first time with him watching through the lens of his camera, the second time by myself in combination with my favorite glass toy – and the sight of my newest mini vibe ~ small, powerful, and shockingly purple ~ triggers an idea: This might be just the thing to jump start my afternoon.
So there’s this thing that happens once yearly in blogging, called LOL Day. LOL, in this instance, does not mean Llamas Out-cute Lions or Licks Only Lollipops. It also does not mean, as more than one well-meaning grandparent-type has thus misused the abbreviation, Lots Of Love.
‘Love’ is in the acronym though: LOL stands for Love Our Lurkers. And today is LOL Day. 🙂
For me… Well, let’s just say that ‘love’ might be too strong a word. I mean, I kind of have to know a person to love them, and by definition, blog lurkers are folks who don’t make themselves known, so I can’t honestly say “I love you” when I don’t know you, right?
I like you, though. 😀
So to you (yes You, who show up in this little cloud-world space of mine to read or perv or quietly observe) who lurk about in the shadows: THANK YOU. For being here. For reading around and clicking about and generally offering your silent support throughout my tenure as a blogger. Truly, thank you. I think you’re awesome.
If you are one of the ones who are typically silent, or if you haven’t commented in quite some time, or are otherwise timid or shy or just not quite sure what to say: Now is your time.
Why I love my friends, Reason #476:
It’s good to have goals…
The cold snick of the blade sliding into place sends a hot chill through her, and when he places the biting metal against the inside crease of her thigh, her sharp inhalation expands the held-breath air in her chest, pushing her pebbled nipples out, brushing them against the scratch-silk fabric of her blouse, making her squirm.
His voice, barely registering through her adrenaline haze, is rough gravel coated in menace.
His body – solid but featureless against the gray-dark of the room – is blocking hers open, keeping her legs apart.
She feels the press of steel – Is it steel? – against the seam of her pantyhose at the same time as she feels the press of his lips against hers, followed immediately by the sound of rending fabric.
Inventing vocabulary can be sexy.
And people think conversing with me is intimidating.
Knees up, thighs splayed wide, my slippery wet is overriding my fingers’ desperate attempts to unhood my clit.
He is between my knees, kneeling, pushing his ringed hardness (Where are your cock rings? I’d asked; he knew I was not asking a question but stating an expectation) into me, the sensitivity of his swell against my slick making him groan.
But I am groaning for another reason: I’m frustrated.
While the current excess lubrication is a comfortable counterpoint to those times when my biology must be circumnavigated if I’m to reach completion, this juicy squelching glide is not at all what I’m used to, and no matter how tight I clench against his cock, I cannot gain the purchase I seek.