Challenge Accepted

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John Mayer should stop making crappy breathy music and thinking that he’s God’s gift to celebrity women.  All that rasping into the microphone makes him sound like he’s choking on a chicken bone (though it’s entirely possible he’s actually chokin’ the chicken; leave it to an egotistical misogynistic artiste to masturbate in the middle of a studio session), and listening to a real-time regurgitation recording kinda puts me off my feed.  Then again, Taylor Swift puts me off my feed too.  It’s no wonder they dated.

But I digress.

As does Mr. Mayer.  Only he does it in song form and doesn’t bother to enunciate his thoughts.  Case in point:  Har-bray Whoa-faaa.  Which is, of course, supposed to be pronounced ‘Heartbreak Warfare’.  Whatever the hell that is.

As for being God’s gift to celebrity women?  John Mayer, meet Jonathan Schaech: 

Mr. Schaech is one gift from God I’d like to open.

Any questions?

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In case you’re wondering from whence this diatribe originated…  This post was written in response to trailertrashdeluxe’s challenge (which was a fabulous excuse for me to post this Playgirl-worthy pose), because he’d rather be having dreams about flying around and having sex with co-workers than composing opening lines of poetry in his sleep.  I can relate.

 

Potato, Potahtuh

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While in the car listening to the radio today, I heard an exchange between a DJ and a caller that was rather amusing.

Caller:  I listen to this station about 20 out of 24 hours every day.

DJ:  Are you a truck driver?

Caller:  I prefer to call myself a Freight Relocating Technician.

Aside:  I always thought a Freight Relocating Technician was one of those mafia guys who sells hot merchandise out of the backs of trucks.  Apparently, I was wrong.

DJ:  (choking back laughter) I suppose that sounds sexier…?

Caller:  Nope.  Just more educated.  Plus it confuses the hell outta people.

Love (love, Love, LOVE) this logic.  Lol.

To the men and women who ride the roads:  I know how hard you work, and I know first hand how hard your work schedule can be on your families.  You have my utmost respect.  Thank you for being in it for the long haul.  Drive safe.

Wanton Wednesday: Sated

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You’re getting veeeerrry sleeepppyyy…

Who needs a hypnotist?  😉

For more about Wanton Wednesdays, please visit my blog.  Thanks for stopping by!

Flipping His Switch

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For those of you who are regular readers, this was the prequel to Wet…

*

There’s hard.

And there’s Hard.

And then there’s HARD.

(When he’s HARD, he’s hard enough to pound nails.  I’m not much for woodworking though.  I just like it when he pounds ME.)

*

I felt him pulse and swell against my tongue and knew without a doubt that the triple-H was just a moment away.

So when the tip of his head was tickling the back of my throat, I took a deep breath…

Consciously relaxed the muscles in my neck…

And slowly scooted my lips ~ one millimeter at a time, grabbing and releasing like soft caterpillar kisses on a sunflower stalk ~ slooowwwwwly down the shaft of his cock until he was buried to the hilt.

Balls.

Deep.

And then, keeping him captive in my burning wet grip, I raised my eyes to catch his gaze (while I rubbed my tongue ~ velvet soft ~ against his glans)…

And winked.

I didn’t think it was possible for him to get harder, but he did.

Oh my God, he did.

He got HARD.

And that final swell of his head against my tonsils was all the warning I received before he was on his feet, pushing me to my knees, holding my head, fisting my hair, fucking my mouth…

***Correction:  fucking His mouth***

…and forcing me (and my throbbing, pulsing pussy) into submission.

“Get up,” was a snarled command (NOT a request), and as soon as I staggered to my feet I gave him my cheekiest catch-me-if-you-can look before racing down the hallway…

To the stairs…

Where three steps up He caught me around the hips, pushed my shoulders forward, and growled, “Ass up!” And no sooner did I submit than he was plunging that hard, Hard, HARD cock into my wantonly clenching, dripping, begging pussy.

Where he immediately.

Oh.

Bottomed.

My.

The fuck.

GOD.

Out.

OhMyGod, OhMyGod, OHMYGOD…

Unable to control my primal responses to His merciless pounding, my shivers were punctuated by moans, which were in turn reprimanded by His command to “Hush!”, followed by a punishing smack on my upturned ass cheeks.

Which, considering the fact that I love a good spanking (giving *and* receiving), just made me push back into His thrusts as hard as I could.

Mmmmmm…

Which made him bottom out.

Shiver…

Which made me moan.

Nnnnnngggggh…

Which made him spank me.

…ngggghaaaaaahhhhh!

Which made me push back harder.

Once… Twice… Third time’s the charm…

And that final push triggered a reaction unprecedented.  It was like flipping a switch.  Or, more accurately:  flipping HIS Switch.   As if hitting my cervix set off an explosive chemical reaction inside Him.

He.  Fucking.  Detonated.

BOOM!

(No, not like that…  Ladies cum first.  ;))

For the next hour (ohfuckyes) I was totally (yes), ruthlessly (yesyesyes), recklessly pounded into (pleaseohplease) orgasm after (pleasepleaseplease, canIcumpleaseplease) orgasm until I was so precariously balanced on the edge of (ohgodpleasedon’tstop) pleasure-pain that I thought I’d die if he fucked my quivering cunt again…

And I knew I’d die if he didn’t…