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Charlie


Previously…

An almost inaudible sound came from his throat when I did it, and I knew I had him. I felt his cock straining against the fly of his pants, but when my fingers pulled his zipper down, he moved out of my reach. His fingers slipped out of me once again, and his other hand left my breast. My body felt absolutely bereft from the loss of his touch, and I couldn’t help the whimper that happened to come. I should have known better.

Charlie demands complete control- during fucking and everything leading up to it. Not that he’s into S&M, though he isn’t above a playful bite or spanking every now and then. I mean that every move, every act no matter how small, must be his decision. He will allow me to undress him, but I am only permitted to once he decides it is time. To so blatantly disregard this rule sets the mood for everything that follows. I’ll tell you a secret: I didn’t forget on accident.

I watched his face in the mirror; I saw him struggling with the thought of breaking his own rule, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t. I felt a moment of relieved anticipation when I saw his jaw firmly set, but I was not expecting what happened next.

His hands were on the neckline of my dress, and the next second, a bold ripping sound filled the silence as he forcefully tore my dress from neckline to hem. My Urban Decay’d lips formed a surprised “o” as I and Charlie looked at my now mostly-nude body in the mirror. I felt gooseflesh run up and down my skin in the split second before Charlie’s hand pushed my upper body down against the table in front of me.

He entered me roughly, but I was ready. So ready. His very first thrust left him so deep inside that I cried out, from pain or pleasure, or maybe a little bit of both. He withdrew, then again thrust himself into me. His hands gripped my hips, not gently, and I felt the familiar pleasure already beginning to rise in me. My right hand pressed against the mirror, causing it to fog there, and I pushed my rump ever so slightly into Charlie. I was immediately reprimanded with a welcome slap on my rear, warning me to stay still. His cock buried so deeply inside me, and the thrill of his spanking heightened my excitement; I wriggled against him, inviting another smack. The second one stung, and Charlie drove himself into me again and again, not waiting for me to further taunt his itching hand.

With every thrust, he reached the end of me, and my pleasure blossomed. I tried to move in such a way to prolong it, but my lover held me firmly in place, and was unrelenting. He knew what he did as he repeatedly pulled himself out of me and then pressed himself in again, hard and at an unwavering pace. It was clear he meant to punish me for my slip with his zipper, and I relished every moment until he pushed himself into me once again and pressed my hips harshly to him. He was as deep as he could go, and he filled me so completely that my growing pleasure exploded, and I let out a heartfelt moan. Charlie shuddered, and spent himself inside me. From my bent-over position, I could feel every throb of his cock. I used my inner muscles to squeeze him, and he moaned loudly before pulling back.

“Damn you, woman.” He said it because rough sex hadn’t been what he was in the mood for, but I couldn’t help giggling when he said it, because of the irony of his words. I made eye contact with him in the mirror, and when I saw the amused sparkle there, I knew he wasn’t really pissed.

I stood up as Charlie put himself back together and assessed my torn dress. There was no saving it. Damn. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it out in public yet.

Charlie eyed me, reading my thoughts. “I’ll call Nina and get you another dress, ” he assured me, and I smiled, because it amused me that not only did this man know who the designer of my dress was- he also knew her well enough to call her up out of the blue. Yet another reason to adore Charlie.

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And the Oscar for Making Their Boobage Disappear Goes To…


All I can say is a non-intelligent sounding text acronym: “WTF?!?!??!”

I, like billions of other individuals throughout the world, tuned in to watch the Oscars last night. Actually, after a heated discussion about whether to forego this week’s episode of the Walking Dead in order to watch the Oscars, my Rockstar somewhat unwillingly tuned in. (Boobs win, y’all.)

My Rockstar and I have made a habit of watching the beginning of red-carpet awards shows so as to comment between ourselves on the amazing fashion sense (or lack thereof) of famed and sometimes not so famed celebutants. We have jokingly agreed that we should replace Joan and Melissa with our very honest and sometimes harsh own fashion police show. Last night was no exception.

At the beginning of the evening, I thought perhaps it was only a fluke that the three Jennifers (Garner, Lawrence, and Aniston) were all wearing questionable gowns. Do not misunderstand- all three of their gowns were absolutely amazing, except for one huge (or not huge) thing. All three women looked as though they had suffered a mastectomy before donning their designer duds. It’s true, Jennifer Aniston is not the bustiest of celebrities, but I’m quite certain more than one lonely man sitting at home has jacked off to her quite acceptable B-cups when she was portraying Rachel. However, that Garner chic (who I always considered to be gorgeous until I noticed last night that Ben Affleck must have run her through the ringer) has had quite lovely cleavage in the past, and is not the fact that J. Lawrence not a skinny mini what makes her appealing?

I continued watching in hopes that maybe the designers were only playing such tricks on girls named Jennifer. Sadly, it seems the fad for this year was making voluptuous actresses appear waif-like and un-endowed. Anne Hathaway, (who’s lovely knockers rival my own) Renee Zellweger, (who only had titties to speak of really as Bridget Jones) and Reese Witherspoon (who’s demi-cut dress even made my Rockstar go “WTF?!” ) all seemed to be channeling Audrey Hepburn. Don’t get me wrong- Audrey’s lack of boobage has always been greatly admired by me- so much so that during my anorexic days, I seethed at the fact that my ever-present hooters did not diminish to miniscule Audrey size. However, NONE of these women have Audrey-esque Love Warts. In fact, the only person who’s cleavage was almost perceptible to the naked eye was Nicole Kidman. (A surprising fact, considering that even though I’ve actually seen naked boobs on her in past films, she has none to speak of.)

When did flat-chested come back in style? It’s true, high fashion caters to women who are not blessed in the breast department, but I think Jennifer Aniston’s gorgeous red ball gown would have been even just a little bit more gorgeous if it had been cut in such a way to let her Girls breathe. I’ve come up with the perfect solution…

Someone needs to get me an invitation to next year’s Oscars, and I promise there will be enough cleavage to make up for what we missed this year. 🙂

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