Tag Archives: sex

Open Letter To Despicable You, Dr. Tara Knowles


Oh most vile and detestable of all fictional television characters, Tara Knowles,

(Otherwise known as Jax’s love interest in Sons of Anarchy)

Let me begin by saying that I have loathed you from the first. First episode, first sighting, first monstrous scowl.

I began watching Sons of Anarchy as I suppose many fans have- on Netflix. I can say from the very first episode, I abhorred you and your self-righteous attitude. I might add that too, I have repudiated the forehead crease that is forever present on your bitchy face. It is because of said crease, and not your unlikable self that I have long wished that a ghastly and atrocious demise might have visited you in the first season, and then second, and third, and so on. Sadly, we can’t all have what we wish for, now can we, Dr. Knowles? Hmmmm?

I understand your desire to be forever united nakedly with your equally fictional love interest, Jax Teller. After all, he is quite easy on the eyes, and his character, though questionably written, is endearing and sweet. However, you should know by now that you cause him (to almost quote Sinnead O’Connor) more sorrow alive than you would dead. It seems harsh, I know, but think on it for a moment- if you were to meet an untimely death by, say having a runaway van run over your head, the next episode might find Jax seeking comfort in the puss of some woman much hotter than you, and you could still be afforded an open-casket funeral, since tire tracks across your face would blend in quite nicely with the significant wrinkle already between your eyebrows.

Instead of being an acceptable Old Lady to your hot biker man, and trying to emulate his tough and respected equally hot fictional mother, Gemma, you, Miss Knowles, have stooped to low-down and wretched acts that I cannot even mention. (because it would spoil the show for those not yet caught up.) Let us just say that I do NOT feel bad that Jax cheated on you while you were forced to muff-dive in jail, because even an older, stretched-out madame is of more interest than you. You’re all “oh, boohoo, I’m not happy being part of the MC” and “boohoo, I hate my mother-in-law”. Suck it up, bitch. Nobody likes their MIL, but not everybody is so lucky to have a pretty bad-ass built in family.

I’m hoping that the writers of SOA will find it in their hearts to put you and I out of our misery and kill you off in (PLEASE!) the next episode or two. I would even be willing to play the part of a vixenish assassin hired to dispose of you, only to wind up  being the TRUE love of Jax’s life. Whatever happens, Dr. Knowles, I just thought you needed to know that even though you aren’t real, there are people out there you harbor real animosity toward you. Having the same last name as Beyonce’ doesn’t help in the least.

Malevolently,

Sparklebumps

 

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After Effects


BEFORE.

Greg shrugged sheepishly, and lowered her down to the floor, though he refused to remove his grip from her lovely ass until she forced him to.

“Well, you are young enough to be my daughter. How was I supposed to know you were into such mature men?” His thumbs stroked her behind, and he relished the unbelievable softness.

Casey laughed and wriggled out of his grasp; Greg tried to hide his disappointment. “That tickles!” She scooped up her discarded yoga pants and danced a few feet away before turning to face him. Greg admired her confidence as she stood in front of him, pants-less, and raised one perfectly-arched eyebrow.

“I’m into anyone who looks at me the way you do, so there. And I don’t really think there is such a thing as a ‘mature man’.” She did air quotes with a wad of pants in her hands, and Greg felt himself smiling. “I am convinced men are  completely led by their dicks, and only pretend differently to keep up with the women.” Her tone hardened a little bit during her statement, and Greg was going to argue, but she skated off to the bathroom before he had a chance to reply.

Greg pulled on his pants, and began surveying the many titles that lined the bookshelves he’d just defiled. He was surprised to find they were alphabetized according to author, and that there was quite a variety. Classics, biographies of Presidents, history of warfare, science fiction, art, philosophy- they were all there. He stopped when he found three copies of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. He’d read it in high school, and found it to be incredibly dull. He wondered why someone so full of life would have three copies.

“See? They are beautiful! You cannot help but be enamored of them.” Casey stood looking at him approvingly, and Greg wondered how long she’d been watching him.

“Well, you weren’t in here for me to look at, so I had to look at something.” Greg flirted, badly.

“Ugh.” Casey narrowed her eyes and did a jacking-off motion with her hand.” Please. As if I’m better to look at than Jules Verne and R. Scott Bakker.” Greg couldn’t believe she didn’t realize the effect her looks, and her body, had on him, but felt too foolish to point it out. He also felt slightly uncomfortable that Casey seemed to be ignoring what had just happened between them.

She wandered over to the refrigerator. “Did you want anything to drink? I have-” she looked inside for a second, then shut the door. “Well, I have nothing. Did you want to go get a beer or a bottle of whiskey or something?” She looked at him from across the small space, and Greg felt they were on two islands miles apart. Clearly, the sex was casual for her, and even though Greg didn’t exactly know what he wanted from this sexy young thing, he knew things were not the same as they had been before he’d entered this apartment. He felt stupid, like a teenage girl, but he wanted more.

“Um, would you like to go out to dinner with me? There’s a really good Mexican place down the street.” He weakly replied.

“Food! Oh yes, food is good.” Greg felt himself relax with relief. “Shit. I have to go to work soon.” Casey looked at him apologetically. Maybe tomorrow?” The relief was momentary. Greg got the distinct feeling she was blowing him off. He decided to admit defeat.

“Sure, if you’re not too busy. Just let me know. I have a thing I gotta do tonight  anyway.” He lied, and hated himself. He walked to the door and stopped, debating on whether he would say what he was feeling, and thinking better of it. Instead, he looked at Casey. “Your books are beautiful.”

Casey grinned, stepped over to where Greg was standing, and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

Greg nodded, but didn’t say anything as he walked out the door. He trudged down to his own apartment, wishing he hadn’t fucked things up.

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Client Privilege


In the beginning…

You might wonder what makes me any more special than Candy or Blake or any other Dial-A-Whore you might find on the back side of the local entertainment pages next to the ads for sperm banks and penis enlargement pills. To be honest, Candy is gorgeous, and the dickheads down at Winston’s refer to Blake as the “Hoover” when they know she’s not around to kick them in the balls. But have they ever been the Angel of Lust? Think about it- take every carnal desire you’ve ever had, every animalistic sensual hunger, and multiply it times a thousand , or ten million, or a billion, and you wouldn’t even have begun to scratch the surface of the chaste shell of God that’s encasing an eternity of wanton emotions. He gave you those yearnings on purpose; He created me on purpose. Everyone knows God doesn’t make mistakes. Maybe He just realized all that passionate voracity blinds people to almost everything else, so He told a few disciples and prophets it would be best to tell people to restrain themselves a little. Who knows.

Clearly, Charlie didn’t get the memo.

Charlie’s my most loyal customer. You’d think he was in his twenties, if you based his age on the amount of money he’s paid me in the last few years. Luckily, his twenty-two year old libido is matched up to his fifty-two year old perfectly- practiced gift for fucking. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do him for free.

He was here earlier. Normally, I don’t accept clients at my own place, but Charlie, well, he’s Charlie. Of course, he couldn’t teach me anything I wasn’t already designed to know, but after I knew Charlie for awhile, I kinda started wondering if Charlie wasn’t God’s male duplicate of me. Or maybe he’s just sexed his way through enough women that he’s got nothing else to learn. Thus his captivation with me.

When he gave his habitual rhythmic knock on my door, I was applying my Urban Decay lipstick in F-Bomb (my favorite). He opened the door without waiting for me to reply, and leaned against it after he closed it, just watching me. It’s my job to unnerve people, and I’m still not sure how Charlie can do it, but I watched him watching me in my mirror, and his intense ice-blue stare made me on edge enough that my lipstick slid right off my bottom lip.

“Fuck!” I whispered under my breath, hoping Charlie hadn’t seen, but knowing he had.

Before I had a chance to wipe it off, Charlie pushed his tall body off of the door and he strolled over to where I was standing. He said not a word, but continued to watch me in the mirror. His eyes never left mine as I felt the soft pad of his thumb trace my jawline before running along the outline of my lip, wiping the red stain away. Even with my peacock blue, five-inch heels on, he was a good nine inches taller than me, and I watched in the mirror as his hand slid from my face, down my neck, and under the neckline of my silk dress. Before his hand even touched my left breast, I felt it all the way south of my belly button, and I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my rouged lips.

Ok, so let me explain a little bit about Charlie. He’s been married, numerous times, in fact, has enough money that he never has to work, and gets off on getting women off. A lot of guys don’t give one shit about whether their woman is turned on before they stick their dick in them, and couldn’t care less whether she orgasms or not, and probably wouldn’t be able to tell either way. Charlie is not one of those guys. I’m convinced he wouldn’t even be able to get a hard-on unless the woman he intended to fuck was dripping wet. Don’t ask me why he pays for sex, because even after all these years, he won’t tell me.

When he heard that sound, his fingertips squeezed my nipple, and my eyes slid shut, relishing the tingle that was running down my body. I leaned back against him, his toned body taking my weight easily, and ran my hand up his tailored pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric. As I did so, his hand enveloped my breast, squeezing just hard enough that it hurt. Another little squeal escaped me, and his grip tightened even more. My eyelids flew open, and my gaze met his in the mirror; his eyes had never left my face. His breath was on my neck, on my ear, and sent little shivers of pleasure across my skin. I looked into his eyes as he ran his free hand up my leg and under my skirt, and I noticed his dimpled smirk when he realized I wasn’t wearing any panties. His face in the mirror looked like a young man’s- a young man with a dirty secret- as his experienced fingers explored my most intimate places, as he discovered what his fingers and his eyes and his breath on me had done. I was encircled in his grip, and couldn’t move as he moved his fingertips achingly slow  in and out of me, in and out, in, and then out before bringing them up and sliding them between my F-Bomb-ed lips. He watched as I tasted the salty musk of myself, and broke his trance-like stare when I ran my tongue over and around his fingertips, and then sucked ever so gently.

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Good Girls Only Please


So I was listening to Lex and Terry on the radio the other day when they were giving advice to a dumb young dude who was going to marry a much older woman with a kid. They then got to talking about good girls versus sluts and the like, and how most men will never marry the girl the had the most amazing, naughty, unspeakable sex with, but will always marry the good girl. That explains a lot.

The more I got to thinking about it, the more pissed off I got. Not because I am the girl no guy would ever marry, after all, I bake cupcakes and pack lunches for my beloved and am not opposed to bringing new life forth based off of our undying love and all that bullshit. That, and the fact that I was married once, and have yet to decide on whether I would repeat those shenanigans. No, I was pissed off, because how stupid are men?

There are enough men who have readily admitted that they think with the brains that are located between their legs. If that is true, then would it not benefit them to marry the girl who so completely satisfies those brains on a daily basis? Instead, men are too embarrassed to admit their lack of emotional what-have-you, and marry the virgin, or the girl who might not necessarily be willing to give a blow job, just to be able to show her off to mom and say, “Isn’t she a perfect lady?” But really, where does this leave them?

I’ll tell you.

It leaves them overly horny and hunting about for a bad girl to satisfy their un-attended to needs. And when they find the girl that’s willing, it leaves their good girl home alone or hanging with her friends while the dude is out tying up the bad girl and doing her in  the butt before spraying his load all over her face because he would never dare to do that to his perfect wife. Sure, maybe some of these dudes don’t actually go cheat on their good wives, but those are the ones who develop carpal tunnel from jacking off in front of the computer while WATCHING some dude spurt his load all over some slutty girl’s face. So how does this a wonderful marriage create?

I admit that I do not know the sexual habits of all married couples, but there are quite a few married men that have had the balls to ask for favors from me in the past because they weren’t getting what they wanted at home. To them I said, “That’s YOUR fault, buddy. Maybe you shoulda married a bad girl.”

And really, why is a girl who is up for lots of sex considered at bad girl in the first place? And what if a girl likes sex, yet will still bake you cupcakes? Is she a good girl or a bad girl? Oh my God, I sound like I’m in Oz- “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”

And I completely realize that sex is not all that a relationship should be based on, but I certainly know what a lack of it can do to a marriage. I believe a good  marriage is a composed of two people who wish to grow old together, and who plan on doing it until the day one of them dies, with the help of blue pills and dentures, if necessary.

 

 

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Six Words Only


I was at a loss for mental fodder to pen tonight, so I stole an idea from Jennie at Tip of my Tongue. Sum up your life in six words. Apparently, Hemingway did it once or something, and it’s all the rage these days. I couldn’t decide exactly what direction to go in, so I went in all of them:

You want a fantasy? I’m her.

Leave me alone. I’m busy reading.

Why can’t people be like me?

I’m ready for sex. And you?

Love me, or I’ll punch you.

Life is beautiful, except at work.

French Fries. Books. Stilettos. Sex. Boobs.

Who needs money? There are books.

Would you like top or bottom?

Love is best. Breaking up sucks.

I’m smart and busty. Lucky you.

Why is all the rum gone?

Ok, I could go on and on, but really, I’d like to see if you all can come up with six words about me. 🙂 XOXO

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Untitled


She spent the day with her mother.

They did the things mothers and daughters do- window shopping, dining out and the like. As they were lunching on skinny fries and cobb salads, the girl almost dropped her fork when a small child of another patron nearby let out a ferocious shriek. That got her mother talking even more.

“So your cousin is planning to marry that dimwit girl even though she quit her job. I wonder how happy he’s going to be working three jobs when she’s sitting at home popping out babies?” The older woman tsk-ed once or twice before taking another bite of her salad.

“Well, he must know how pampered she is, Mom. They’ve been together since high school.” The girl tried to steer her mother away from baby talk.

” I just hate to think they’re going to have a bunch of babies when they haven’t thought about how they’re going to afford them. And that’s another thing that irks me, most of those kids at school where I teach have such horrible parents that care more about they’re dumb dogs than they do about they’re kids!” The girl hid her amusement at the fact that her mother still refused to use the word “damn” in front of her daughter, even though she was going to be thirty-two in two months.

“Yeah, well, isn’t that the way of it? All the people who shouldn’t have kids have whole herds of them when the ones that want them can’t have any.” The girl refrained from adding “including me” to the end of that sentence. She didn’t have the energy to get into that conversation today.

Her mom had a few more choice words on the subject before bouncing to another topic three or four more times before dessert came.

After her mom dropped her off, the girl walked slowly up the stairs to her apartment, the depression of the days outing weighing heavily on her heart. She couldn’t ignore the tiny tutus in the baby section of the department store earlier, or what seemed like the constant flow of new mothers with strollers who had sped by all day. She took out her keys, and let out a wavering sigh as she opened the door.

Her boyfriend was in a surprisingly good mood after having worked with morons all day, and was excited to show her the new guitar he’d found listed on Craigslist. She couldn’t help but think that the baby blue of the Gibson’s body would be the perfect color for a newborn’s nursery. After awhile, the two sat down to finish watching the last few episodes of a show they’d been watching on Netflix.

The girl was momentarily distracted from her misery as they watched the young love blossom of the two main characters on the TV screen, until the heroine’s sister decided that was the perfect time to go into labor. The girl clutched her pillow and unsuccessfully pushed back tears while the woman onscreen gave birth to a flawless baby girl, as the fictional family looked on proudly. The girl had had enough.

She had a lovely life- a job that paid her bills, a friend or two who were always there for her, a boyfriend whom she loved and loved her back, and yet she felt she hadn’t a thing in the world. She tried to push away the thought of the children she didn’t have as she slid down to her knees and slipped her lover’s boxers off before taking him in her mouth. She thought to herself before she lost herself in foreplay- She may as well play the part of a useless slut, since her body was never going to be used for a good purpose.

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Edward Hotspur and the Best Birthday Present Ever


So sorry this is late! I blame it on the aliens that abducted my brain a few days ago. It is hoped my story makes up for it. This was supposed to be a choose your own adventure post with links to other amazing writers, but I’m afraid that ship has sailed without me. Just go to H.E.’s blog and you will find a birthday trail for Hotspur. So! Ed, I give you the gift of fantasy fiction…

“Happy birthday, Honey!” The incredibly attractive woman known as Mrs. Hotspur greeted her birthday boy- a less attractive (but only slightly) Edward. She planted a passionate kiss on her hubby’s lips.

“Thanks, baby. So what’d you get me?” Ed hated to admit it, but he was all about the presents. His ego was big enough that he believed everyone should give him at least one.

The Mrs. bit her lip nervously. This was a little bit out of her comfort zone, but she knew it was something he wouldn’t soon forget. She grabbed his hand and led him down the hallway to the bedroom.

“Ok, so I know I should have asked first, but I didn’t think you’d mind.  I got you a pet.”

When he heard “pet”, Ed expected to see a precocious puppy or one of those massive ragdoll cats that are completely useless, but when his wife stepped aside, he was absolutely speechless. Kneeling in front of him was a curvy redhead. She wore only a corset, a dog collar, and a pair of red patent leather stilettos. His pants felt a little bit tighter as he admired her naked breasts; her nipples were pointing directly at him, it seemed. Her head was down in a submissive position, but when he gasped in surprised, the woman looked up at him, and he was shocked when one of her eyelids dipped down over one of her dark brown eyes in a flirtatious wink.

“Holy shit! What is Sparklebumps doing here?!” Ed’s voice sounded about three octaves higher than he was used to.

Mrs. Ed shrugged. “Well, I wanted to get Salma Hayak, but she’s famous and  well, you know, not super horny. But Sparkles is exactly the same height, and her tits are just a little bit bigger. She’s agreed to let you be her master for the night. I know you always wanted to try being dominant, so…” She leaned close and whispered seductively into her hubby’s ear, “She’ll do whatever you want her to… including me.” Before she stepped back, Ed felt her nip his ear in such a way that shivers flew down his spine.

Ed ran his hand through his hair as he looked first at his wife, and then down at his birthday present. She hadn’t moved a muscle; she awaited his command. Well, fuck. He thought. What the hell?

He stepped forward, and Sparkle looked up at him.

“Happy birthday, Master. Not how you expected to meet me, is it?” She grinned.

Ed cleared his throat. “I’m not complaining.”

“What would you have of me, Master?” As she asked, Sparkle raised her hands to undo Ed’s pants. He put his hands over hers to stop her.

“Stand up.” The authoritative tone in his voiced surprised him.

“Ah.” Sparkle lowered her head and rose, and as she did so, Ed admired the nicely muscled legs she had gotten from years of wearing heels. He looked over at his wife, expecting daggers to be shooting from her eyes at the fact that he was eyeing another woman, but instead, she only smiled, and nudged him forward.

Ed took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Go over to the bed and bend over.” Nice ass,  he thought, as Sparkle did what she was told. He stepped forward and grabbed her by the hair.

“Shame on you for not thinking of the lady first. I’m going to spank you now, and then you will pleasure my wife.” Sparkle made a slight noise in her throat that seemed to affect Ed’s already hard manhood. He lifted his hand and brought it down perfectly on the meat of her rear with a delicious slap. Sparkle gasped, and moved her hips against the edge of the bed, while Ed watched the pale skin of her ass turn a lovely pink color. He heard a moan behind him, and was surprised to look into his wife’s face and see her blooming desire. He gave Sparkle one final swat before releasing her hair and stepping back.

“Now take care of my wife.” Who was this bossy, domineering man? He didn’t realize he had it in him. He was so used to being light-hearted and blogging about pissing unicorns and other bizarre things.

Sparkle slid off the edge of the bed and crawled over to where the Mrs. was leaning against the wall lazily. She looked up for confirmation, and must have found it, because she ever so slowly slid the Mrs. pants down, leaned forward, and laid a soft kiss on the lacy panties underneath. Sparkle then slid the panties off, and Ed watched in fascination as Sparkle’s tongue slid out and delicately tasted his wife.

The Mrs. moaned quietly, and that was all Sparkle needed. She proceeded to go down on the Mrs., and Ed was amazed at how erotic it was to look in to his wife’s eyes as another woman pleasured her. More erotic still it was when he watched the pleasure rise and the eye contact was broken when she closed her eyes and came.

“That’s enough.” He stood up expectantly. “I want you to stay over there, Little Bitch, and watch now while I make love to my wife.”

Disclaimer: I meant no disrespect in the story up above, Ed. H. E. told me to write something for your bday that was about a semi-biographical blog like mine, and since I live in Fantasyland, this is the only thing I could think of. It helps that your wife is gorgeous, but tell her not to be mad, ok? It’s just for fun. If you desire, I can finish it, but I didn’t want to go overboard. Happy Birthday! XOXO

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642 Things To Write About: #1 Online Dating Service Description


On one of my many jaunts through the delightful space called TJ Maxx, I came across the most amazing of books. 642 Things To Write About is a blogger’s greatest treasure. No longer will I waste time pondering what entertaining paragraphs I shall type on a day unfilled with inspiration. Instead, I will open up my handy-dandy book of writing ideas and randomly choose one that strikes my fancy. As all the best things begin with me, I feel it only right to begin this writing journey by choosing an idea that will fully illustrate the enigma that is me. The idea I chose for today was thus phrased: Write two descriptions of yourself for an online dating service. First, be the kind of girl who’d be taken home to meet the mother. Then try a hot, sexy version. This shall be fun…

#1. Young 30-something woman looking for love and the perfect person to raise gorgeous children with. Intelligent, witty, and caring. I will always kiss you goodnight and try my hardest to cook beautiful meals for you, though I cannot guarantee that they will always turn out. It’s A Wonderful Life is my favorite movie, because I long to have a family exactly like George Bailey’s. I play piano for my Grandma’s church,  and write in my spare time. I am in charge of a restaurant, but one day hope to become a published author so I can stay home and read to my babies. I haven’t the face of a Boticelli angel, but people have told me I’m very pretty. If you envision growing old with someone and sitting on a front porch somewhere drinking iced tea in your old age with her, I just might be it.

(Ok, not that that’s done, on to the fun.)

#2 Are you looking for lust in all the wrong places? Look no further, because here I am! 5’3″, DDD, and an ass that has been described as “perfect for anything”, I’m a girl who’s always ready for a good time, and I won’t say no to any requests (other than ones that include bodily fluids.) If you prefer a taller chic, no problem. My many stilettos help me out in that area! Looking to tie a girl up? Just the thought of it makes me hot. Wanna be tied up? I’ll make you beg. I’m intelligent enough I’ll even play chess with you after we’re done. Strip poker is my game of choice, though I  must warn you that I’m excellent at it, so wear extra layers. Blowjobs are one of my favorite past times, and I will swallow if you ask nicely. If I disappoint you in anyway, please feel free to administer spankings until I learn what your desires are. I’ve been described as “gorgeous”, “pretty” and “funny”. I am a writer; I write a lot of things, but erotica seems to be my favorite these days. I’ll bake for you in nothing other than my apron, and you’ll thank me for it later. As an extra bonus, I just happen to like girls too, so invite that hottie you’ve been checking out over. A forewarning- I might not share her. You know you wanna, so just call me, already. XOXO

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The Night Before Christmas (A Whorehouse Tale)


Here’s a naughty version for you all. Happy Holidays! XOXO

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the whore-house

not a hooker was stirring, or even a mouse.

The thigh-highs were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would fill them with sex-wares.

The hustlers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of vibrators danced in their heads.

The Madam in her fur robe, and pimp in his coat,

Had just settled down with some cuffs and some rope.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

The pimp rushed over to see what was the matter.

He left the poor madam all tied up in bed,

While he looked out the window while scratching his head.

The neon from bar lights on the fresh-plowed snow,

Gave the glitter of strippers to the objects below.

When what to his lust-occupied eyes should appear,

But a Peterbilt semi, and a drunk plastered trucker.

The driver was fat, and totally tipsy,

The pimp thought he resembled St. Nicky.

He fell from the cab with a curse and finger,

And yelled at the top of his lungs for some strippers:

“Hey Sugar! Yo, Mimi! Venetia and LuLu!

Come, Baby! Come, Ginger! Come, Macy and Penny!

Get down hear this instant, I’ve had quite a trip!

Come suck on my balls while I play with your clits!”

As the girls tumbled out of their beds at the noise,

The pimp opened the window and screamed at the boy.

“Now look hear, you fucker! You gotta have money!

Pussy ain’t free, so show me some gravy!”

The trucker he swore as he dug through his pockets.

He’d spent all his dough on beer and some cigarettes.

He stumbled through the front whorehouse door,

And pleaded at the pimp about getting a whore.

“Dude! I ain’t got no money, no change at all. Yo!

My trailer’s filled with blowup dolls and dildos!

You can have them all if that bitch sucks my cock,

And sell all the rest to the sex shop down the block.”

The pimp, he thought hard, but then he thought, “It’s Christmas, oh joy!

My bitches deserve all his nipple clamps and toys.”

So he nodded affirmative; a hooker went down,

But when she came up, she was met with a frown.

“Your messy! Look at that jizz on your chin!”

The pimp railed at her while she looked on, chagrined.

The trucker sucked in a breath through his teeth,

While he mopped up his junk with a Christmassy wreath.

He chuckled when he saw spooge on his belly,

Because it reminded him a little of jelly.

The girls all stood silent, awaiting their orders,

The pimp slapped the hooker and shook her thin shoulders.

The trucker said, “Wait! Now wait just a second!

The gal helped me out. No need for you to wreck her!”

The pimp stopped his tirade, and glared at the trucker.

The trucker saw a new girl and wanted to fuck her.

He rubbed his soft cock til it started to grow,

Then he bent the girl over and he drilled that poor ‘ho.

The pimp was so surprised at his fervor,

He just stood there in awe and watched in great pleasure.

With a snap of his finger, two girls took their clothes off,

And got out the whips, ’cause he liked it rough.

The rest of the story, I will not really say,

Let’s just say everyone got off good on that day.

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A Lesbian Romantic Monday


I am slightly disturbed that none of Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday Banners have two women on them, because I am forced to use the less-than-tantalizing cherry blossom pic. There can be romance between women dammit! I’ll write you a story just to prove it:

“I’ve never had an orgasm.”

Frankie was shocked; whether it was at the fact a coworker at her new job was bringing up this subject, or the fact that it was a late-thirty-something woman had yet to experience true pleasure she couldn’t say. Either way, she decided to ignore her unsettled brain.

“Did the guys here say something to you?” Frankie asked up front. She didn’t go around boasting her interest in women, but if someone asked her, she didn’t deny it. All it took was a group of guys standing around talking about hot ass for them to find out she was very opinionated on the subject; despite the fact that she had a boyfriend. It usually didn’t take long for everyone she worked with to find out she was bisexual. She figured that was the reason this woman she’d only been introduced to was spouting her most intimate secret to her.

Heather looked at her quizzically. “No? What would they have said?”

“Nevermind.” Frankie shook her head and changed the subject. “So really? You seriously have never had an orgasm? You mean with intercourse?”

Heather looked at her pointedly. “No, I mean, EVER.”

“Whaaaaaaaat?!?!?!!?!??!?!” Frankie’s brain was going nuts. She cleared her throat so she didn’t blurt out what she was thinking- something along the lines of “Well, that explains alot.” Instead, she said, “Wait. So you’re telling me that you’re thirty-eight and you’ve never had an orgasm. What about with a vibrator?”

“No, I have one, but it doesn’t do anything for me. My exboyfriends all said I’m too uptight and need to relax. The last one was really pissed when he couldn’t get me off.”

Frankie let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Holy shit, she thought. “Sooo, what are you gonna do about it? You need to be having an orgasm before your 40th.” she said it jokingly, but she meant it.

Heather threw up her hands, frustrated. “I don’t know! I feel like I don’t know what I’m missing. I mean, I guess I enjoy sex, but it’s not like there’s big finale or anything.” She looked at Frankie and then looked away quickly, as if she was ashamed. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anyone? Like ANYONE? I would be so completely embarrassed.”

Frankie shrugged. She didn’t like people enough to be caring what secrets who had, so she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to break this woman’s confidence. “Sure. I won’t tell anyone.”

The brunette took a deep breath before she began. “I’ve always had this fantasy of going down on another woman. I mean, I feel like if I could figure out how to give someone like me an orgasm, then maybe I’d be able to figure out how to give myself one.” She looked at Frankie sheepishly. “Please don’t be all weird, but all the other girls I’ve told that to just freaked out and didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Frankie laughed inwardly, wondering if Heather had realized that she wouldn ‘t be able to pleasure herself the way she fantasized pleasuring another woman. The image of Heather bending like a contortionist in order to tongue her own clit made Frankie emit a noticeable giggle.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Heather asked, hurt.

Frankie waved a hand. “No, I’m not, I promise. I just…” She just what? She didn’t even know. She cleared her throat again, and gave Heather her flirtiest grin. “So, are you asking me if you can go down on me?” She always deflected awkward situations by flirting; it seemed the most natural thing to do.

Heather shook her head. “Well, no- I mean, I don’t even really know you. And you have a boyfriend. Do you think this means I’m bisexual?”

Ugh. Frankie hated the titles. Gay, lesbian, bisexual. Why did everybody have to put a label on things? She always wondered why people couldn’t just accept that some people are attracted to who they’re attracted to, regardless of gender.

“No, it doesn’t mean that at all. It just means you want to have an orgasm.” Frankie’s blunt manner sometimes got the best of her, and she couldn’t control how she worded things. “I like girls, and I don’t consider myself bisexual.”

Frankie found it intensely amusing that Heather now looked at her with different eyes. “You like women? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, you’re probably the only one who didn’t.” Frankie stood up. “So anyway, you need to have an orgasm already.”

Which is how they’d ended up here. For weeks after their initial conversation, Heather had continuously broached the idea that Frankie bring her home. Because Frankie wasn’t appalled at the idea of two women together, Heather had asked Frankie to talk with her boyfriend and ok a sort of Orgasm Finding Ceremony. Frankie’s boyfriend had been as shocked as she about a nearly-forty year old woman not having an orgasm, and told Frankie to do what she had to. Heather was certainly neurotic, which was exactly why Frankie didn’t let her know what she was planning. So after work, she grabbed Heather’s hand.

“You’re coming with me tonight.” She didn’t want to Heather to feel awkward because she was a woman, so she took a no-nonsense manly approach.

In the car ride, she could tell Heather was nervous, because she wasn’t saying anything. Heather talked incessently, which was one of the reasons Frankie had given pause to this decision, but then the whole ridiculousness of Heather’s dilemma got the better of her. She pulled into the parking lot and put the car into park.

“Let’s go.” She spoke gruffly, but when Heather looked at her, she winked and Heather’s face split into a wondrous grin. Frankie knew she’d put Heather at ease, and breathed an inward sigh of relief.

Frankie had rented a hotel room, because if this turned out to be a bad experience, she didn’t want either of them reliving it every night they came home for the foreseeable future. She took ahold of Heather’s hand, and pulled her into the room. She reached around Heather and pulled the door shut, making sure her breath landed on the side of Heather’s neck as she did so. She berated herself for wearing her shorter heels today, because Heather was a good 5 inches taller than she, but she figured that wouldn’t matter soon enough.

She led Heather to the bed, and guided her to sit down. Heather remained mute, and Frankie could see the tendrils of her hair shaking nervously. She knelt down in front of Heather so they were face to face.

“Listen. Tonight is nothing to be nervous about. I’m here to be what you need, so you don’t have to worry about anything out there.” She nodded her head in the direction of the outside world. “And you don’t have to worry about anything in here. I want you to relax, and not think about what other lovers could or couldn’t give you. I’m not them.”

Heather nodded, and with that silent admission, Frankie set out to deliver pleasure.

She removed Heather’s shoes, a dingy unstylish pair, and ran her hand up Heather’s leg. Heather was wearing a black skirt that fell just above the knee, and Frankie placed a kiss on one knee, and then the other. She  looked up to see Heather looking down at her. She winked again to lighten the mood, and continued her journey.

She straightened up and pulled Heather forward enough to slide her skirt off. Heather was forced to lean back, and she did so, resting her elbows on the bed and watching intently. Frankie figured this was as good a position as any, and pressed Heather’s knees apart to that her panties were squarely in front of Frankie’s face. Frankie ran her tongue along the inside of Heather’s thighs, first one, and then the other, before burying her nose in the satiny fabric. She heard Heather gasp, and she smiled to herself. It was a sweet musky smell; and Frankie inhaled deeply. She never tired of that scent.

She pulled down Heather’s panties, and admired the well-groomed landing strip that was underneath.

The End.

P.S. Just kidding, but I’ll finish it tomorrow.

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