Jokes

Fat Charlie the Archangel
Files for divorce
He says well this will eat up a year of my life
And then there's all that weight to be lost

My husband and I love each other too much to stay married.

I've known my husband since I was 21, been his partner since 22. I'm 30 now. Y'all do the math on that, according to your own interpretations of the significance of those years. They're pretty big years, no matter how you see it.

I don't know what happens next. I don't know how to do this. How do people do this?

We're both deeply appreciative that there is no anger, hate, or untruth between us. Neither has lied to or cheated on the other. We've been fair to each other throughout, as best we've been able. It hasn't been good enough. We're not well-matched -- not as partners.

I hope it's true that we'll be able to remain friends.

Missing the pain

So far, the only knuckle that hurts is that on the third finger of my left hand.

Lovely, eh?

I need...

... A punching bag. A real one. Sturdy, solid, and canvas. The sort of thing that I can hit as hard as I can and scrape my knuckles raw and bloody.

My husband play-fought with me just now, and it was such an extraordinary relief that when I tired I immediately collapsed against him and burst into tears. He let me hit him pretty hard, though I kept my punches to his defensive forearm for the most part. He said he won't be bruised from it tomorrow, but I think I will. I hope I will.

H never lets me play like that. He made me promise a long time ago that I would never take a swing at him again, even in play. Not even in play! But he let me just now. When he left me to go upstairs to bed I thanked him, told him it makes a big difference to me to be able to let loose like that from time to time. I told him it was fun. He gave me a smile full of tolerance and sadness and said, "It's not fun for me."

I wish my knuckles stung more right now.

Hairy HNT

I don’t wash my hair every day. There’s too much of it, and it’s not necessary. On the mornings I do wash it, I’ve formed a certain routine of what happens after I’m out of the shower.

I dry my body first, wrap my hair up in the towel, put in my contacts, brush my teeth, and only then put on my bathrobe and step out of the bathroom. Often I’ll then pop out to the back porch for a cigarette, but not always. Usually I’ll wander upstairs and dress. Bra first, then jeans, blouse, socks. (I love that half-dressed stage in which I’m just wandering about in my jeans and bra.) Once I’m dressed I’ll head back downstairs and unwrap the towel from my hair, smooth in a bit of anti-frizz goo, and blow dry it straight.

This morning, however, I changed up the routine a bit without even really thinking about it. Hair into the towel, contacts, teeth, bathrobe, cigarette… then back to dry the hair before heading upstairs to dress.

I took off my robe and hung it on its hook as soon as I walked into the bedroom. Naked, I thought about dressing but decided to weigh myself first. It was as I walked into the adjacent room toward the scale that I felt my hair swing against my back. Warm, smooth, delicate brushes of silk swinging across my shoulders and halfway down my back. My skin, still freshly scrubbed and exceptionally sensitive, thrilled at that luxurious touch. It felt almost as if I were being gently stroked by a lover’s fingers, so soft and delicate was the kiss of my long hair against my skin.

I’m tempted to change my routine. Would I enjoy the sensation as much, were it a regular occurrence?

I do believe I would.

Glowing - Part 2

I’m out of practice at being on the receiving end of pleasure. I’m so deeply conditioned to not orgasming unless I do it myself that I don’t even know how to let my body go.

The first time Alpha went down on me, I was slow to come. But then he slid his fingers inside me with that oft-mentioned “come hither” motion, sucked my clit into his mouth and tongued me hard and didn’t stop until I exploded screaming and gasping and pulling his head tight against me.

Later he said to me with only a hint of accusation, “You didn’t tell me you squirt.” I do? I had no idea! I can’t even remember the last time I came that hard. Ever? My husband has never remarked about ejaculation on my part, so I think Alpha’s discovered a new trick.

He gave me his cock shortly after that. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be with a man with stamina. He was optimistic that I’d come again from being fucked, but as much as I loved the hard pounding thrust of his cock inside me, I rarely even feel close to orgasm during sex. I told him so and he was happy. Apparently his wife comes easily and quickly upon penetration, and is not appreciative of his ability and inclination to keep going, playing and feeling and watching and fucking.

I’m appreciative. Deeply. ☺

I let him push me all around. Wanted him to. Want me on my back, legs spread wide? Pull my ankles up to your shoulder – together over one shoulder or spread apart, one slender ankle on each side of your neck? Push me over on my side? Take me from behind when you’re crouched on your knees so that I’m more kneeling than I am on all fours, my hips held tight in your hands? Yes. I accept. Yes, please, more… yes.

He had me on my back again, my legs around him, driving into me with that wonderful twist of his hips that made his cock rotate inside me, touching places that I didn’t know could feel such rich pleasure. He had hold of my hands when he pulled the move I’m still longing to feel again – he held my hands tight and pulled me with him back until we’d completed a nice vertical 180 degree reversal so that I was astride him – all without a moment’s disengagement.

I was so startled that I giggled. I’m not used to being so easily pushed and pulled around. My legs are flexible, sure, and if you want to roll me over from my back to my belly, you’ll find me bonelessly accommodating. But this – not the same. Oh, so much better. It was when I found my own rhythm astride him, driving him deep into me on my backstrokes, that I came for the second time.

It took me by surprise. I was astounded. It seemed like only moments before that I’d been throbbing and pulsing against his tongue and fingers, but there I was milking his cock with my spasming cunt in my second orgasm in an hour. He came shortly after that. After I’d recovered my breath from #2, I found that I wanted more, wanted to keep riding the thick, hard cock inside me… so I did… and he liked it.

We laid around for a while after that, getting to know each other’s habits and bodies a bit more. How much can I cuddle? Can I tangle my legs with yours and slide my calf up and down against yours, feeling that wonderful contrast of hard muscles and springy hair against my own smooth, slender legs? Wrap my arms around your torso and squeeze a bit, just to familiarize myself with the feel of your body against me? Let’s chat and laugh for a bit, tell silly stories about our youthful escapades. Let me fill my hands with your body.

It was when he went down on me again that I came for the third time. I definitely didn’t think it would work that time… but it did. Weak, limp, and boneless, I collapsed on his full, muscled chest shortly after. I giggled for a while, as is often my post-orgasmic wont. He laughed at me for my giggles, told me how much he enjoyed feeling me come against his mouth.

Thoroughly pleased and appreciative, I slid down his solid body and explored his powerful hockey-playing thighs, reveling in their massive strength. I slid my face into those musky warm corners of groin and turned my head to suck and tongue his balls. Only after that did I take his cock in my mouth.

Perhaps it was just his heightened arousal in response to our play, or his excitement at drinking in my third orgasm, or maybe it was merely his delight at actually having his cock sucked after ages of married dry spell. Perhaps he responded to my own deep enjoyment of the act, or the visual thrill of watching me slide the head of his cock against my lips, just feeling his taut contours against my mouth. Whatever cause, in short order I found myself with a mouth full of hot, salty, liquid pleasure… and I drank it down.

We had to leave shortly after. I’d brought a wonderful picnic of double cream camembert, crusty baguette, perfect avocado, and spicy sopressata, and he’d picked up a bottle of good red to complement the feast. The food made it from its bags to the table, but the knife I’d brought never did slice open the avocado or shave off slices of sausage. Instead, we tore off great hunks of bread and scooped up pungent, creamy dollops of soft cheese and devoured them as we dressed, feeding each other and ourselves and wallowing in the hedonism of continued consumption and sensation.

If you love me...

... You'll let me beat you when we play pool.

... You'll buy the next round.

... You'll tie my hands to the bed and fuck me thoroughly.

... You'll drop to your knees and let me feel me how much you appreciate that underneath my skirt I'm wearing stockings, and nothing else.

... You'll let me say wildly inconsistent things without calling me out on 'em.

... You'll pinch and roll and squeeze and bite my nipples between your fingers because they're excruciatingly sore and tender and begging for firm touch and hard teeth.

.... You'll laugh at my terrible jokes because when I tell them, I bend over and thrust my breasts at you to make the listening more worthwhile.

... You'll keep the conversation light and fun and playful, because that's what we're doing.

... You'll encourage me to say sinfully salacious things and make me feel meltingly desirable for the saying of them.

... You'll let me suck your cock the way I want for as long as it pleases me. And when I let you come in my mouth, you'll tell me that the feeling blew the top right offa you.

... You'll know that I toss out "If you love me" as an ironic phrase.

Glowing with pleasure

I feel wonderful right now. I can't remember the last time I felt this good.

I've been trying and trying since we opened this marriage to find just the right lover, and it's been torture. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm terribly picky. I've rejected dozens of suitors for various reasons. Too short (an instant and frequent dealbreaker for a girl who stands 6’ in her favorite boots), too vulgar, too eager and lacking in finesse, too young, too old, a career in sales, nervous laughter after each sentence, bad grammar, jewelry, an appreciation for stand-up comedy – you get the picture.

Most don’t make it past my chat test. As folks do these days, I find many potential lovers online; I have a few different offers up in a few different places. I’m clear in all of them that if an admirer wants to approach me, he’d best do it eloquently. I’ll not stand for shoddy English unless the writer is speaking it as a foreign language.

This one passed the chat test handily as soon as I advised him not to write “lol” unless he was, in fact, laughing out loud. (That bit of chat speak is far overused to convey only the slightest amusement, and I resent the inaccuracy of it.) Then, he followed through with a date for the next day: drinks after work in a bar I like. The second date was more drinks and a dirty Scandinavian movie from the 60’s at a local museum. Right now I’m coming down with exquisite mellowness from the high of three orgasms in four hours.

I know, I know – there are plenty of girls who might have come a dozen times or more in the same amount of time. I envy them. When employing only my own well-practiced skills, three in an hour and a half or two isn’t unheard of, but oh, no, no… it’s not the same.

I expected the first. We’d chatted about wedding rings, and when I sent him a picture of my own I clipped the image out of a photo titled “Spread”. I cropped in haste, and didn’t see the tiny sliver of moist pink visible in the left hand side of the frame.

He did.



He hinted that he’d enjoy seeing the photo in its entirety, and as he’d previously described himself of being adept at cutting and pasting, I sent him the image – in thirteen pieces. To be quite honest he made a bit of a hash of me, but he enjoyed the puzzle so thoroughly and, ah, frequently… that by the time we met today, I anticipated accurately that he’d take the first opportunity to indulge his mouth in a satisfying exploration of the reality behind the photo.

He did.

I'll tell y'all more later.

Sheer HNT

This bra hides nothing.

Look, and you can see the varied shades of my nipples and areolae. You can see that the captive bead in the ring on the left is steel, and the one on the right is hematite.

Feel, and your hand will fill with the warm, rounded weight of breast. There's little impediment of lace or stiff padding or adornment to interrupt the smooth glide of your fingertips against my nipples.

Taste - could you? Could your tongue feel the texture of that stiff nipple through the fabric? Try it, and find out.

Fantasy

Please, please, please... if I'm very good, may I please look like Ann-Margaret when I grow up?

Recycled

Okay, okay... So you've nailed me. I don't have a lot of lingerie. Very little, in fact. It's the result of having a partner of long years whose needs are very easily met.

I promise absolutely that you'll get to see some new lacy tidbits next time 'round. In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed these.

Confined HNT

What would be your response, were you graced with a live encounter with this image? Do you want to slide the backs of your fingers across those soft mounds? Or perhaps you'd prefer to bury your face between them, inhaling my warm fragrance and reveling in the silken touch of my skin to your cheek.

You want more than that, I think. You'd like to unfasten the top few hooks of this confining garment and create an avenue for your cock to travel. Wouldn't you? You'd like to see that full, taut glans of yours kissing against my breasts, my nipples. Would you like to find the long, trailing end of the ribbon around my neck and pull my head back, watch your cock slide up the column of my neck and brush against my chin, finally ending at my lips?

What else would you enjoy?

Party report

How many of you anticipated that I'd attract the girls, and not the boys? I hadn't, just as I hadn't previously thought of the pleasure of fondling my cock all evening. Shame on me, eh? But don't worry: in spite of not having been prepared for it, I rallied, and responded in kind most admirably, if I may flatter myself.

I don't usually attract women anymore, and I'm a bit out of practice at receiving such attention. It was delightful, though. I haven't danced with so many cute, interested girls since I was an undergrad, and even then, they weren't fondling the front of my pants.

Below is a view from above. Yes, this was quite a sordid party indeed. It was wonderful.

I'll try to have some better ones taken when I recycle the costume for the real event on Tuesday.

Looking for adventure

Or whatever comes my way...

I'm riled folks, and in the best way possible.

My libido's been down for a few days, a week, maybe. I'd say it's been a three-month low, at least, and I haven't enjoyed it a bit. But today...

Tonight I'm going to the first Halloween party of the season, and my costume thrills me. Yes, I'm taking this opportunity to display far more bosom that would usually be acceptable in polite company. However, I flatter myself that I'm putting a bit of a twist on the usual half-hearted deception of "slutkitties": in addition to the bosom, I'll ostensibly be sporting a cock.



You can see from my Dress Rehearsal picture that my costume is not particularly flamboyant or even obvious. (Though that might just be bad photography...) Suffice it to say that if I tire of staring down at and fondling my deliciously soft, creamy, and prominent breasts, I can reach down and cup the hefty package between my legs.


I thought of this costume over a year ago, but never had the chance to employ it. It sounded like a good idea to represent Sexual Ambiguity, but I never tried on all the gear. In fact, it wasn't until earlier this week that I even thought of how fun it would be to fondle my cock all night. It wasn't until today (yes, I'm a dreadful procrastinator), that I finally tried on said cock, and let me tell ya - it feels good. Doubtless this is a classic case of penis envy, but I care not if I fall into Freudian patterns. I was hot and wet before I even got to the mirror.

This should make for an interesting night. As I said, the vivid imagination and the corresponding lust that accompanies it had left me behind for a while, and I missed them. I was wondering how much I'd enjoy this party, as my appetite for flirtation had abandoned me altogether, and this is a party at which enticement will flow freely from the taps. I'm delighted to report that I'm feeling quite capable of quaffing freely.

I'm thanking my nice new cojones.

Yoga on Tuesday

"Fuck me," she said reflectively.

"What's that you say?" He was standing on the second floor balcony.

"I thought it had faded. Gone away. That wasn't meant to sound like an imperative. Don't take it that way."

"Oh?" He looked confused, but interested.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter, because I was wrong."

"You're going to have to elaborate. You've lost me." He looked ready to launch off into one of his monologues so she carried on quickly.

"That attraction. It had been a while since I saw you last, and you failed to address almost everything I said in my emails, and then - not surprisingly - I didn't hear from you or even see you and I thought maybe it would have lost its impact. But I was wrong." She knew her face swirled with a confusion of expressions: anticipation, eagerness, regret. And heat. She felt it rising in her already, standing ten feet below him, on the sidewalk in the cold. Could he see it in the dark? She felt as if it radiated from her, lit her up from within.

That's what draws him, she thought to herself. Something about him ignites her sensual core and it shows. Like the proverbial moth, he's drawn to that flame of unbridled, uninhibited carnality in her.

"So it is," came his familiar response. "So it is," more slowly this time.

Trite though it sounded, he was right. It was so. Between them was an urgent intuition only separation could deny, but mere proximity prevented that. They'd demonstrated as much already. Was it only chance and geography that threw them together? The scientist in her shunned thoughts of serendipity. Magnetism she might have understood. Was that it? Did it matter? She wanted to see him again. She hoped it would be tonight.

In the Stacks - Part One

She’d seen him come in before, always heading directly to the current periodicals, sparing but a glance for the attentive staff. He had the look of a professor, given the context, but she was sure that had she met him in a dark street he’d look like a pirate, a daredevil of some sort. She allowed her mind to wander there for a moment, imagined herself turning a corner to find him loitering under a streetlight. Their eyes met suddenly, a spark of electricity arcing between them.

Trite. It’s been done, she thought.

“Miss?”

Oh!

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to find Mathematische Zeitschrift from 1947. Your catalog says you have it, but I don’t find it on the shelf.”

“Ah, yes. Bound journals dating prior to 1982 are on the opposite side of the library, on your left as you head back.”

She watched him walk away, thinking suddenly of the long, dim hallway that held the older publications – over a century of scientific experimentation, philosophy, failure and progress. She felt herself aroused, of a sudden, at the thought of that face, that body, having a mind equal to those dusty tomes.

“Miss?”

Yes…

“Sir? Can I help you with something else?” Did he see that her smile showed more than she’d intended?

“I’m sorry to be such a bother. I must be quite dim, but I still can’t find it.”

Odd. They’re alphabetized in that section.

“No problem at all. We’ll go find it together, shall we?”

She felt her hips swing a bit under her skirt, was conscious of the movement of her arse as she strode quickly in front of him. Was he watching? Had he seen the faint stain of a flush on her cheeks as she’d risen from her chair? They were almost of a height, a minor rarity for her and she’d thrilled as she met his eyes for a moment before turning away in front of him.

Down the aisle to the back of the room, turn left past the maze of study carrels - empty at this time of morning - then into the corridor the library had annexed a few years back. It was narrow, poorly lit, the shelves filled floor to ceiling with large, heavy old books in an effort to economize space as best possible. Not enough room for two to walk abreast, and she felt him closer behind her as she slowed her pace, reading the titles distractedly.

Philosophical Transactions of… no, too far! She stopped suddenly to turn around but he hadn’t been watching the titles, either, and stumbled against her when she stopped. She’d been against the impact.

He didn’t back away. She was frozen, transfixed, her pulse escalating at the knowledge of his body, just the fabric of his clothes brushing hers.

He took a step forward. Just a few inches… She felt firm texture of bindings under her hands, the warmth of his chest against her back.

“Hold on. I think I see it down here.”

He crouched behind her. Was that…? His fingers on her ankle, just under the hem of her long skirt, began to inch upward.

She felt her whole body flush, knew of herself that such a reaction invariably brought a rush of moisture to her sex. He was so close! Could he feel her temperature rise? Smell the sudden warmth of her sex? Oh, please… she turned around, allowing her thighs to part a bit more as she stood on trembling legs, grateful for the solidity of the shelves behind her.

Oh, the texture of his hands! Broader, ever so slightly rougher than her own, the pads of his fingers moved inexorably up her calves, her thighs, on a path of inevitable discovery of her smooth, moist, and completely bare labia.

She felt his fingers first. Her head was thrown back against the shelves, letting her body feel, not watching, for once.

Taste me.

She felt his breath against her secret lips, warm, rushing, and then… yes, oh yes, please don’t stop your tongue, yes, oh, oh, yes…

With his fingers he parted her silken labia but his mouth was quick to intrude past the opened gate. He must have opened his mouth wide to enclose her in that way, her outer labia further moistened by the inside of his mouth, her inner lips, her secret depths probed deeply, invasively by his tongue. She felt herself melt against his mouth. Felt her body lower a bit to envelop his face with her sex. Breathing… yes…

His tongue, his tongue found her clitoris, rising, plump, and eager. He flicked against it and she gasped, trying to contain her sounds. She’d make a fool of herself if she didn’t stop but please, yes, lick me don’t stop. He sucked her swollen clitoris into is mouth, drummed his tongue against it twice, firmly, four times, and she heard herself whimper – silence! He pulled away.

“After I make you come for my mouth I’m going to fuck you – right here, as hard as I can. Don’t make a sound.”

To be continued...

Saturday Night

Tonight I'm going to go out with my husband. I'm on a quest for a codpiece to complete my Halloween costume, so we'll run that errand first. Being in the store that carries such items as codpieces will incite my lust, bring a flush to my cheeks, and for the duration of the shopping experience, bring vulgarities tripping off my tongue.

Later we'll go for drinks at a bar down the street, and I'll flirt with the gay man. Later still my husband will find himself in conversation with some asexual stranger and I'll stretch my long, booted legs toward the first straight single man who catches my eye. We'll chat and I'll delight until my husband drags me home, not angry, just indifferent.

[Note: I published this last night, but in goosing around today, edited and re-published and mixed things up a bit. I'll get clever at this eventually, I'm sure, but I'm not yet.]

Mine.

I'm in love with a blogger, a man whose face I've never seen but whose writing ignites me. Perhaps I'm just distractedly in lust? I must still bear in mind my husband, the Dominant I've been exploring, and maybe - from time to time and if I'm lucky - Yoga, but...

I'll fall out of love, I know. At the very least, my competent brain will convince my fatuous heart and my grasping, optimistic cunt that nothing will come of this. Eventually reason will overcome passion and I won't feel that surge of damp heat between my thighs when he initiates a chat. I'll reach a point at which I no longer crave the feeling of his desirous eyes on me or the knowledge that images of me make his cock hard, and I'll photograph myself for my own sake.

Sigh. "Reason will overcome passion." That's no fun. On what plane are reason and passion able to coexist? Perhaps that's what marriage is supposed to be - a melding of emotions and personal characteristics, the two balanced, equilibrium found or created by the joining of well-met partners.

But what of growth, evolution, change in the partners? I've grown much these past eight years, but I don't know that my husband has. Did I catch up to him, or have I outgrown him? Certainly, we are in a state of disequilibrium. My passion exceeds both his reason and my own. I'm fortunate that though not precisely understanding of my passion, he is at least relatively tolerant of it; one might almost say "supportive," in truth.

And so I find myself here. I've been a quiet shadow on the edge of the blog world - especially the erotic/sex blog world - for some time now. I want to step in, to share and be shared. I'd like an outlet for my salacious writings and my muddled thoughts on marriage. Judging by the abundance of sex-oriented blogs, there's ample audience for the former; perhaps you'll stick around through my bits of the latter, as well.