Template change

While I'm trying to figure out the Beta Blogger, I had to apply one of their new "Dynamic Templates." I don't like it either. I'll jack with it later.

EDIT: jacked with it, still hating it.

EDIT 2006-09-28: Jacked with it some more, figuring it out. This ain't your mama's HTML.

Oh, To Be His Snake's Woman Partner

This was in my Lady Ann’s Brothel message box this morning:

After I/she/you came to know Your advertisement’s details
nPerish come I train you that be honored builder we progress so that by the official demand of the marriage languid be created my snake’s woman partner
Languid prepared for is a question or which an inquiry you should know him
With the pure of a greeting
emailm@sk.ed
Or
otheremailm@sk.ed
On Jehu or He/they makes my correspondence strong if you don’t decree the connection across the position
I hope for the answer spoliation or an obligation

I now have to run this through my Magic Comprehensive Syntax Analyzer, and see if I can extract anything coherent out of it in any way whatsoever.

If you do find this and you are the original author, you speak in strange whispers, friend. Please be aware that I prefer standard English or broken French for all further communications.

Out of my head

I’ve been getting into this, sort of roleplay lately. I guess you’d call it roleplay.

Have you ever closed your eyes and pretend it’s someone else?

I sometimes close my eyes and pretend that I’m someone else, a very different woman in a different place, and Monsieur is giving to me while I’m bent over a park bench.

It feels good.

...that sweetie who rang up my fast food...

While he plunges in and out of me, I’ll suck my thumb and pretend I’m sucking that sweetie who rang up my fast food that afternoon.

While Monsieur fucks me.

He grips my ass with both hands, making a noise of growling low and then my breath gets ragged and oh sweet gods it hurts and I bite my hand and pretend it’s some sweet chica tenderly kissing my lips, to take away the pain/pleasure of Monsieur’s insistent cock.

While Monsieur fucks me.

In my head, the chica is making a running commentary, “She’s really starting to get red, Monsieur … I don’t think she will be able to handle it … bite her a little, Monsieur, maybe that’ll help … does it hurt, Yearning Heart? It should hurt a little at first, that way you know he’s really inside of you….”

While Monsieur fucks me.

Where does she come from? How does she intrude into my thoughts like this? I don’t know, but she is in my hand as it moves to one of my nipples, squeezes it and plays with it, making it erect, swollen, tender; she makes me suck my finger until it’s wet and then she takes my wet thumb and index finger, moves it down to my hungry, naughty clitoris and holds it prisoner in her/my hand. Her green eyes flash as contact is made with my very liquid center. She smiles. “She’s going to come,” I hear her say matter-of-factly to Monsieur.

While Monsieur fucks me.

“Unghodddddd…” I cry.

Monsieur grabs my ass, pulls my hips to him and then holds me there. I’d rather he would move, because he’s just buried inside me. It feels like I’ll split open.

While Monsieur fucks me.

“Please, Monsieur,” I cry.

“Oh, you do please Monsieur,” he whispers in my ear. I can feel the whiskers on his chin against the back of my neck. “You please Monsieur so, so much.” He holds me there. I can’t take it. My mouth is locked agape, no sound emerges, and I feel his cock swell, still unmoving, and he holds me tight against him. I can’t take it. I want to plead, beg, tell him it’s too much, but I can’t talk, I can’t move, I’m impaled, imprisoned, can’t move….

I feel a pulse going through the shaft inside me and finally I feel him fill me with a gush. As it pours into me, he slowly pulls out a little, giving me some breathing room, and it leaks out of me. I imagine we are on the stage in my old high school, my graduating class, all my old teachers are watching and some whispering to themselves, “I told you she’d be a hot fuck.”

While Monsieur fucks me.

He gasps, so quietly I barely notice, my heart pounding in my ears. My chica kisses my cheek and says, “you’ll be fine, darling.” I close my eyes as the last of my orgasm bubbles through me. Monsieur’s hands are so warm, and they envelope me and slide over my body, still bent over. My eyes come back into focus and we are in the bedroom; I am bent over the bed and holding the sheets so hard I have pulled them half off the bed.

It slides out of me and leaves me gaping open. I’m deliciously sore, chafed. There is a mewing sound and I realize it’s me. He takes me in his arms and I curl up, closing my eyes. He places the gold coin in my hand and closes his hand over mine, and I wonder where all these images come from; why I think such naughty things, who have I become, and why do I become a completely different person.

While Monsieur fucks me.

More Rules of Engagement

This was my post that I started last week, and never finished. It ended up being a conversation with Monsieur instead.

My dad irons more than Monsieur boinks me and I need boinking. Well, no, my dad doesn’t iron that much; still. I need boinking. And not him going down on me until I get off a couple times and he says, that’s it. Then he holds me until I fall asleep. He needs to take me; that other business is like, not it. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but, he’s gotta give it up. I do a lot for him. C’mon, this is just, what? 30 minutes, twice a week? Is that asking a lot? I ask you.

Is it any better now? Well. From the outside looking in, it’s the same. From where I’m sitting, it’s better. I hope it’s better. Anyway, Monsieur either is trying to be better or he figured out a really good way to hold me at arm’s length again.

I’m easily conned, maybe. Maybe not. I still have Lady Ann’s.

---

In other developments … a woman who knows Monsieur and is probably hopelessly in love with him has found this blog, and thinks that I’m less than desirable stepmom and girlfriend material for this family. To her, I say, welcome, but please leave the hate comments outside. You’re perfectly welcome to comment, but please do so in a way that is constructive and not cutting. This is why I have removed your comment below.

Mariko, if you think I’m afraid that you’re going to call Monsieur and tell him what an awful woman I am, well, I suggest to you that you should give it a try. I’m not going to live my life in fear of him finding out who I am and what I do; besides, you know how smart he is and please be sure that he is perfectly aware of what I do in chat rooms. He also knows how much I love his children. What are you offering him? Wouldn’t he have accepted your offer instead of mine, more than a year ago?

I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you two exactly the way you wanted it, but that does not give you permission to come into my space and trash me and act the juvenile bitch.

I apologize to the rest of you readers, but I have no other way to talk to this woman but on this page. [Smiles] Let’s just move on, shall we?

Redeemed

Well, I gave Monsieur the coin the other day, and he redeemed it last night. I wish I had time to go into it but it’s really busy here right now. It was good, I will say, and also … well this is kind of odd but there was this feeling of power I got afterwards that is hard to describe. I was stretched out on the bed, afterglowing, and Monsieur got up to use the bathroom. My back was arching, I was stretching and feeling wonderful. He came and stood over me and dropped the golden Sacajawea coin on my belly. It was as though he was paying me for it, in gold. I felt like a temple courtesan or something. It turned me on.

Under our rules of engagement, I have to hold the coin for 1 week before I redeem it again. Just knowing I’ll be able to, that there are rules, and that there is a framework for me asking for sex without actually asking for sex, makes me feel good. He’s wondeful.

Out of the Wilderness

I don’t know what made me so brave; maybe something got knocked into place when that fat kid punched me in the face the other day.

I sat down last night with Monsieur and just laid it out straight. He’s a good man, the best boyfriend I’ve ever had in my life, he’s a great dad, a good teacher, and I have little or nothing to complain about. Except.

I’m not getting enough sex. Oh, boo-hoo, how bad can that be, you ask. Well, it can get kind of bad. It makes me feel unattractive and I find myself looking at other couples wistfully as they kiss in the produce section. I know they just got it good the night before, and possibly again that morning. I’m envious. I don’t like it. I am worth it. I’m worth having.

I’m still keeping myself up. I ride my bike down to the highway and back every other morning. I do my crunches faithfully, twice a day, twenty reps each time. I do my Kegels four times a day, twenty reps each time. I bathe every day, I wash my hair every other night, I brush it faithfully. I check in the mirror. I look all right.

I pointed all this out to Monsieur, and I kept my temper down. I didn’t cry, like I thought I would. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I told him how much I loved him and how much I appreciate him.

It’s just, well, seeing him come out of the shower every night and the water dripping down his chest and legs, seeing him drying his body off – c’mon, I’m human. If you deprive me of that body, I’m going to resent it.

He had, at one time, agreed to be more attentive to that need and not to let me get so deprived, but he has not been doing the duty lately. So, I told him. I tried to use terms like, “I want,” “I need,” “I must have,” “I don’t want,” and so forth. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I tried my best to keep myself calm and my voice level.

The main thing I stuck to, my main point, was that I don’t want to ask for it all the time, every time, and risk rejection. I want him to just take me. Once a week, minimum. If he were to do that, I might feel more comfortable about asking for it other times. I don’t know if I’m a product of social conditioning or what, but I like it when the man is The Man and I am The Woman. I don’t like being thought of as a sex object all the time, but for twenty minutes or so, once a week, or twice a week even, would be a nice change of pace, and I’ll let him know if I get tired of it.

I think he took it very well.

After about a half an hour of give and take, he seemed to have an idea. He went into his room, opened his dresser drawer, and came back with a small gold coin, which he put in my hand.

a small gold coin, which he put in my hand.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Actually, it’s a Sacajawea dollar,” he said. “But, I want you to hang on to that. When you want me to ‘just take you,’ as you say, you give it to me. After I take you, I will give it back, for you to use the next time.”

I looked at it in my palm, then I looked at him. “You can’t just … ” I trailed off.

He sighed. “Apparently not. I think, like I said, I have this foolish, subconscious belief that I am taking advantage of you. Also I am trying to get myself over the idea that you are the same teenager that you were when I met you. And also, well … ” he began, then he looked away.

“You still feel like you’re cheating on Maggie?” I asked.

He looked at me. His eyes are so brown. And last night, at that moment, they were so liquid and so deep, they looked like melted bittersweet chocolate drops.

“I am not very good at getting over some things, some ideas,” he said. “I, like you, am a product of years of conditioning, too.”

We talked for an hour or more. It was good. I hung on to Sacajawea, and put her in my pocket. Perhaps she’ll help to lead me out of this wilderness, and maybe she’ll do a little translating between my language and his.