Unexpected treasures

One of my geeky hobbies includes self-educating about art media I'm less familiar with. For example, I get a kick out of learning about film, often by watching iconic works and reading about them.

This weekend I caught a "blaxploitation" film called Coffy, a 1973 vigilante tale. Pam Grier (who was, and of course still is, beautiful) plays a nurse who infiltrates and takes down a bunch of crime lords, seeking revenge for her younger sister's drug addiction.

It was fascinating. But I won't rattle on about the sociopolitical study here. What I do want to point out is this: there were boobies all over the place, and not a single implant in sight. Natural bodies! The breasts all moved and behaved like real breasts! It was awesome!

Great moments in flattery

Last night, I learned that I -- more specifically, my dirty-pillows, my twin gazelles, my twins, my hoots -- have inspired a breast fetish in some lovely chap. He claims that the fetish wasn't there before I came along.

I usually think of them as average, ordinary, everyday breasts; you know, things I just ended up with genetically, and am tasked with managing in the long term. But apparently they have magical properties. Perhaps they're like the peppermint hot cocoa one can buy at (forgive me) Starbucks during the holidays: a taste of that stuff just makes the whole day a little more sparkley.

I shall have to exploit this.

A good dream.

That dream I told you about? It unfolded into quite a saga, escalating over the span of several encounters. They played out all too quickly in the scant few hours I spent there.

In the first... you and I were entangled in your living room. It wasn't one of our more intense sessions, physically, but you were (of course) dominant.

It began with you... insisting... that I love you with my mouth. You held my hair in a messy pile behind my neck, and I felt you move my head back and forth while I suckled you, shoving yourself into the soft of my throat. You know how much I love this. I tried to swallow you, but you wouldn't let me have control.

Oh, and the other minor detail: you'd invited a friend over to watch. He regarded us calmly from the armchair, just a few feet away.

Soon you pushed me back against the couch cushions, knelt in front of me, and returned the oral favor. I can't come easily when you focus so much on my clit, and the pleasure is excruciating. Of course, this is what you chose to do; you wanted to prolong the agony. You let me drag you up at long intervals to kiss, so I could taste myself in your mouth.

At long last, you showed me mercy: you shoved your fingers inside and curled them hard while you tongued my clit, and after a few minutes of this rhythm, I was close to begging for release, but couldn't speak the words. I watched the stranger; he watched you. Finally I came, shattering in slow, wet throbs.

And then you climbed onto the couch, bent my legs back, leaned in, and fucked me, while the friend continued to watch in his quiet way. I was shy and wouldn't look toward him, but you held nothing back.

You liked being watched, I think. You liked showing him how the sweat on your shoulders glows in the fading afternoon sun. You liked the way he looked down at your glistening cock, and at the way our hips fit so well together.

When you came, instead of loosing yourself onto my belly or my chest, you slammed into me as far as you would go. You threw your head back and roared while your body shook.

And that was the end. For the first encounter. The beginning.

And then...