I was mute, my gaze riveted on Debra's now flame colored pubes, as she parted her legs, putting her right hand on her pubic bone just above the remaining hairs. I could see her push down hard, causing her cuntlips to separate and forcing her clit to stand up even taller than it was before. She was shiny with the wetness of arousal, and the sight of her made my breath come faster, my throat constricting slightly in the excitement of seeing her present herself to me on the command of another. My cock jumped involuntarily, fully extended, and I could see the precum begin to ooze from the slit.
"Do you like it?" she asked again, and it suddenly seemed terribly important for me to give the right answer in the right way. Barely able to speak from the excitement I was feeling, I nodded my head once or twice, barely whispering my assent.
"Spread your knees wider...make room for him. He's going to lick you dry, aren't you?"
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Shortchanged 1
I can remember the very first time I realized it was happening, the meaningful short measurement...I was buying lumber almost twenty years ago to put a couple of shelves into a pantry closet in an apartment that we had just moved into...I went to the local lumber yard and gave in my measurements and the cutter spent about ten minutes explaining to me how all of the large sheets ALWAYS come short in one dimension, but I really was getting the square footage that I ordered.
Then, years ago, on a trip to Anguilla, we discovered Vic's Popcorn in large bags, which have shrunk from 8 ounces to 5.5 to 4.5, the paper outer sack remaining the same size, the inner foil sleeve always becoming smaller and smaller.
The next time it happened when I noticed was when the price of coffee spiked several years ago, and a can of coffee, always one pound, suddenly held only 14 ounces. Then a pint of ice cream only contained 14 ounces, although the cost was the same. Haagan Dasz (sp??)tried to soften the blow locally, running specials so that the buyers might not notice in the ecstasy of cost savings.
During the past week, She finally found just the right shade of blue to paint the last small bedroom, and purchase a gallon...except it wasn't a full gallon, just 3 quarts and 14/16s, not the full four quarts.
I'm not stupid, I understand just what's happening. But it doesn't make me feel any better about it.
Then, years ago, on a trip to Anguilla, we discovered Vic's Popcorn in large bags, which have shrunk from 8 ounces to 5.5 to 4.5, the paper outer sack remaining the same size, the inner foil sleeve always becoming smaller and smaller.
The next time it happened when I noticed was when the price of coffee spiked several years ago, and a can of coffee, always one pound, suddenly held only 14 ounces. Then a pint of ice cream only contained 14 ounces, although the cost was the same. Haagan Dasz (sp??)tried to soften the blow locally, running specials so that the buyers might not notice in the ecstasy of cost savings.
During the past week, She finally found just the right shade of blue to paint the last small bedroom, and purchase a gallon...except it wasn't a full gallon, just 3 quarts and 14/16s, not the full four quarts.
I'm not stupid, I understand just what's happening. But it doesn't make me feel any better about it.
Modele B
It was purchased in London, long ago enough so that the currency was still "pasayde," as the slang used to go...pounds, shillings, pence, in a second hand shop in Battersea, a long tube ride to what I thought was the edge of the city. It was ridden back to the Marble Arch area, seeming to find its own way through the oddly named streets and lanes of London proper, guarding me from the right hand drive traffic, its gears constantly slipping back to the highest, causing me to jerk unmercifully, straining on the smallest cog. And then it was parked and stowed away for three weeks in Paris, while I shepherded a group of teenagers through Florence and Greece, as it waited for me patiently in the Gare de l'Est of yore.
A Cinelli Modele B, serial #2698. It was a bargain at less than 30 pounds sterling, with a luggage carrier included, handlebar shifters (considered racy at the time), equipped exactly the way I had wanted it to be, despite being a secondhand rose...Campagnolo in the front, Simplex on the back, pale blue, the stuff that dreams are made of. The frame was a bit long for me, but I learned to adjust my sitting position to accommodate the extra length. The frame had, I believed, actually been built by Cinelli himself, in his workshop underneath the track in Milan. I rode it throughout the east coast, from Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard through the Amish country of Pennsylvania, periodically repairing and overhauling it depending on how and when I used it.
And then my kid sister gave me her Bianchi, with racing wheels, sexy pedals, etc., etc., and my beloved Cinelli languished in the basement...the Bianchi was a bit too small for me, but once again I learned to adjust, all the time not really loving it, but appreciating the difference between the sleek Bianchi and my gaspipe Cinelli. The racing tires became too much of a pain to deal with constantly, and so I just stopped riding.
This spring I made the effort to resurrect the love of my life, but my mechanic was kind yet firm in telling me that he would rather break my heart than my pocketbook, that I would need a second mortgage to bring my Big Blue back to life. And so the Cinelli has stayed in the basement, until this weekend, when I will put it out against a traffic sign, unchained, knowing that a local day laborer will claim it, do the best he can to make it operable, and be in possession of a means of conveyance to and from work, whether it be construction or farmwork.
And some day I'll see the Cinelli being ridden on the local roads, and know that it still lives. I'll buy another bike, a brand new bike, one that will serve me well.
But right now, I'm just a bit sad at the decision to let the Cinelli go, one of the few things in my life that predated Her, one of the things that stretched back to when I was young and carefree.
A Cinelli Modele B, serial #2698. It was a bargain at less than 30 pounds sterling, with a luggage carrier included, handlebar shifters (considered racy at the time), equipped exactly the way I had wanted it to be, despite being a secondhand rose...Campagnolo in the front, Simplex on the back, pale blue, the stuff that dreams are made of. The frame was a bit long for me, but I learned to adjust my sitting position to accommodate the extra length. The frame had, I believed, actually been built by Cinelli himself, in his workshop underneath the track in Milan. I rode it throughout the east coast, from Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard through the Amish country of Pennsylvania, periodically repairing and overhauling it depending on how and when I used it.
And then my kid sister gave me her Bianchi, with racing wheels, sexy pedals, etc., etc., and my beloved Cinelli languished in the basement...the Bianchi was a bit too small for me, but once again I learned to adjust, all the time not really loving it, but appreciating the difference between the sleek Bianchi and my gaspipe Cinelli. The racing tires became too much of a pain to deal with constantly, and so I just stopped riding.
This spring I made the effort to resurrect the love of my life, but my mechanic was kind yet firm in telling me that he would rather break my heart than my pocketbook, that I would need a second mortgage to bring my Big Blue back to life. And so the Cinelli has stayed in the basement, until this weekend, when I will put it out against a traffic sign, unchained, knowing that a local day laborer will claim it, do the best he can to make it operable, and be in possession of a means of conveyance to and from work, whether it be construction or farmwork.
And some day I'll see the Cinelli being ridden on the local roads, and know that it still lives. I'll buy another bike, a brand new bike, one that will serve me well.
But right now, I'm just a bit sad at the decision to let the Cinelli go, one of the few things in my life that predated Her, one of the things that stretched back to when I was young and carefree.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Ta-Tas
I'm a sucker for big breasts (ok, bad choice of words) and all my friends know it. My friend s knows about it, and rags me all the time when I start to consider women who are less generously endowed. And as I look at my blogroll here, I realize that many of the women have big boobs, I mean really big boobs, the kind of frontage where you wind up looking at their chests when you're talking to them, rather than their faces.
About a year ago I went to lunch with Tess, the Urban Gypsy, and it was all I could do not to jump into her cleavage. And she knew it, I know she did, because every once in a while I'd slip, and I'd wind up talking to her cleavage, catch myself and look up. And she'd just smirk.
I train in the gym every weekday morning, and the woman on the treadmill next to me today didn't have big boobs. But she wasn't wearing a bra either, and it was heavenly to watch her smallish boobs bounce up and down in rhythm to her cadence.
My first serious girlfriend in high school had softball size breasts, and my first serious older woman had boobs that were even bigger, so much more than a handful that I was constantly lost in them, having her sit up and dangle them one by one into my waiting mouth, smothering my with her huge tits, the round aureole being well over 3" across.
Springtime and summer are my favorite times of the year, and not only because I can get to the beach. It's the time when every woman in NYC figures out that she has a set of ta-tas just itching to be on display, and it's time to show skin.
Every woman has figured this out, even Her. She's lately started to sport cleavage, wear the occasional half bra that allows for some bounce. She's still withholding in the time She'll allow me to suck on her nipples, always being the one to stop, to brush my mouth away.
But it's something.
About a year ago I went to lunch with Tess, the Urban Gypsy, and it was all I could do not to jump into her cleavage. And she knew it, I know she did, because every once in a while I'd slip, and I'd wind up talking to her cleavage, catch myself and look up. And she'd just smirk.
I train in the gym every weekday morning, and the woman on the treadmill next to me today didn't have big boobs. But she wasn't wearing a bra either, and it was heavenly to watch her smallish boobs bounce up and down in rhythm to her cadence.
My first serious girlfriend in high school had softball size breasts, and my first serious older woman had boobs that were even bigger, so much more than a handful that I was constantly lost in them, having her sit up and dangle them one by one into my waiting mouth, smothering my with her huge tits, the round aureole being well over 3" across.
Springtime and summer are my favorite times of the year, and not only because I can get to the beach. It's the time when every woman in NYC figures out that she has a set of ta-tas just itching to be on display, and it's time to show skin.
Every woman has figured this out, even Her. She's lately started to sport cleavage, wear the occasional half bra that allows for some bounce. She's still withholding in the time She'll allow me to suck on her nipples, always being the one to stop, to brush my mouth away.
But it's something.
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