FFF: Challenge

FFF - Who's watching? _follow to see who else is writing

Word Length = 200
Required Phrase = Obligation
Forbidden Words = Payment, Prediliction, Prostitution
Extra Credit = Make it personal
Bonus Words = 25 extra for explaining the tuxedos, 25 more if this isn't about the money

She had an obligation. She was to belong to the men in the room, to be whatever they wished for her to be. That was what her lover demanded, and his will was her pleasure, proof of devotion and love.

"Caress the tips of your breasts," was the first request, and she did until they stiffed and rose, gazing down instead of the men. One man was silent the entire time, almost detached from her actions, the other issuing the commands.

When he commanded she strip of her panties and ride him, she felt a pleasure in following through. She was good at being on top, knew when to tease and when to grind.

He grabbed her hips, and she was swiftly reassured in his moans, his body beginning to perspire, his hands clenching her more, and his hips thrusting. She arched back and her own scream of pleasure erupted.

She looked at the other man in the room, his body calm and composed. Did he even watch them, she wondered. She felt drawn to him, compelled to make him want her, to wrest the same pleasure from him, to make her lover proud. She felt herself growing excited with the challenge.

The Darkness

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled, feeling a contrasting shudder and affection for her lover.  Her mind briefly went to a moment where she found herself panicked, standing alone momentarily in a dark room, but she shook the memory away, the only remnants the faint scent of sweat and cologne from that night.

She never thought that she would be obliging this resolution. It didn’t feel like an option, but the choice was this or to leave. That was it then: she could forsake her lover or give up all her free will. Today, at last, she decided upon her lover, content to give up her independence and never felt so free until this pivotal moment.

She walked into her lover’s home. The front door was unlocked, as it was the majority of the time. Silence greeted her, and for a moment she felt herself losing her nerves, the joy in the feeling of being free slipping tenaciously. She gulped for air, determined, and searched the rooms, coming into his bedroom.

The sound of a bathroom door opened, and there was her lover, steam rising in the background, skin glistening, covered in only a towel, and for a moment she thought he was a god come to deliver her. His cold grey eyes widened slightly, the only indication he was surprised by her unexpected visit, before narrowing. But no god, this man coming out of a shower. This was the man who knew every dark secret in her heart, who made fantasies come true without her ever realizing that she had them. I love this man, she thought, and smiled.

Remembering her place, she kneeled down on the floor. Fumbling, her trembling hand reached in her pocket and pulled out the small box – her gift of freedom in slavery. Lifting her head up and looking up at him, she extended her hand, palm up, with the box in it. He smiled, briefly, at her, and it was as if the sun beamed down upon her, so radiant and warm did she feel.

He gazed intently at her eyes, not moving, as if judging if she were even worthy, and she felt nervous. He always seemed to have an air of aloofness, distance. A woman used to making men crazy to be with her, she was incredibly turned on by his detachment.

He loved her; she knew that, but she had denied him sharing her in that black room, changing her agreement of acceptance. And then instantly regretted it, especially when she enviously watched another woman being shared with the men, the screams of orgasms making a hot pool between her own legs. And then he penetrated the woman, and she was equally turned on and insanely jealous that it was not she that was being used so.

He circled around her leisurely, and she moved her eyes to the floor, too nervous to follow his movements. She wished he wasn’t always so self-possessed, and craved to touch her as frequently as she desired his touch. Suddenly he grasped her throat, his other hand tilting her chin up, as he bent down to kiss her from behind. Tongue met tongue and she melted, clinged to him like life, gasping for breath by the end of the kiss.

She realized he hadn’t said a word yet. She also realized that he accepted her gift, though he hadn’t even touched it yet.

He moved to the front of her and removed his towel, already so hard. Grabbing the back of her head, he dove into her mouth and she frantically tried to open wide for him, to make her mouth as inviting as possible for his possession. He didn’t seek the softness of her lips or tongue, he delved to the back of her throat, and she tried to focus on breathing, knowing that this was part of her penance. She dropped the box from his movement, and let her hands drop to her sides. Her eyes watered and she felt the urge to gag with his inflexible sex touching the back of her throat.

She felt herself become wet, and hoped, so badly, that he would also thrust himself between different lips. He understood that about her, whereas no one had. She became free of burdens with him, and wondered why it had taken her this long to finally, fully submit to her own desires in him.

He pulled out of her mouth in the same manner that he had moved in, and either she lost sense of balance or his hand on the back of her neck guided to her fall forward so she was now hands and knees.

“As tempting a sight as that is, get naked and lay on the bed,” he commanded, and she felt herself tightening in anticipation. She scurried to get up, in such a rush to discard her clothing that she cast them upon the little box.

The box that would be opened hours later, when they had spent their passion out on each other, bound more firmly in love and trust and understanding. 

Want to discover what other people uncovered in that box? Click on this wicked one...

Spring Break

A writing prompt "Spring Break" from Prowling with Kat, made me think about spring break sex in general, which always tends to be hotter since the kids normally are gone at least a night or two, recently it's been for the entire week. It's impossible, given this recent trend, to reflect on one night of such exquisite passion, when there are normally so many experiences to choose from. Even if they aren't sex, they are sex (or sexy) related. So....

Snippets of thoughts run rampant when I reminisce about this spring break...

Dropping the kids off at the airport, suddenly I am no longer defined in the role of "mom";
I shed even a semblance of responsible adult, and ponder my next move.

Within minutes of the plane leaving, I get a text from husband: "sex store today....?"
I text back, "sounds good lover. Can we use the knife today too?"
"Yes"
Well, there's my first day spoken for once he gets off of work...

Hot Wax
We didn't end up using the knife that first day. At the sex store, we picked up some candles. This was on our "curious" sex bucket list. So we figured: now would be the perfect time to try it out. First off, we played with the candles just goofing off, without putting the hot wax to any skin. It was more about technique - how does it splatter? Where does it drip? How to get the smaller drips versus the larger amounts? Then we had sex for a long time, trying some things we hadn't in awhile. After the glow of sex was gone (which we realized we should've used candles while we were still sensitive), I decided to put a towel under my husband and decide to try the wax. He wanted it on his thigh first, from a far distance. He is a good sport: I was interested in wax play, but I wanted him to be the experiment first. He didn't like it in the inner thigh, but the outer thigh he was ambivalent about it. Then I persuaded him to move up the chest, where I played around with my aim, and watched him arch and writhe about deliciously as the wax covered various parts of his wide chest, and dribbled upon his nipples. He wasn't sure how he felt about it when the experience was done.

Next, it was my turn, and he wanted to start on thigh as well. I rolled over to the side slightly - I figured less chance to get the inner thigh, and he dribbled wax on me. It felt okay, but I could see the appeal if I were already sexually heightened. A bit fell and splattered onto the opposite thigh, hitting the inner most part right before getting to my sex, and that felt a little too overwhelmingly hot. It stung in the spot for quite awhile. He moved up a little and started dripping the wax on my hip and ass, and my ass also didn't appreciate the hot sensation quite the same. "I can see you're going to like this," was his final statement about the whole thing, and truly I am the one getting more into other sensation plays, so he may be right.

Final verdict: we promised to give it a go again, especially immediately following some sex or foreplay. One thing to cross off of our sex bucket list (woohoo for trying new things!).

Edging
My husband really doesn't deny anything I want. This includes orgasms, so when I suggested edging, he was surprised that I would try it. And he was also concerned about his own self control.

Well, we tried it and edging was frustrating, and funny, and ah-mazing. He even chuckled a few times at my noises of frustrations, my body arching and trying to push us there. He whispered a few times, pondering: "I wonder if I can do this again?" and did. And the final result was blissful, relieving, and so hard. He described me as tightening up for so long with no relaxing, almost "locking down" on his shaft to prevent him from denying us any longer.

Downside: I am quite capable of multiple orgasms, but I take my lover on this type of journey where he has no choice but to join me, then I am not having multiple orgasms from sex. Of course, there are other ways around that if I truly desire them, and truly one orgasm is plenty.

Sisters
I also planned a visit with my sister, who is on a picture high, and wanted me to bring lingerie to her house to snap away at me. She's getting very good at using her phone to take pictures (as you can clearly observe if you follow us on twitter). She's also a master at hair and makeup.

The result is the photos of me are stunning. I am not used to photos of me being taken, little lone liking them, but the results were stunning. Even my husband liked them (and that speaks volumes).

I am a tomboy at heart, and one that doesn't really focus on being sexy too much (I'd like to think I just naturally am, but who wouldn't?). A told me to wear something sexy, so I put on some boy shorts and tiny tank top - did I mention that they were superhero? Okay, so maybe lingerie isn't even my strong suit, but she rolled her eyes when she saw what I chosen first and just snapped away. Honestly, some of the first ones are adorably cute.

I also had a the brand new issue of having a bruised butt cheek (woohoo!) from my husband (who had read a blog I had posted about spanking, and then followed through on my fantasy). My sister had to apply cover up all over both my ass cheeks so that it blended, an experience we both thought we'd never say outloud: somewhat like, "I write sex blogs with my sister and am constantly getting naked photos of her text to me".

When my sister said give me a sexy look, she ended up nearly in tears laughing at my pitiful and clearly not sexy efforts. I can't do serious, or focused either. Pouty? ...uh uh...not on command, and it certainly wasn't sexy. And yet, somehow she masterfully posed me and snapped away at so many different moments that I now have a hot little collection for my husband to view upon...and possibly some for our twitter or blog (I've already posted one of the about M section of our blog, and one on twitter).

Whew, being sexy is hard....probably more for my sister to make me sexy than for my failing efforts. Thanks A!

Orgasm Challenge
Through twitter, this competition Orgasm Count is taking place. Knowing I can hit multiple orgasms, she exempted multiple orgasms in the competition. John D Stories is all about keeping this fair, and he's awesome in general. He created the site, and through conversations, hilariously created the rules (seriously, check them out, and feel free to join as well!).

I guess to be fair, though I'm a little saddened, multiple shouldn't count. Sunday alone I hit between 20-25 orgasms in the day, but to be fair there were unusual extenuating circumstances at work:
1) No kids, yep that rarely happens;
2) Husband was actually home ALL DAY (rare again);
3) We didn't go anywhere or have anything we had to do; and,
4) I was sad I didn't have my kids, so my husband was willing to have sex more often than normal to cheer me up. Way to take one for my happiness, babe.

Friends and Tattoo
The rest of the trip, when I wasn't with my sister or trying new things and having tons of sex with my husband, I was just visiting with friends. With my vanilla friends, I showed them a BDSM check list because I was discussing crossing through my own list. We went through their desires - which was great entertainment in itself.

And my husband got a tattoo, actually the first session of a cover up that literally covers up the majority of his back from the tip of his shoulders to the top of his ass. They also had to go around the scar tissue the original tattoo gave him (lesson to be learned: don't get a tattoo in a foreign country spur of the moment that covers an extremely large part of your body). Sometimes I am tempted to share photos of us - the size difference between the two of us is stunningly drastic, but this tattoo marks and identifies him too greatly.

The tearing of my heart in confusion

A splaying open if you will of my heart. I read "confusion" and this instantly came to mind. The following is an emailed response to a story I wrote from my lover, used with permission, if not a great deal of trepidation. The key to this story is that my lover was bound and drawn by duty and honor to a place I could not reach. My heart left with him. "It hurts! I hate that it all starts off letting me know that it "is the last..." Whether it's title is Fiction or Finale, both are aptly applied and it hurts! Life, recently, has lost damn near all flavor. While I hoped that the story only has some similarities to me, with us, that was pounded to oblivion like surf on a rocky shoreline with our texting yonder-eve. I had wondered if I would receive any more writings; now, though, I'm quite confident that this will be the last of'em. It's not the way I wish it...but it seems the writing is on the wall... I think the thing that hurts the most was the use of the term "goodbye". I remember having that conversation with you. Absolute! Granted, the more I read it again and again and again...well, I go back and forth. One reading of it will point out my being "irrelevant" now, while another reading through drives, like a skewer, home the resounding "goodbye." Loud in my ears and full of... I don't want it to be true; I want to still be the one to drive you to heights un-reached with a mere touch; a thought...to be irrelevant...it hurts. Had we not been in the particular circumstances of that evening, the events described might have actually come to fruition. It's certainly a pleasant fiction to think upon and certainly would have been a much better way to have parted...probably...most like. I didn't...I don't want this story to be about me; about us, but..............well, we can't always get what we want. I chuckle, a bit uncontrollably; that is to say that it's an automatic chuckle that I've not been able to really stop; at a thought regarding Valentines Day. "I guess I didn't knock it out of the park!" So much for Steak and Blow Job day?. I was so looking forward to such a wonderful treat! There's that surf, again; can you hear it crashing against the rocky shoals? I can, and it causes my heart to ache; to long; the sting in my eyes are not that of surf spray though I pray it were so simple. Will they fall... You got want you wanted, it hurts; unfortunately it hurts physically, too. For that I'm sorry, but sometimes it is what it is. My heart aches; a breaking if you will. Only truly been felt twice in my life. Once, you know about. The other, we hadn't gotten around to having that discussion. I'm sure that we would have, in time; you were destined to know more than any one person was ever meant to know of me. The compartments so carefully created seemed to have ethereal walls when it came to you -- we never got to that discussion. I can't count the number of times I pick up the phone looking for a text or email from you. I don't know how you managed to work yourself into my heart so fast...no one ever has. And we didn't even get to all of the "secrets". You never found out how dark my fantasies go; in what direction they lie. There were so many things I was hoping for...looking forward to exploring...I still want to experience you! I WANT YOU! I LOVE YOU! Much like a venomous bite, though, your words resound in my head from our phone conversation..."what's the point? What's the point." ... I had a dream about you some nights ago; a dream where I was needing a room to rent and had asked you if I might could. Very reluctant you were; though you weren't exactly opposed to it. You had a very specific condition that I needed to meet and if I did, then it was on. I awoke then... I thought I saw your car, the other day; made a U-turn to check it out. It wasn't you. It was a red _, but not your car. I was sad. I don't know that I'll ever send this message. Hours and hours it has taken me to respond, as I told you that I would. I'm sure you read the severe editing process that was involved in sending the one message in response to your email. I guess I want to know if I have left a brand on you? Is there something that is wholly you and I? Aside from the We Vibe III. Maybe one day I'll send this to you -- I think that it will spark pain and possibly create some anguish. Foresight would suggest I'm doing it intentionally, but that is simply not true. Hard to dispute, but absolutely not true. I never have wanted; I do not want to hurt you. (Well, obviously in the good ways that we both crave; but then that's not really hurtin' you is it?) I'm sorry! Random thought...do I still retain "AWESOME" with approved hand gesture? Silly stupid stuff to think about, huh? I don't want "goodbye!" Does it have to be goodbye? Is that what you want...goodbye? I've promised I would send it...not exactly what you were expecting, I'm sure; nevertheless here it is. The other night you texted that you didn't want to know if was hurtful or cutting; yet you've asked for this message; my initial response; the dread confirmed...I'm sorry! I'm truly sorry. Forgive me? Love me? I LOVE You! I want you! p l e a s e . . . . . . . . . . . . ."
Wicked Wednesday

Invitation

It arrived in the mail in an ornate envelope made of parchment so thick it felt heavy in her hands. This weight, too, may have been a product of the things that weighed so mightily on her mind.
Heart drumming as her feet padded against the floor into the livingroom, she came to a halt in front of him, breathless. "It's here" she said in almost a whisper.

His attention instantly shifted from the book in his hands, his laser gaze boring into hers made her shift her feet. She wondered madly if he could glean her thoughts from the pulse pounding in her neck. Suddenly his features soften, the book set aside, an invitation to sit in his lap issued in the patting of the proffered space. Tension easing out of her, as a sudden weight sliding off, and she curls into his arms.  He knows her. His ultimate pleasure comes from the pleasure he brings to her. He is in tune, connected, a part of her.

A soft sigh stirs the delicate hairs by her ear. "We don't have to go, you know? If for a moment, I had thought that it would cause you this much apprehension and not excitement, I never would have sought out the invitation in the first place."

She wilts, slightly ashamed, mostly confused. That envelope, that simple, construction of ink, paper, glue... It was so much more. Especially because all the time and trouble was undertaken at her instigation...

About two months prior to it's arrival, the path to this choice she was facing was embarked upon on a steamy summer night. Bodies damp from the sweat of vigorous sex and moisture in the air, they laid talking, enveloped in each others arms and whispering secrets, fantasies, forbidden longings in each others ears.

"Tell me, you can, don't be ashamed lover, I want it, every thought, every piece that makes up you. Tell me." A simple request, one she was not against.

Heart pounding, she licked lips that had suddenly gone dry, then began to tell him about her fantasy. Voice trembling at the start, she quickly warmed to her subject upon seeing the desire being rekindled in his eyes at her words. She wanted to be used, on display, caressed by many hands. She wanted him to see the outside perspective of her being brought to her pleasure. She wanted to see women lavish their attention on him and spoil him as she felt he deserved.

She wanted sensuality, sex, pain, bliss. She didn't want a dirty hotel, a shameful or awkward swap. Elite. "If we were ever to do this, it would have to be right, perfect."

She continued to speak of tantalizing things. She wanted to stare into a strangers eyes as she swallowed his orgasm. She wanted to grip the hair of an unknown man as she ground her hips against his eager mouth. She wanted to kiss her lover sweetly as another man pounded her into another world. She wanted to taste another woman on his tongue and be flogged by power of several arms.
Each moment and scenario she dreamt and disclosed made his mind race more and his body grow stiff. He'd heard, vague whispers, allusions, to a very elite house where those with an open mind could go and play and be free. This woman, this tempest of passion in his arms, meant the world to him, and to think of the pleasure she could have in one night, more ever, than he could even begin to bring to her at one time. He began to think of ways he could inquire, to make this fantasy a reality. There was a favor owed, one he'd been holding for something important. It seemed it was time to call it in. He'd heard invitations to these particular parties were exceedingly hard to come by.

Thought fled though as it was impossible to ignore the naked temptress in his arms and her shyly whispered, dirty desires. His body releasing tension the moment he slid into her warm sheath, he didn't realize just how much of an effect her words had been having on him.

As they writhed in the pleasure of each others heat, the momentum building to an almost blinding crescendo, they had no idea of the path they had started on that night, or what wicked delights were to come of it...

Speaking of wicked delights...

Wretch

I knew he couldn't come and it was killing me.

"I know, I'm a wretch," the silly little pet name we have for him.

"It's not your fault, and you're MY wretch," my usual rejoinder.

It feels like I never get to see him. I KNOW I never get enough of him. That afternoon, a day before Valentines Day, the doorbell rings. I'm handed a package and it's the most beautiful chocolate covered strawberries, with a card that said simply: "Wretch".

He is so good at this, somehow making me feel better when I am becoming so despondent. I am very good at twisting the screw, making him miss me more in the hopes he'll find more time... I reach for my red lipstick and my camera. It's time to show my appreciation.

As always he loves the photos. He loves me, and even my bratty screw twisting. The day goes on, colorless without him or the hope of seeing him. It's starting to sink in, maybe not at all this week.
I go out with the girls, try to find some cheer in a glass of vodka and a random flirt. Still colorless, but now I've bought myself a headache for the morning.

It's 1:30 in the morning. I get a text. No one texts me this late.

"I don't suppose you'd be wroth with me if I came over, would you? Go hop in the bath like a good girl."

It's him. This is how he got called a wretch in the first place. The man allows me to fall almost to the bottom just to catch me, to get the adrenaline up, to make me feel the heights he brings me to that much more keenly.

I hurriedly hop in the bath and figure I have about 30 minutes to get pretty, the bath only takes up 5. Turns out he encouraged me to my usual routine of a bath beforehand so I wouldn't hear the door (he'd come sweaty, straight from the gym). As I walk into my bedroom he is there, the key I had given him being used for once.

I'm ready to cry in joy as I leap into my lover's arms, more intoxicated by him than by the alcohol still coursing in my veins. I grab his precious face and stare into his deep eyes and am once again astounded by the depth of feeling I have for this man, this wretch.

My hands fumble, grasping, tearing to get his clothes off. My towel has been long since discarded. My exuberance, made more intense yet less focused by the imbibing I've done that evening, is boundless. I cannot wait to touch, to taste every inch of him. To have him in my mouth, on my body, I'm already going mad with want.

His desires to be gentle or rough, fast or slow, lay in waste at the force of my insistence. There is no stopping. My passion and haste are catching and that wretch, that incredible man who has brought me to this sense of urgency and desperation, is more than capable of matching me and keeping up.

The flick of his tongue on my skin sends me reeling. The smell of him, of our sex fills me and delights me. I ride him with the skill of a courtesan, and the enthusiasm of Siren leading sailors to their doom. To feel him driving inside of me, to stare into his eyes and reach orgasm again and again, is ambrosia.

I'm sending a silent apology in my head to the neighbors as I cannot control the writhing, moaning pleasure I am immersed in. His name tears from my throat and it is a benediction, a cleansing, a cry of love and lust and need. We toss each other around the bed as in a stormy sea and cannot contain the power in the explosion between us. I tighten around him once more in bliss and he fills me with his own climax.

Sated, sweaty, unable to catch our breaths, we are found. We are whole once more and have found deliverance in each other's embrace. Passions cooling, he holds me in his arms and I am home.
He places a kiss upon my brow and squeezes me in surety. As I drift into slumber cradled on his chest, he brushes a stray strand of hair from my cheek as he softly wishes me a happy Valentines Day...

The mumbled reply: "You wretch".

 

Wicked Wednesday 

My lead

"Come here."

I move to place myself in front of him. Proud and naked, ready to obey his will. He places the rope around my neck and tells me it looks lovely, I wear it well.

This isn't the first time he has tied me up. But it is it is the first time he's laid me out and composed my body in such a way that I cannot move myself. Helpless.

He teases me, caresses me. Brings his beautiful cock within inches of my eager mouth just to tsk me for moving towards it, then he moves it away. Admonishing me for being greedy.

"The thing about you is, you like to touch. I think it is a far greater deprivation to take that away from you then to withhold caressing you."

He's right. He knows me. I'm strong and proud and independent. However, one of my biggest weaknesses is my love of tactile sensory input. To feel his smooth skin under my finger tips, to kiss and caress him. These are the things I crave.

Today I find it hard to find zen. To obtain that place of bliss and quiet in my head. My subspace. I feel each strike, I jump nervously at small caresses. I'm not being very good.

"You don't want my gifts? Why aren't you receiving my gifts?"

I try but no words are forthcoming. I don't know what has thrown me off. Everything is so intense, so deep. I love every part of everything this man does to me, but today I'm making him think that I doubt.

With a sigh he gives me fulfillment, he slides into my depth and it's like fireworks going off in my body. The position of my head and my shoulders is such that my position feels precarious. There's a massive dresser just beyond my bed and with my wrists tied to my ankles, severe injury would occur if I went over.

I ask if we can scoot up, I can feel myself sliding closer with each powerful thrust of his hips. He drives on, harder now, knowing of my fear.

"Trust me," he says.

I swallow, I try.

"Trust me."

My eyes sting with the burn of tears and one delicate stream runs out of each eye.

He looms close to my face with a stare so intense it bores into my soul.

"I will always keep you safe, I will NEVER let you get hurt. Trust me."

The tears are coursing down my cheeks now, but I do. I trust him with everything that I am and I know that he will do as he says. He knows about my horrible anxieties and that this is the ultimate surrender to him.

He is merciful. After I acquiesce, he moves me from the edge. He kisses my tears, salty on his lips. He cuddles me and caresses me and lets me know I am safe.

I've learned a lesson I already knew in the back of my head. He will always keep me safe. To him I am precious and something of great value to be cared for and loved. All that is required of me is to let go, to trust, to allow him to lead. I found my space that day, my subspace. The warm pleasant glow after play stayed with me, warming my soul. All because I was willing to follow, over the edge even if need be, safe in my lovers embrace.

Find out who is being wicked with me this Wednesday.
Follow me to...

No lubrication required

Unlike my sister and her amazing ability to be wet with a look, I have the tendency to be dry. This is embarrassing for me many times as I try to explain to the man that OF COURSE he turns me on, my body chemistry plus allergy medication just prevent me from producing all that much moisture.
Because of this minor flaw in my body makeup I have a large enough selection of lube that it has raised some eyebrows. Apparently 8 different choices at a time are far too many for some strapping young infantrymen. What can I say, variety is the spice of life and I'm a damn good cook.

There have been two notable exceptions to my lubrication situation in my lifetime: Michael, who got me went once just by sending a picture of him in his dress uniform, and my new favorite object: baby's first Lelo.

I have wanted a Lelo for ages... Especially after my sister gave me reports on hers. I was looking for a good g spot vibe and decided it was time to break into the big leagues. I went to my local adult store and bought the Gigi.

I was so excited I practically pranced my way home. Just opening the box got me wet. I even took pictures of the thing. Splayed everything out for a sexy showoff photo shoot. My messages to my sister and friends read something like: "it even has it's own special bag, and you should see the BOX it comes in!"

It was a sex toy Christmas and I had been a VERY good girl.

As I impatiently waited for it to charge I could hardly sit still. I was curious if it would actually work. G spot searches haven't always gone the best for me, but with my Lelo, I was confident it would be a snap.

Once my Gigi was charged up I took a few minutes just to play with it in my hands. The motor is powerful, silent, and placed such a way that you get the strong vibrations throughout the entire shaft of the toy, without feeling like you're going to vibrate your hand into numbness while controlling it.
The user controls are well placed and easy to manage with one hand. The top of the toy is flared and flat and angled perfectly. All in all, my Gigi delivered on it's promises and then some. This vibrator is perfect for clitoral stimulation as well due to those design features. In fact, I would've bought it just for that because oh my word, I orgasmed so hard the aftershocks lasted for ages.

Much like Michael, the Gigi has enabled me to be lube free more than once and that is possibly the best review I could give a product.

...Now I just have to save up to get one of every toy Lelo makes and the next item on my hit list: the we-vibe 3 .

Visiting traditions

My sister (the one I share this blog with) pointed out to me the other day that we go to a sex store every time she visits me, and a strip club every time I visit her.

In our defense, she has better strip clubs in her area. Waaay better. The strippers are hotter and the men drunker. Entertainment at its finest. And I just happen to be in toy stores regularly, so it's no surprise I go there even if she visits.

I think we're also starting a tradition of me buying her a sex toy every year as well. They're just so many varieties and factors of coolness that I can't resist. You're supposed to give thoughtful gifts,
after all.

Thoughts from A:

I love my sister. She's always given the best gifts in the family, hands down. She got me my first vibrator at 20 (late bloomer with masturbation, early with sex), and she also got me my first rabbit. This last trip she purchased a remote controlled bullet for me with 10 different settings. Now during my long car trips I am no longer in danger of falling asleep.

A very merry Christmas for me, I assure you.

When we first went to a stripclub in her area I couldn't believe it. My patronage of stripclubs started here and that's how I assumed all stripclubs were. Man was I surprised to see what I wouldn't even call the "B" team here up on stage on a Saturday!

The men here... The thousands of men here are not only drunk, they're young, handsome, and ready for anything you want. Sigh, I love my town.... Though not as much as I love my gifts from my sister. At least with myself I know the sex is always good.