Back from a business trip that slid off the road into horror and hell. Truth be told, it was fun and reminds me how the bad recovery part of this blog may have to be renamed “no recovery.”
The majestic Stacy (as we shall call her), my little Huguenot hottie, is out of college for the summer and was ensconced at one of the strip clubs in the town where I found myself. We’d done the text thing and I knew I had to see her. I hoped it would end at that. As she led me back for a lap dance and I saw that Aphrodite-kissed bubble butt moving majestically in front of me, I gulped, seeped and knew I was doomed to perdition.
After a little manhandling and a knee on my member, I knew this little domme-in-a-thong had my undivided attention. She sweetly told me about a lawyer who was courting her and I felt a detached jealousy arise that was mingled with drifting indifference and lust. Cuckolding is a passion of mine but that’s for another entry.
Racing ahead, my hotel room several hours later. This lady is a joy to talk to. Witty, urbane and perkily predatory. I was roped, hogtied and pushed over on my back and she started brandishing a Q-tip. That will focus a lad, especially when it’s swirled around the tip of your cock, soaking up pre-cum and getting ready for a voyage to the bottom of your sea, via the urethra. It’s a tad unsafe since the cotton swabs could come loose and end up lodged down the tunnel of insane-intensity-please-stop-no-go-a-little-deeper-oh-my-God! Autoclaved sounds are better and safer but that’s yet another entry.
It was hot and overwhelming and I am in her thrall again. The minx.
The preceding is merely fictional and does not actually represent the adventures of a man who honestly needs his recovery, loves his wife and forges ahead daily. And is amazed how fucked up and fascinating real life actually is.
