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My own secret life 
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In early October, the girls make arrangements for next spring's tuition.
Her thin arms X as she pulls her top over her head: No bra, pink nipples, perky breasts that still bob: She's at most a sophomore: She's almost unused. Now she steps out of her pumps, tugs down her skirt: practical plain cotton panties. Her blue exercise books lie on the desk, open: She's writing her take-home English exam in the Novatel room the agency took for her. How do they make the connection? Through the weeklies? Girlfriends or family? Sororities? Something tribal? A departmental cabal? After the blowjob: She prone on top of me, I throwing my head back, clenching my teeth, straining the cords of my neck, thumbs on her firm cheeks, palms on the points of her hips, pulling my cock out, pushing me up her, pulling her down me: Hungrily, hastily, thoroughly rutting: Like a quickie while the others chat in the next room, laughing, flirting, clinking glasses: coats and purses piled up on the bed, under us; the only light from the crack under the door: We build a come as fast as we can before someone tactlessly asks where we are. "Culle-toi," Gabrielle2 says. Stick to me. Naked I part the red curtains; sweep them open with a rasp of brass rings. The hotel room, set high on the mountain, looks south to the rivers: Left and right, dull silver gleets trailing down from the lips of the mountain. Through the darkening leaves of the trees on the slope, gold lamps spangle the indigo deepening blurring the street grid. Under the window, on a ledge of the slope, tracks: A train grumbles by, making its way out to the bainlieu: rows of heads, boxed in the warm yellow windows of the silver ribbed cars: Rush hour sarari-men return for the night, until day, to their wives, their children, their houses, their homes. Gabrielle2 rests a hand on my shoulder. 4:55. {140} THE FOUR SEASONS: Spring, summmer, fall, winter.
More fave hits
AOL: fondle%20balls%20postcards hits Why doggy style is my favorite position. Google: condom rolls up hits Pammie. Antiquarians:
What may not be obvious, to anyone who hasn't viewed source on a VLA page, is that VLA has pursued a counterintuitive keywording strategy: All the usual suspect words—cunt, cock, ass, balls, tits, blowjob, et cetera—are "stealthy": They are commented out in the HTML, and hidden from search engines, thus: c<!---->u<!---->n<!---->t. I wanted people to come for the writing, not for this word or that word. So VLA doesn't get the usual search engine hits; VLA gets people with more unusual, more focused, more precise urges or requirements. "Postcards"? {NA}
Friday pussy blogging
My pussy is not a delicate lotus flower, awaiting the kisses of butterflies and quietly humming bees. It is not carefully denuded and sprayed inside and out with the scent of wildflowers growing next to a chemical plant. It is not hidden away shamefully, never to be photographed or acknowledged. My pussy is a wet, moody carnivore. It smells of salt and sweat and slipperiness. It throbs like a tribal drum with demands that must be fulfilled now, now, now, now, then sinks into a sullen numbness that cannot be stirred. My pussy is battle scarred. One operation at age seven left a long, raised line where a birthmark used to be; another operation at age nine took my hymen before it could be broken by an intruding cock. My pussy is asymmetrical. One fleshy labia minora folds carefully over the other, hiding it from view like the hand of an embarrassed virgin until my pussy is held open, and it curls up to beckon welcomingly. My pussy is like my brain, ravenous and eager for new stimulation. My pussy is like my heart, welcoming and warm, but unwilling to let anything grow within. My pussy is like my body, muscular and voluptuous at the same time. I am far more than my pussy, but my pussy is utterly me. [All rights retained by Eden Gardener.] {NA} NEXT WEEK The astonishing art of Eroticalee2. Coming soon: Panties, panties, panties; Red sneaker diaries. Antiquarians, if you'd like to guest post about your pussy, drop me a line. LAST WEEK DirtyTalkingGirl. UPDATE Kind words about FPB from (in no particular order) Red Sneaker Diaries, Word Oyster, Ivory's counterpart, Freya's House of Dreams, and Pussy Talk. You too? Come on down!
Fave MSN search hit
#15: ...&q=PUSSY%20EXPERT. I'm deeply honored, but must disclaim any pretence to "expertise" .... {NA}
Tags: msn.
The roots of carnival
I've always loved my Indo-European roots, and it's a nice little plum that "screw" and "carnival" come from the same place in the deep structure of our language. Some etymological true facts from the American Heritage Dictionary of the English language:
All of which is a roundabout way of saying that Heroine Girl has organized a carnival, and we're pleased to be part of her krewe. Next week, the carnival will have moved on to A New York Escorts Confessions. The dogs bark... {NA}
Tags: etymology.
Angel cries out a name as I eat her; my name, as it happens.
With my tongue up her hole, my upper lip flattens hard on her clit, and she likes proprioception. "Oh John—John!" {300}
Luxe, calme, volupte
Annie is blowing me bareback: With a gulp she engulfs me, as if she loves her food: She eats me avidly, as if she were seizing the last lump of foie gras: not with a fork or even her fingers, but ducking her head right down to the plate, then licking the china clean of its sauce, all with such grace that her greed appears mannerly. Gravity bells Annie's breasts: They sway with her head's action: She sucks my nipples hard while I roll hers between wet fingertips: She sucks me, slaps me back and forth with her tongue: stings me with suction, takes a break, nibbles once or twice with her incisors: I reciprocate, snapping her big nipples hard with my nails. Her warm belly presses my hard cock. After three years, Annie must have discovered others saw she was no longer young, and extended her repertoire: When after licking and sucking and bathing my balls until my cremaster fully relaxed, and I let myself sink fully down into her warmth she trailed her sweet tongue down my perineum, snuggled her hands under my thighs, gently urged them upwards, taught me once again what I wanted: Then I'd put my hands on the backs of my thighs and pulled back: shifting my center of gravity up: ready to swing on the soft point of her tongue: Now Annie rims me once more: dipping quickly into my anus: now circling my rim: now fluttering back up my perineum: now lifting my balls, right at the hairless patch: now after a puff of breath's cool evaporation down at and into my glowing asshole once more, more deeply this time: my hole spreads round her tongue. I can feel it. Strange for a man to feel that his legs exert no leverage: Not standing, walking, running; feet not planted, or stepping; knees not taking weight at prayer or when doggy-styling; toes not curled for balance, or digging down into the bedspread during missionary. Moaning, I pull my thighs still further back: my legs flop open yet more widely: My round heels dangle in the open air— Annie rocks back on her heels, smiling: satisfied with her work: "Tout c'est dur." I never saw Annie undress: by the time I'd come out of the shower she'd already be naked, her hands laced behind her head, golden hair spilt on the pillow: her strong legs, too, spread wide for me: her thighs, too, loosened for me: on whichever bed in whichever room: opened for me on whichever duvet we never took down. {280}
The spectrum
Orange. Icy's orange sweat pants sought and and found; black Asian hair after a bad dye job; the Dunkin' Donuts logo next door to the local brothel; Angel's previous uniform. {NA} Roy G. Biv. All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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