And it started with Cindy.
I thought I wouldn't have much in the tank given my excesses over Cathy yesterday. I was sore, don't get me wrong - in a good way, a super-sensitive way, but I wasn't planning on a start-the-day tribute that was too energetic as I checked the old inbox.
BOOM! Instant reaction. Oh Cindy! And then... what's the story with the fan?! Has Cindy achieved a level of hotness at which she constantly needs to have cooling?
Focus!
Hair, tricep, side boob, follow the line of the thong to her beautiful, bounteous bum.
He was online, the sender. C. Moore got in touch, sent him his own treat. Nothing too ridiculous at this stage, a starter pic - Jules at the beach. Thonged up. Showing it off.
Of course he took the bate. [bait? - ed.] I know what I wrote - bate.
Back and forth we went, my "not too energetic" plans turning into an edging session that lasted until lunchtime. If you take your lunch late, that is. These are just some of the highlights that took us both into the Land of Goon and, ultimately, beyond.
Balcony bikini bums - Yarishna, always a pleasure - such a tease, such a sexhibitionist, such glooteal sex appeal; and this unknown, a silhouette (kind of) of dreams, imagining each other on one leg each, working our ways up from those calves with our lips and our tongues. Drooling, pumping, throbbing, dripping, and we've only just started.
BOOM! The world starts to recede. Riding the edge feels so good, so right. Gripping the base hard, letting it pulse, letting it leak just enough to use as lube. Typing a lot to make it last, trying to describe what I imagine that ripped glory must feel like ("warm steel"). We decide to take her on together, her pre-contest slave boys. Naked, pulsing, uncontrollably dripping and spurting as we cover every inch of her hard body in oil.
We transition to "named glootz" and turn our mics on. Riding the edge becomes a lot trickier with no typing - and thus no breaks in motion - to help. Experience counts for a lot at this stage. I keep well away from the head, gripping near the base and going staccato works for me - but you need to find your own way to the happiest place of all.
And so we goon. Speaking becomes tricky enough. I would say we debated the various merits of these magnificent examples of womanly gloothood, but you hardly call my bud yelling "Zoa is FERRRRRRM bruvva!" and me yelling "Yeah but Michaela is HAAAAAAARD dude!" a debate as such, but the pleasure, the sheer physical pleasure (expressed in moans, in gasps, in animal yelps and bellows) flows through our bodies with beautiful intensity, and sharing the feeling takes it to a whole new level of ecstasy.
Eyes rolling back in my head I suggest, as best I can that exhibit A on the train, and exhibit B, in the bedroom are the same girl. He gets it, despite the wildly differing hair colours, and that's why I love doing this with him. With minimal verbal communication and maximum female muscle lovin' telepathy we dream she picks us up on the tube (our tentpoles give us away) and makes us her playthings for one glorious night.
And then he sends me this, and we start the countdown...
"Down from 10, alternate numbers."
"Let's do it bruvva!"
Alessandra Alvez's beautiful bum has the (perhaps dubious) honour of receiving our gargantuan, bucket-filling loads on this occasion, but really they belong to all the magnificent women and all the mighty muscle glootage we have shared today.
The clean up begins. Can it be almost 1.30pm? Was that really the best part of five hours?! And it's November, so it's already starting to get dark outside. Whatever. Today, no matter what happens this afternoon and evening, is already a good day.
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