It’s been quite some time since this took place, but I had been meaning to tell the story for a while… and after having been so abruptly “kicked in the marbles” by Ms. Alyson’s news, it probably isn’t relevant to anyone else anymore, but I still feel compelled to be self-indulgent….
So, I get to 50th Street, and I’m greeted by a beaming Ms. Cloe. She seems particularly pleased as she explains that she has a surprise for me… and I inform her that I’m ill prepared for surprises (on account of having left my white polyester leisure suit at home). She tells me she’s putting me in the V.I.P. room… and, as tactfully as I can, I try to point out that I’m neither “I” by any meaningful objective measure or subjective opinion… nor am I technically a “P”. Doesn’t seem to matter though - we go down that other hallway.
It’s a nice room, to be sure. It’s big, with a bed on the floor, and some furniture, and a cabinet that I thought held a stereo (but as it turns out actually holds bottles of rotting grape juice). There is a raised dais with a big, very complicated looking contraption enclosed. As I stared at it in confusion, Ms. Cloe asked me if I would like her to turn it on. I told her my brain is the size of a raisin. She turned the shower on before leaving me. Ms. Cloe is a very kind lady.
So, cleaned and almost dried, I found myself feeling very out of place in the middle of the room, but not sure what to do about it. So I did nothing, other than stand there in my nekkidness and wait.
She enters. She's smashing. And, surprisingly, she takes my wantonly inappropriate display completely in stride. I’m glad for this. And I’m ecstatic when she undresses and takes me to the bed.
*thumpthumpthumpthumpthump*
Now, not to focus on the furnishings, but this last observation has some relevance on the rest of the session. See… the bed… besides being precariously “down”… also has a certain amount of “give” to it. And the end result is that… between me, her, and the laws of physics… well, imagine putting a bowling ball and a Pixie Stick in a hammock. Frickin’ awesome for the bowling ball, as it pretty much guarantees he will get covered in sweet, sweet sugary goodness. Not so great for the Pixie Stick, though.
She makes chit chat… and gravity forces her closer. She gives little pets and playful caresses… and gravity forces her closer. She gets snuggly and sexy… and gravity forces her closer. Clearly, gravity wants us to play the tickle game. God wants us to play the tickle game. And who am I to disobey God?
In the end, it was as brilliant as it always had been. The company. The kindness. The carnage. As good as it gets.
*thumpthumpthumpthumpthump*
So, for those of you who asked, I do not in fact have the “business” end of a Smith & Wesson wedged inside my clover hole. Anymore. But I sure will miss her. A lot.
And I wish her every bit of the kind of joy her attentions have given me.
Thank you, Ms. Hanna.
Happy thumping, all!
So, I get to 50th Street, and I’m greeted by a beaming Ms. Cloe. She seems particularly pleased as she explains that she has a surprise for me… and I inform her that I’m ill prepared for surprises (on account of having left my white polyester leisure suit at home). She tells me she’s putting me in the V.I.P. room… and, as tactfully as I can, I try to point out that I’m neither “I” by any meaningful objective measure or subjective opinion… nor am I technically a “P”. Doesn’t seem to matter though - we go down that other hallway.
It’s a nice room, to be sure. It’s big, with a bed on the floor, and some furniture, and a cabinet that I thought held a stereo (but as it turns out actually holds bottles of rotting grape juice). There is a raised dais with a big, very complicated looking contraption enclosed. As I stared at it in confusion, Ms. Cloe asked me if I would like her to turn it on. I told her my brain is the size of a raisin. She turned the shower on before leaving me. Ms. Cloe is a very kind lady.
So, cleaned and almost dried, I found myself feeling very out of place in the middle of the room, but not sure what to do about it. So I did nothing, other than stand there in my nekkidness and wait.
She enters. She's smashing. And, surprisingly, she takes my wantonly inappropriate display completely in stride. I’m glad for this. And I’m ecstatic when she undresses and takes me to the bed.
*thumpthumpthumpthumpthump*
Now, not to focus on the furnishings, but this last observation has some relevance on the rest of the session. See… the bed… besides being precariously “down”… also has a certain amount of “give” to it. And the end result is that… between me, her, and the laws of physics… well, imagine putting a bowling ball and a Pixie Stick in a hammock. Frickin’ awesome for the bowling ball, as it pretty much guarantees he will get covered in sweet, sweet sugary goodness. Not so great for the Pixie Stick, though.
She makes chit chat… and gravity forces her closer. She gives little pets and playful caresses… and gravity forces her closer. She gets snuggly and sexy… and gravity forces her closer. Clearly, gravity wants us to play the tickle game. God wants us to play the tickle game. And who am I to disobey God?
In the end, it was as brilliant as it always had been. The company. The kindness. The carnage. As good as it gets.
*thumpthumpthumpthumpthump*
So, for those of you who asked, I do not in fact have the “business” end of a Smith & Wesson wedged inside my clover hole. Anymore. But I sure will miss her. A lot.
And I wish her every bit of the kind of joy her attentions have given me.
Thank you, Ms. Hanna.
Happy thumping, all!
