No, not Virginia. Vagina. The state that is its own state flower. Or something. So:  Welcome to Vagina!  I’ll be your tour guide.  And before you ask:  NO, there will be no free rides through the Tunnel of Love today.  Also:  I hope you brought your raincoats. ‘Kaysooo… Every now and then I get befuddling questions about What Women Want and I am sort of at a loss as to how to answer these inquiries, because no two women are the same (say it with me, now:  NO TWO WOMEN ARE THE SAME!), so unless I am the woman in question, I can’t particularly help much in the How To Please A Woman department. What I *can* do, however, is give you a [...]

He crawls on shaking limbs to arrange himself alongside me, trembling from the force of his release. I can feel his heartbeat thudding through his ribcage, the thrum of it echoing in the veins of his arm draped over me, and I soothe the staccato rapidity with half-note hums and quarter note breaths, stroking my fingers over his skin and through his hair, softly inviting him back down to earth. I can see the moment he stops floating on feeling and starts descending into thought. It has been a long time coming, this coming home; living together matters not where absence is concerned, and his presence – here, in this moment – is palpable. I observe the change in his countenance with curiosity, [...]

Blue-black visions swim against my eyelids as I swim to consciousness, fingertips dipping beneath my waistband in somnambulent insistence, trailing fire against sensitive flesh, seeking sweet relief. I am slick. Hot. Swollen. My fevered skin aches, the barest air bruising me with its caress, my nipples prickling at the assault, begging for your mouth. I take one, tenderly tugging between thumb and forefinger, allowing the ethereal shapes in my mind to take solid form while my fingers dance inside my tight heat. I am wet. Creamy. Hot. Ohhhhh… So hot. Burn with me. I swirl circles over my clit, feeling the slippery liquid dripping from deep inside, and as I ride the edge I center all my energy on the one thought that [...]

Gilmour says he’s moved on; so too should we. So appropriate the name of David, I think. Love is a Goliath, and I am a stone’s throw away, watching, waiting, while singed memories rise in woodsmoke song streaking through low fog, and the lyrical liquidity is a balm to my charred heart, aching – from and for – the blackening blaze. The incineration of Icarus. Aileron Out of the ashes… Scorched-wing phoenix, fly. Source: The Suburban Domme