What could have easily been a day filled with melancholy thoughts and a tear stained facade, was suddenly brightened upon fetching the mail. I couldn't help but smile when I saw the magazine wrapped in black plastic. Of course, I spent time in rememberance of Kevin. It doesn't take the anniversary of his death for me to miss him and feel somber about the circumstances of his early departure. But I also know that while a good cry is a wonderful release of tension and emotion, its not as good a release as what the carefully concealed magazine could potentially do for me.
I sometimes wonder if I don't get more excited about Rick's magazine arriving than he does. Tearing open the plastic, I always feel naughty, like I shouldn't be seeing the contents that were so well hidden just moments ago. It reminds me of sneaking peeks at my dad's magazines when I was younger, and I feel the same sensation of excitement building in my tummy as I did so many years before.
I find myself completely engaged at this section, staring at the beautifully painted women, admiring both the art and ,of course, their curvacious figures. I can't help but imagine what it would be like to be painted like that. Wondering how the air brushing would feel on my skin, painting the most delicate areas, and having someone hand apply the jewels. The art is amazing, the canvas' gorgeous.
Theres alot of pages of olympians, their bodies well toned and tuned to precision for their event of expertise. The well defined muscles are nice, but for the most part, they are all small chested. Apparently I'm a boob girl, and I prefer to see a woman with a more well endowed bosom. :) They are, of course, still beautiful to look at. But aren't all naked women?
The Advisor has a description of the perfect blow job, which offered me no new tricks. Actually, it sounded rather similar to what I already do. Is it really that much of a mystery? But then, I suppose that perhaps not everyone truly enjoys giving oral sex as I do, and may not do it as often. I'm still confused as to why so many women are so scared to death of come, running from it like it is radioactive.
Looking at the images, reading the articles, I found myself feeling excited. I always have. I imagined what pictures, which models would turn Rick on. Which pictures he would spend more time on than others. I imagined his dick stirring beneath his shorts as he admired the naked bodies, hoping he would use that energy on me later.
It wasn't long before my fingers lightly grazed over my pussy, circling the smooth skin with my finger tips, putting pressure near my clit. I was so turned on, I knew it would be easy to come multiple times, and I did. I spent the better part of the afternoon in pure self indulgence, pleasuring myself as I saw fit. The release was heavenly, relaxing both my body and my mind. I'd rest awhile, thinking I was done. And then I'd decide to go for another one, and another one.
I could have taken a blissful nap, relishing after my gluttonous feast of orgasms. But Rick would be home soon, and there was house work to be done. Perhaps he could serve me a few for dessert tonight. One can only hope.