Oklahoma Strippers: My Wild, Sexy Sisters Again

Catch up on the story with previous posts: Part I  Part II.

sexyLooking back on my high school days, I can laugh now. But back then it wasn’t so easy. Suppressing the heat and scent that my loins oozed, ignoring the fierce pulse in my muscles of sexual longings. I had to so that I could aid Mother in dealing with my wild sisters.

I imagine it’s all what was supposed to be. Because you know, after keeping my lust and passion bottled up for so long, it would be just the raw fuel for an supermassive explosion of sexual energy that would rock my world, my body, and the universe as well.

But I get ahead of myself.  My oldest sister, Vivian, got pregnant a few months before graduation with Lenny Colabello who worked at DaVinci’s Auto. Mother insisted she graduate and get her diploma, and Father made them have a quickie wedding.

Vivian named the baby Leonardo and saved up the big tips from her elderly clients at Mane Event Salon where she worked. The old men loved her young, adoring eyes, sensuous shampooing hands and charming giggle that made her big breasts jiggle at all the flattering hot whispers in her ear while jazz tunes played and she danced and laughed and served shots of Jack Daniels.

The “happy ending” pat on their dicks that were bulging through their pants by the time the shampoo was over doubled her tips too, and in just one year she opened her own hair salon, Amore Galore. She was booked solid for months straight and rented booth space to hot, hair stylists with big breasts that were stuffed into French maid outfits.

Business soared. No advertising needed, just word of mouth. Lenny didn’t mind, because she made so much money he could eventually quit his job and just screw around and get high with the young blonde cashiers at Spendlow Thrift Store next door before picking up Leo at daycare.

sexy3At school my younger twin sisters, Regina and Bettina, excelled in home economics. Instead of sewing blouses with cap sleeves or calf-length skirts that I hid myself beneath, however, the Twins’ sewing machine roared to the assemblage of gold and aqua-sequined outfits with matching thongs and g-strings designed for their exotic dance routines they choreographed together in the garage after being thrown out of Dona Elaine’s school of ballet for lewd behavior the summer before their junior year.

Mother started having nervous ticks after that on the right side of her face, and it made her Margarita drinking difficult, so she switched to drinking rum and cokes with a straw.  I stayed close to home to help her since my father’s out-of-town trips were longer and longer by enrolling at University of North Florida on a scholarship and majored in art history and English.

I resisted the advances of my professors, how they stared at my breasts as they discussed my Latin or chemistry homework. Even my geography teacher Ms. Doan would watch my ass as I walked out the door every day. I did have a real thing for my Contemporary Literature Professor, Mr. Tomich. His lips tucked behind his thin beard around his square jaw was so soft-spoken with the way he said, “Hemingway’s women.” It aroused me everytime, and I had to cross my legs a lot and squeeze them tight to shut down the fever in my loins and my imagination that had me joining my sisters in a strip tease before pinning him down for me to suck his cock.

He even one day after class slipped his hand on my knee when I asked him to look at my Raymond Carver essay. I held my breath. I could feel my nipples harden and his soft, dark eyes that were locked onto mine.

“You’re gorgeous, smart, sexy,” he said. “I’ve been watching you.” Then he looked down at my nipples pushing through my sweater. When his hand moved up my thigh, I wanted to give in, jump him and kiss him, but I shook it off and ran off because I would have exploded at that moment since the moisture in my panties already was giving way with my sweat. And because real trouble was waiting at home and Mother would need me.

GypsyLeeRoseThe twins were always quite dramatic and flashy with their clothes they designed and sewed. They were in all the high school musicals. Their senior year they had convinced the drama teacher, Miss Kirchbaum, the spring before to do Gypsy for the spring musical even though the PTA had an uproar and had her fired when they found out and the new teacher replaced it with Oklahoma instead. But that didn’t stop my twin sisters….

Because of their popularity and dancing talents, they were naturally picked to help choreograph, and they kept everything well-behaved. Or so everyone thought. I took mother to opening night and she beamed proudly at Regina and Bettina wrapped up in high-collared brown and pink prairie dresses for the opening numbers. But when the Dream Ballet scene came on, half-way through the twins broke the routine I had seen them rehearse at home.

The band must’ve been in on it, because Regina screamed, “Hang on folks, now the real show begins! YEAH!” and she snapped her fingers as she cued Rex Margoli, the jazz band sax player, who stood up, cued his pals in the band and shouted, “1, 2,3, here we go,” as the band switched to playing The Stripper.

My mother sat with her jaw dropped and eyes rolled back in her head as I stared at my twins sisters on stage strip out of their innocent red and green lacy dance hall girl outfits as they strutted their long legs in high heels downstage toward the audience to the strip-tease music.

abesThen Regina and Bettina’s long red nails that they had meticulously manicured the night before ripped open their bodices to reveal braless firm round breasts with just red star tassels covering their nipples.

“Here you go boys,” they shouted as they threw the bodices to the old men from Vivian’s salon who were all invited and sat wide-eyed in the front row. The Twins’ hips were clad in only red sequined g-strings with pink fur covering their pussy and black garters to hold up their fishnet stockings over their tone thighs.

The Twins bumped and grinded, swayed their sumptuous asses to the audience, which had broken out into shouts, whistles and jeers as all the male students rushed the front of the stage trying to touch them, grabbing at their legs and fighting over Vivian’s clientele to do it. Regina would squat down and thrust her pelvis forward fast as if she were a reincarnated Middle Eastern belly dancer as the principal, Mr. Duggan, sat dumbfounded and stared at the stage with a hard-on as the audience roared.

Regina and Bettina kissed each other, took turns shimmying their bodies up and down each other and blowing kisses to the audience. Other girls, even fat ones, started climbing on stage and stripping and dancing naked wild with sweat next to them because of the frenetic, erotic energy the Twins’ dancing and shocker behavior unleashed into the theatre that night. I even felt the rush and almost jumped up, thinking, go Regina and Bettina! Do your thing! But I caught a glimpse of Mother sobbing and I kept myself planted in my seat.

By the time the high school jock Brad Moulton was climbing on stage and put a $1 bill in Bettina’s g-string, that’s when the velvet curtain came down, and the lights went out as Mother started screaming, the exit doors flew open and I rushed her out with everybody else into the spring Florida night.

willisNeedless to say the Twins were expelled from school after that, but already 18 and with every North East Florida newspaper screaming headlines about them replete with photos that the high school Photo Club President Marsha Livingston sold for $500 a pop, they started dancing at the Bus Stop topless bar with a large clientele and a $1000 each signing bonus. They even had their own marquis with their names on it. “Double Trouble” they headlined, and Vivian did their hair and makeup every night with her clientele in tow in the front row.

Their costumes and hot duo dance routines became so popular that eventually the Twins would open their own club, Orchid Royale, along the St. John’s River. Father was indicted for selling Valium and Xanax samples to the prostitutes’ pimps he frequented in Atlanta on business trips. And Mother died in front of the television, a copy of Gone With the Wind found in the DVD player.

So that was my college career. Graduated magna cum laude. It wasn’t until later I would have my own big act of love and sex. But that is another story… to be continued, dear reader. Do tune in until next time. xoxoxoxo

Love and War – Erotic Prose Poem

Veronica Love Erotica

by Veronica Love

 

They did not want to die virgins – The outline of her nude body – There were no restraints in France – Her fleshy-white thighs – Sex and mortality – her black silk stockings – A reward – and garter – for surviving battle – came off – or a refuge from imminent death – Fingers on her soft-silken pussy – Young British officers had money to spend – Her gorging breasts – Knew they stood a good chance – nipples like young, pink raspberries – of being killed within a few weeks – The way she moaned and arched her back.
WWIArtriumphFellow officers chose to visit the brothels of Paris – Several young women writhing and sucking each others’ breasts – A maison tolérée – The Madam – “blue lamp” – took him to an eight-sided room – a refined category of brothel – walls and ceilings entirely covered with mirrors – reserved by secret edict – The only furniture a low divan – of the British army – luxurious – for the officer classes – on which this pretty little brunette displayed her charms – the misery of the trenches – opened her legs wide – A refuge cherished from the horrors of the first industrial war – She welcomed him most pleasantly – born in late Victorian Britain – her blue – tens of thousands – blue eyes – of young men – the scent of lilac – fear of imminent extinction – her honey tongue – dissolved sexual inhibition – She knew how to suck his cock and make him shudder.
Love and War Veronica Love EroticaThe shelling – She buried his head in her pussy with her slender hands – the slaughter – She went wild when he handcuffed her – the Western Front – to a wrought-iron bed – He had performed – He could suck her breasts for hours – heroic deeds for England – The way she loved to fuck – but also felt the need for a little love – The way she moaned – a little laughter – He grabbed her ass and fucked her.
Outside the room – the heat – young British officers – the sweat – drinking – building his desire – smoking – The way she touched herself and orgasmed – playing a battered piano beneath sensuous drawings – half-singing – pinned on walls – half-lusting – of young women wearing – loving – or half-wearing – radiant and beautiful – provocative clothes – made his heart ripple across his chest – German shelling – as he restrained his hard cock from climaxing – intensely – sweating – dangerous – so he could fuck her more – underground – fuck her again – war – those tender fuchsia lips. Dear God.
Bridges – heat and heavy breath – a railway station – her passion – devastated – fucking her silken tender flesh – vast craters – fuckingher heat – too large to have been created by an artillery shell – her cunt – a tunneller – 1915 – wet – served in France until 1919 – thrusting – burrowing – faster – beneath – faster – No Man’s Land – fucking faster – to blow up the German trenches – He cried out as he came – The shuddering in revulsion from death – collapsing in each other’s arms – one turns instinctively – listening to heavy breathing and heart beats – to love as an act to affirm the completeness of being –

Rested they breakfasted on an omelette – melon – and champagne.
Memories – lost love – Her name was Yvette – her pictures kept hidden – she was his favorite – locked away in a biscuit tin – Her scent still lingers on his fingertips – He never talked about it all these years – A lock of her hair – All we know is that he fell in love with a young woman in France – her garter – and that his family apparently discouraged him from marrying – Memories – He never talked about the Great War – brief physical encounters – Romantic love – not so easily suppressed – Right at the end of his life – Amour – he would talk about the young woman he had known in France – Je t’aime – He would become very emotional – Yvette – while talking about her – Je t’aime – He would even – Embrassez-moi – lapse – Yvette – into French – Je t’aimeJe t’aime – Je t’aime.

 

© Copyright 2017 Veronica Love

Read some of my favorite erotic books that have turned me on!

My Wild, Sexual Sisters and I

Veronica Love Erotica

L’Origine du Monde by Gustave Courbet 1866. I began to excel in art and history. Now I begin to understand why!

So dear reader, as I mentioned last post that I would tell you everything, but there’s so much! Where do I begin? I guess at the beginning.

I was the middle of four daughters growing up in Jacksonville, Florida.  My hot sisters and their sexual escapades caused trouble for my poor, dear half-Italian Mother. No doubt they were incredibly beautiful budding in their adolescence, as was I.

First Mother had a hard time keeping my highly sexual older sister, Vivian, under wraps. Vivian was gorgeous, but not the prettiest of we sisters, maybe being the oldest. But she was lovely nonetheless, exuding an intense sexual aura like that of an Italian movie star with her shapely curvy body and thin waist topped by perky breasts. Her almond- shaped green eyes were like magnets that pulled any boy in toward her sultry, olive skin topped with flowing, thick brown hair. And she had the desire to please.

I was what you consider an Italian twin, born just nine months after Vivian. Followed two years later by my identical twin sisters, Bettina and Regina.  They were beautiful with dark hair, and mysterious brown eyes. And they were blessed with the enormous, bouncy breasts that my mother had. By ninth grade starting high school they flaunted those breasts in push-up bras from beneath their Peter Pan-collared white shirted uniforms we had to wear to class at St Peter’s Catholic School.  They left the house innocent enough, but changed into them in the girl’s restroom.

“You’re a whore! Only whores wear such clothes!” my Mother always called after my sisters when they ran off with their friends on weekends.  They’d wear the tightest t-shirts and low-cut collars that you couldn’t just help but stare at their tits.  They loved the shortest of shorts and shoplifted makeup from the 5 and dime.

But their sexual rapaciousness was even worse than Vivian’s, relating to me nightly their stories of masturbating after school at their best friend Jill’s house or giving all the neighbor boys blow jobs. Word got out and they were expelled for giving blow-jobs in the boys bathrooms. Banished to public 9th grade high school, Vivian promptly helped them dye their hair red.

“You’re whores! Only whores dye their hair red!” my Mother cried, holding a picture of Mother Mary. My Mother sobbed to my Father that she couldn’t control my sisters , who was quiet about everything, rocking in a chair and smoking a cigar when he was home.  He wasn’t around much. Always on the road as a pharmaceutical salesman, and as I learned later in life, getting his own jollies.  So my mother didn’t have much help reeling my sisters in, as My Father seemed just nod in approval as mother complained about their activities and dress. It’s as if he were secretly proud of his seed and what fine stock it produced for masculine tastes and pleasures.

Naturally being the middle child, I became the good girl. Born on her feast day, July 12, I was named after Saint Veronica, patron of laundry and photography. Also the woman who was moved to compassion for Christ and wiped his face with her veil when he fell with the Cross.  I took pity on my Mother, who failing to control my sisters and getting no help from my Father, began to drink margaritas with extra salt every afternoon and resigned to an armchair to listen to her Maria Callas records before cooking her famous Italian dinners.  

So I shut down my body and excelled in my head, getting good grades in Latin, Greek, history, art and English, studying when I wasn’t working or at school. I stood by Mother’s side to help mitigate my sisters’ lasciviousness, and repress mine.  Or at least try.

Veronica Love Erotica Sex

Look for me, sacred woman and sacred pleasure, in every flower. You will find me there! Meditate upon flowers until my next post!

Even though I tried to control my sisters I was the prettiest of them all.  Really pretty. Piercing brown eyes, luscious long brown hair, wide cheeks that I got from my father’s Czech side of the family.

And I was really hot. Exuding the same sexual charisma as my sisters that drove men wild. Only I kept it tightly controlled. I controlled that inherited Latin fever in my loins, the same fever my sisters succumbed to, that I got thinking about my own sexual fantasies. Fantasies I had since childhood. But dared not confess.

I was always stared at and hit on constantly – a smooth brush of the tit from the hand of Mike Mitchell who sat behind me in math class, a slide of the hand on the butt by patrons of my after-school waitress job at Nicoletti’s Pizza Parlor. I always turned my eyes downward from their stares. I have to admit I did like the big tips but I turned away their advances and ran home to Mother.

Now I know all along that men…and women alike… have been picking up my hot cunt scent subliminally, subconsciously, I was emitting it all along….touch me…touch me… I was desperate to be touched, desperate to be fucked and loved, desperate to rip out of these confiding clothing of Catholics and to indulge in the pleasure and satisfaction of giving into raw pleasure and carnal lust of the body and nature that I was denied.

But I pretended to be shy instead, for Mother’s sake, keeping my full, womanly breasts under wraps, eschewing short skirts to hide my long legs. I was to be good for Mother, to be good for Jesus. As a Catholic, I felt guilty for the sexual feelings I had for Jesus. I wanted to be Mary Magdalene. Jesus hung out with the prostitutes. Why would there be anything wrong with it? I wondered. Plus, not having any women or sex seemed unnatural and out of balance. I mean how can pleasure be wrong? How can my beautiful body, my sister’s luscious, sensuous bodies, be wrong?

Plus, the Hindus get to have their Lord Krishna having sex with a thousand Gopi girls and he could have sex with his consort Radha. Why couldn’t Jesus have sex with Mary Magdalene as the ultimate religion? Why not the pleasure of Mary Magdalene’s body merged in bliss instead of the torturous pain of the cross? I wondered this in agony each Sunday as my tongue felt the communion host melt on my tongue. But I shut all that down for Mother.

Veronica Love Erotica

Look for me, sacred woman and sacred pleasure, in every oval, every work of art. Meditate upon this shape until my next post!

One evening, when Father was gone for a week, just as we were about to sit down to eat, Mother with tears in her eyes stared at her eggplant parmesania and stromboli and wondered where the Twins were.  

Vivian crossed her long legs, threw her head back and just laughed, “ As if you should ask Mama!”

“Vivian! Shhhhh!” I scolded, as my mother’s right hand made the sign of the cross across her plump, round body, then reached to open a bottle of red wine.

“I know where they are, Mama. You just sit tight. I’ll get them here for you.” I grabbed the car keys to the Ford and headed straight for Jill’s House.

Jill’s house was a big red-brick mansion out in the woods. Jill’s parents were both doctors, but they must not have been home, because I rang and rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. I could hear the laughter and smell the marijuana, which led me around back down the path to the screened-in pool house.

There I spotted Bettina, Regina and Jill with three guys from church in the jacuzzi! I stood there stunned, watching Regina moaning and masturbating up against the jacuzzi jet stream, one man relaxed sitting next to her watching her and fondling her balloon-like breasts with one hand. Surely he had already come, and nympho Regina just couldn’t get enough and wanted more.  No wonder Americans don’t have bidets! I marveled.

Bettina was on top of another guy who was sitting, fucking him and making waves in the tub, while he sucked her tits. Jill was getting fucked in the same position, but smoking a joint and then passing it to the third guy.

I was mesmerized by what I saw. I felt the passion rise in my loins and I began to sweat as I stared at this orgiastic ecstasy of the flesh I witnessed. My hands reached for my own now hardened nipples, then to my neck as my feet continue to be cemented in my tracks. But an owl hooted, and my head took over my senses again as I charged ahead to complete my task.

“Regina! Bettina!” I screamed through the screened pool house. Crickets buzzed as every head turned, and the fucking stopped. I was so flustered as what to say next. So I just stood there. They went back to their fucking! And Regina even climaxed and I stood there and listened to her moan.

“Regina! Bettina!” Come home this instant! Mother wants you home!” Regina exhausted said, “Oh, Mother. Such a nag.”

“It’s dinner time!” I said to no avail.

“We’re not hungry… at least not for food… but for something else,” Bettina laughed, as she took in her fingers the joint from Jill, took a drag and then blew the smoke into her guy’s mouth. They resumed fucking again.

Flabbergast, I sputtered out, “But, but she made stromboli!!!”

Regina and Bettina stopped!

“Mother made stromboli?” They both chimed together, wide-eyed, thick-lipped mouths open in giant O’s. “Really?”

“Yes!!! She made stromboli! Now come home, for Jesus’ sake!” And Mother’s I thought, and mine, as I watched the Twins leap out of the jacuzzi, grab a towel as the guys cried, “Hey!”

They grabbed their public school clothes of T-shirts and short shorts and school bags.

“Don’t worry, guys,” Jill said. “I’ll let you know the next time my parents are out of town for a conference.”

The Twins grabbed their shoes, waved a quick, “Bye!” to Jill and the guys, then streaked across the Kentucky bluegrass lawn, the moonlight illuminating their four bouncing breasts. They ducked into back seat of the Ford and squirmed into their clothes as I drove them home in the dark, my eyes set on the road in front of me.

Nothing was said at dinner, of course. Except the Twin’s orgasmic sounds of pleasure to feast on their favorite dish of Mother’s. Mother seemed content, likely because the girls loved her food, but also because she was drunk.

In bed that night after dinner, I could not get the images of what I saw out of my mind best I tried, tossing and turning until I fell asleep. In the morning I had dreams. Dreams of nothing I could be remember except a misty haze in which my body eventually convulsed in orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. I didn’t deny them, I could not in my sleepy state, and I indulged in squeezing my thighs together as the orgasms rippled through my body. I allowed them to, until the light of dawn awoke me to get ready for school.

So there, dear reader. I will stop. I have said enough for now.  There is so much more to tell. We are only getting started! Tune in next time! Be sure to follow this blog to get the latest in your email box!

In the meantime, don’t forget to check out my erotic poetry! Haiku and Tanka. And leave a comment! More of The Memoir of my Sacred Pleasure coming! Pun intended! xoxoxoxo

Love, Veronica.

© Copyright 2017 Veronica Love. All Rights Reserved.

 Here’s a book that taught me to write my sexy words by the queen of erotica, Anais Nin. Henry and June, it’s a classic and must read! xoxoxox

Erotic Tanka Poem No. 1

erotic tanka poem for her.  Veronica Erotica

I love a woman’s body. I wrote remember Natasha’s well. I wrote this erotic tanka poem for her.

Erotic Tanka Poem

No. 1

By Veronica Love

 

She mouthed me the words
A poet of the body
My weakness for flesh
Her hands led me to the bed
Her breasts ecstasy in verse

 

 

 

 

© Copyright 2017 By Veronica Love, All Rights Reserved

Memoirs of My Sacred Pleasure – Sex is Natural

YoniYantra

Sacred Yoni Yantra. Meditate on the glorious yoni. Let the power of the Shakti and universe ripple through your body and blow your mind.

The world can use more sex. Everybody wants it, men and women alike nervously blushing rose red at the word vagina or penis, all thirsting for romantic movies and coital release.

Sucking on bananas or lollipops, anointing themselves with Chanel No 5 or rose, dressing in silk for trembling hands to remember the sensation of skin.

Men and women desire to rejoice freely in touching their bodies, gaze upon a woman’s beauty and awe-inspiring pussy, worship a cock, or roll in the hay for hours with lovers and come and come and come until the sun comes up too.

Sex and women and the sacred prostitute were all part of every-day life in centuries gone by. When we were not so separated from nature but venerated it instead. Didn’t you know? Sex was exalted! Yet it is forbidden fruit now.

The world keeps a tight lid on it in a dark box. Pandora, the sacred woman whose pitcher body poured out pleasure in the world – demonized.  Religion, old men and a culture of repression have cut off the sacred pleasure of the flesh for millenniums. Putting on us secret shame and guilt.

KamaSutra

I learned the art of sacred sex from my Handler. I was initiated. I have been authorized to share my story and secrets to you. May you enjoy sacred pleasure. Your pleasure of the body saves the whole world. Participate in the sacred sexual arts of tantra. Here from the Kama Sutra. Love is sacred.

Regardless, our psyches know we desire sex and carnal passion. They simmer, no, rage beneath the surface, pleading for us all to revel in fucking and the pleasures of the body once more.  In our wet dreams in the morning. Men spilling their seed on the sheets; women squirming with orgasm after dreams at dawn.

But all we get are stories of shame and guilt, that sex is dirty or trashy. Newspaper headlines of politicians caught with their pants down with hotel maids. Or movies filled with men with big guns and military might, blasting bullets of semen from them, scorching the Earth in its pent-up rage, frustrated by the desire to fuck freely without shame or guilt. Just as Mars, the God of war, collapsed into the Goddess of Love Venus’ arms after coming, we can do a lot to make love and not war.

Phallus Pompeii brothelFor my sex has no shame. My love that I give freely and my body that I like to pleasure with men and women alike are natural. My breasts, my vulva, my desire.

I can tell you this is true! The time has come. I will tell you my story here in the digital pages of this blog. I will tell you about my sexually repressed childhood from Catholic roots.

I will tell you of my blossoming as a ripe and horny MILF, unable to hide her desire any longer. Hitting the road on a sexual journey, then finding my Handler who guided me into the initiation, into the Tantric arts of ecstatic sacred sex and love.

I will tell you how I transformed, keeping my desires and lower half of my body out of sight by hiding out in my mind and head. Shame kept me away, but when I could not longer keep the lust down, when I pierced my shadow, when I finally ripped it wide open and saw beyond the veil, I saw, no, I FELT, all I had been denying about my body, my sex, my desires. I worshipped my hot, red lips outlining a mouth that could suck cock longer and with more men than Cleopatra herself.  I was reborn.

For now I am a high priestess. I am a high priestess of sex. Having moved up the ladder of our secret society that I have belonged to over the years. Really I should say moving up through the royal beds. I have been authorized to tell my story. That’s my job as priestess in our tantric sex cult. I am an animal with desires of carnal lust, and I am divine being of sacred love.

So I will tell you my story here. All of it. For what can I teach you about sexual pleasure, sex that will sweep you off your feet, pitch you out of this world, except through by my own story. My own experiences. Through my confessions, my truth of sex, my body, my desires.

800px-Birth_of_Venus_Botticelli

I was born from the waters. My body is natural. It is for pleasure. Pleasures of the sensual world. Venus I am.

Discovering over the years my body, my womanhood, my breasts, my mysterious yoni, taking lingam into my like a key in a pocket. I have done it all.

I will tell you my sexual fantasies as a child that made me feel shame every time I took communion, the hundreds of men who I took to my bed in dozens of countries and circumstances across the globe. I will share with you the secrets and the art of sacred arousal you can try on your lover (or lovers).

Enjoy my erotic poetry, short stories and art as well. Some are soft core, others hard core. Of course this blog is peppered with erotic classic arts and literature too, and plenty of book suggestions. Remember, I’m not just a common whore, I’m an smart high priestess. Spent a lot of time in the intellectual realm before I was brought back to Earth and to my body through good hard fucking.

Just writing this has made me squirm, shot a little bit of pleasure from my pussy up my spine and into my heart, bursting it wide open toward the sky. I can’t wait to tell you more. But now, I must pleasure myself. I suggest you do to.

Until next time.

Veronica

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