Dear Dirty Masseur X,
You know I do like to be touched. Also, isn’t it every woman’s dream to be painted nude by some attentive master? I just think of the hours – the days! – it would take, and you slowly getting to know my every single curve, and me getting all sleepy and languid and just letting you look forever. But I’m being coy, aren’t I? You’re sitting there awaiting your very official report, and this time I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, sir. I’m letting myself go. Because…well, why not? Continue reading Mister Masseur: her response to The Full Body Massage Experiment
Dear Mr. X,
Dear Mr. X,
I shouldn’t have done it, but last week I opened my wife’s computer while she was in the shower. We’re both sex nuts, and the bedroom has kept us together through ten years of marriage, but we hadn’t even approached a kiss in weeks. Worse, somehow I didn’t mind. Something had gone wrong, something I couldn’t begin to put a finger on. She’s still one of the sexiest women I’ve ever met, dressing like a classic movie star – garter belts even, holding up exotic silk stockings whose swirling patterns I used to study, all hidden underneath some prim skirt by a French designer. She’s European (it hardly needs to be said), and we live in an exotic place under palm trees across the Atlantic Ocean that I’ll choose not to mention for the moment. Mostly, though, she has preferred not to wear anything at all. She tends to cavort around the house naked, relishing her body: blond hair, always red lipstick, pale skin with tits made for some mermaid bursting from the sea in a Renaissance painting, a round smooth ass, pussy showing pink through a few blond hairs, then firm legs down to bare feet with red-painted toes. She’s the sort of innocent thing on the surface who inspires dirty thoughts, and as far as I can see, she hasn’t aged a bit. But she’s stopped cavorting, and we’re hardly even talking. Her body’s becoming a memory. So what’s gone wrong? I opened her computer hoping to find out.