Every so often, I call attention to how old I am.
Sometimes because it puzzles me.
It puzzles me.
I can't relate to it.
And sometimes because it's good to let people know that "older" people can still have - and do have - sex. Hot sex. Satisfying sex. Kinky sex. Moon-about-it-for days-afterwards sex.
More than sex.
and thoroughly preoccupying
It doesn't end with your first grey hair.
Of course, I don't have that many grey hairs. Which is part of my confusion. When I look in the mirror I see beauty. Not just because the sadist taught me to see it. It's because somehow my looks improved as I got older. Odd, no?
And then there's this mane of red hair.
A head of bouncing and thoroughly natural red waves and curls.
Unless I look at my hands, it's hard to connect with the number.
Ever not sure how old someone is?
Look at the hands.
We lose that lovely, plumpifying collagen as we age.
The skin thins.
But most people don't know to look at the hands.
So they think I'm still 40 or 45 or so.
You new readers.
Waiting for the number?
I'd probably still be masturbating daily if the sadist hadn't staked a claim to my orgasms, to be doled out one by one for his pleasure - and sometimes as a reward for good service.
Those 40-year olds do keep flirting with me.
(Today's guy was very tempting...)
I haunt the dreams of the man who owns me.
I ooze sex.
I am pussy.
Every inch of me is pussy.
In and out, every inch of me is pussy.
Just ask my Master.
I am female.
I am alive.
I am sexual.
That about covers it.