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23rd September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

Expendables 2 created in me a renewed interest in all things old-school action. The biggest disappointment of the movie was that I did not get to see many of Jean Claude Van Damme‘s powerful yet graceful moves. I re-rented his movie Kickboxer, for which he choreographed and directed all the fight scenes, and was again wowed by the beauty of his skills, not to mention the superbness of his physique. Many of his other films feature too much ammunition, and in fact the scenes in Expendables 2 I enjoyed the most were the martial arts scenes. I mean, hello, you’ve got Van Damme, Jet Li, Jason Statham, and Chuck Norris! I then looked up Van Damme’s bio and found that he had married the gorgeous Gladys Portugues, former female bodybuilding champion, who approaching the age of 55, is still stunning. He actually married her twice, from 1987-1992, and after another marriage, again from 1999 till now! They have three gorgeous/handsome kids and still smile and kid around on the red carpet. Hugs to you and your family from me and mine!

For a quite enlightening article about Jean Claude, read this Guardian UK article.

20th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

Last night’s open-mic was the first time I’d performed a stand-up comedy routine in public. My first time ever had been in class a mere 10 days before.

It was a blast. There were about sixteen others including two classmates and a few working comedians trying out new material, and we were each given five minutes. After the MC, who was excellent, the first guy was a dud – five minutes of him strumming nothing up and down his guitar, I kid you not. The other performances varied in quality but the good stuff made the mediocre worth staying. Some bits were excellent.

When I went up, I made the very-true excuse of having to pee really badly as to why my set was so short – at under three minutes, and then I went into a bit that started like this,

“I have this giant bruise on my knee. I wish I could say I was wasted or drugged out of my mind, or had really powerful sex – the kind where there is no such thing as pain – but I honestly have no clue…”

To finish my set, the MC, who had overheard me saying I acted, asked me something atune to this,

“So it seems like you enjoy having bodice-ripping sex, so it would be nice if you could combine the two into an adult film career.”

To which I replied:

“I could, but I only look good from most angles. Because I’ve had a few kids, me upside-down, trust me, nobody wants to see that…”

I’ll save the favorite parts of my routine for a future video which I will post here!

This weekend, I compete in a small local competition – sink or swim I saw, so wish me luck!

12th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I happened upon talk of this while looking for sex towels or cloths. The idea of the glands sounded familiar but the name certainly had escaped my memory. According to Wikipedia, Skene’s glands could secrete during ejaculation and be related to the G-spot orgasm in addition to providing additional lubrication. Handy glands they are, and apparently they are not present in all women. Ah, the mysteries of the human anatomy.

Incidentally, sex towels – kind of – exist! Or rather, sex blankets. Satin on one side, crinkly plastic in the middle and velveteen on the other – just look up Fascinator Throe – they command from $60-100 a pop.

I would prefer there to be sex cloths available that are about 24″x 24″, easily washable, stain-resistant, and cuddly-soft. I may just have to make that happen. It’s not a normal size to find in a luxurious material. Yeah, you can get those disposable hospital blue/white papers in about that size but a clinical sex/bed-wetting experience is not what I’m going for.

12th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

My man and I were standing at the bar when a mean drunk, a small 20-something chick, pushed him out of the way. I went to rescue my purse that was hanging right under her as she was now in both of our spots and she said to me, “What do you want?” I told her I was getting my purse but she didn’t take the hint. Her friends apologized to us and said that she was really not like this but she had drunk a lot.

My man placed himself in between her and me, because though I am very good at avoiding fights and am a good-natured lass all-around, the thought of being pushed into defending my or my man’s honor does give me a rise. My one fight as an adult gave me such an adrenaline rush! My man smirked but was serious when he told the mean girl’s friends that he was protecting her from me.

My jolly-natured self is giving the mean drunk some less painful options to the behavior that may get her pounded one day, by offering a list of drinks posted by Arthur Kougias on Quora:

 

Read Quote of Arthur Kougias’s answer to Drinking (alcohol): What are some good non-alcoholic drinks to order at a bar? on Quora

8th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

Why is it nice when your loved one goes on a business trip?

  • You get to have time to yourself.
  • You actually miss him and seeing fifteen pairs of his discarded socks on his side of the bed makes you feel glad to have him in your life. In fact, you leave all of his strewn-around things the whole time he’s gone so it looks like he hasn’t left.
  • Any annoying traits of hers are forgotten – out of sight, out of mind. You just remember the good and how you really need some sex and she knows how to give it good.
  • It’s easy to be sweet with an occasional text message ending in Mwaaa or kisses.
  • She comes home and all is as it should be!
7th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

Since I recently had lots of lovely photos taken by the sweet and sexy Italian photographer Fabrizio, I thought I’d participate in one of fashion magazines’ favorite pastimes, a Who Wore It Best? indulgence. I have a penchant for Bebe dresses, especially since the brand comes out with about ten to twenty every week and I adore dresses. What do you think?

Who wore this Bebe dress best? Shorty Dame Suzy or the sky-high cutie?

(Grammatically it really should be who wore it better but just to match the mags, tada.)

9th August
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I met Jeff on the set of a print shoot. Like many over-25 models of both sexes, he was married. But it didn’t matter as I was just happy there was an attractive guy to flirt/chat with. At forty or so, he was one of those ruggedly handsome guys but with poise and elegance. Very nice.

When I saw him stretch and rub the back of his neck, the generous and opportunistic ME offered her massage services which he accepted with a look that said, “I don’t want to bother you but damn, that would be great.”

A barely-audible moan of tension release later and I invited him – and his wife – for a spa session the next week. His wife was tall, statuesque, and blond, the opposite of me. She also looked like she needed to get laid, but I didn’t mention that absurd detail. I mean, how could she look that way when she had this tempting man sleeping next to her every night?

I started massaging her temples first. And at first she was happy, but as Jeff and I were having a lively conversation, I realized that the voices, especially his, seemed to annoy her. After I was done she admitted that having a spa day meant not having him around. “And,” she said with a coquettish smirk in his direction, “I prefer a man’s touch, but not yours, honey. You’re too rough.”

That left Jeff and me in a house alone for our weekly spa sessions.

We flirted more, enjoyed each other’s company more, and I started working my way from his face to his neck and shoulders. I sat behind him and used the palm of my hand to work his smooth, hard, pronounced pecs and the added bonus of hard delicious nipple. I smelled his sweet faint manly smell with the stronger scent of fabric softener. And I felt the heaving of his chest as I pressed my breasts against his back to get my palms deep into his muscle.

We lasted all of three weeks before things got interesting.

TODAY:

I crane over to work on his face. He notices me stretch my back. “You can straddle me if that’s more comfortable,” he offers. Don’t mind if I do. I don’t tell him that I’m not wearing panties and the way we are sitting my pussy is just out of sight, which is the only way this could be quasi-legitimate. *Ahem* Wow, what a friend he is to me – arousing me by letting me touch and smell him, and what a great friend I am, giving him these luxurious hour-long massages in return.

And it could stop here, and I would be okay with that, but I know there is a high probability that things will get out of control and I am thrilled at the prospect.

And it happens quickly. Because when I seat myself astraddle, he has to have somewhere to put his hands, so they naturally rest at the tops of my thighs. And then his hands begin to move slowly, squeezing once in a while, and his supple lips part slightly and my face is so close to his and my fingers move over his cheekbones and his hands slide up the insides of my thighs… and his until-then closed eyes pop open when his fingers reach wetness, and he puts his hands under my hips and carries me, still astraddle, to the couch, where he sets me down, pulls my skirt out of the way and his mouth closes around my glistening wet vulva. His talented tongue drives me crazy – sensitive! – and I want to touch him so badly that it’s painful and I just have to wait patiently till he has his fill of making me squeal and moan with his tongue and fingers. Then when he finally pulls away, I yank his snug shirt over his head and am like Ahhhhh. He has downy dark hair all over his chest. His nipples are gorgeous and I attack them right away as he continues to fuck me with his fingers.

Only then do our lips meet for the first time. Oh, sweet Jesus. Mmmmm. And he pushes me back down on the couch with the weight of his incredible body and with his uncomfortably constricted man parts lodged in my throbbing female ones.

And then as suddenly as it has started, he pulls his face away and then his body, and says, “Shall we continue next week?”

“Oh, you’re so cruel!” I sputter, my body silently screaming in frustration.

He smiles as he stands up and adjusts himself. “It’s the waiting that’s makes it so great. You know how much it hurts to have you touch me and hear your voice and have to hold back? But this proves that it’s worth the wait.”

He gives me an infuriating kiss on the forehead and is out the door in five seconds, flashing a cocky smile.

Grrrrrr!

“I’ll punish him next time,” I think. And I ten-percent believe it.

14th July
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I haven’t planned it. I don’t even wish it until someone does the easy part for me and my mind floods with titillating possibilities.

I’ve had a typical screen crush on Spanish series El Barco’s Gamboa, played by Colombian actor Juan Pablo Shuk, seeing him in the weekly over-the-top drama series, his persona easily conquering the small screen. The small mouth surrounded by juicy lips, the eye wrinkles that say he’s seen and done much and many, thick eyebrows, and a heart-shaped yet still masculine face punctuated by dark stubble. He is approaching fifty but doesn’t look it, his body replete with muscles not defined like a fitness model’s but instead thick and hard and covered in smooth bronzed skin.

His character is dangerous and has gotten more so by the week until he has become an utter f-ing asshole, one I am frustrated that no one is trying to stab or maim after he among other things threatens the lives of his much younger lover’s little sister and father.

It is at this point that I stumble upon the remnants of an after-awards party at a popular little cocktail bar on Calle Atocha in my beloved Madrid. Antena 3 (the Spanish NBC) actors file out in varying degrees of inebriation, the drunker ones too loud or completely silent and acting true to or opposite their T.V. characters. I turn the corner on my way to stop by my apartment to change from dinner clothes into a stunner dress, and what I do find is someone punching out a guy a bit shorter but bigger than him. The shorter, bigger guy seems unwilling to fight back though it’s clear he would make mincemeat out of the other guy, and the puncher sees me and then backs off, then turns to get out of there quickly. The guy on the ground is Gamboa.

I offer my nearby apartment for him to clean up his blood-lined mouth, and in a bit of a daze, he lets me help him up the street the fifty meters to my building.

He makes it into the apartment to the first thing he sees, a heavy-weight, old-fashioned club chair. A few seconds after he sits down, he falls asleep.

When he comes to an hour later, I am dressed in a glamorous yet sexy stretch satin bustier dress in blood red with lips to match. And he is very much restrained. Body and legs in the chair tied by layers of saran wrap and hands tied together in front of him. A ball-gag made of manchego cheese with a large breathing hole through it is lodged in his mouth. And he’s naked. And I have enjoyed just looking at him for the past hour. And grooming his over-grown manscape. I was doing him a favor there.

“To answer your ‘Why?’ I’m simply punishing you like I think the other characters on the show should have done a long time ago, except in my own special way.”

I caress his chest with my hair, my face, my hands, lick his nipples which involuntarily perk up. He struggles, then stops, struggles again with less volition, until he just lets me do as I wish and I move down to his cock which greets me, and I can’t resist and guide it into my mouth with one hand and caress his satiny (thanks to me) balls with the other.

He makes sounds as if he wishes to speak.

“No screaming, though. I think you’ve seen enough movies to know why.” I pull the cheese out of his mouth. In truth, if he does scream, I’m not worried. Across the hall is a daytime business and I haven’t heard any evidence of anyone living above me. I just know screaming would annoy me, and I’d slap it out of him – and I don’t wish to be violent.

“Thank you.” And surprisingly, that’s all he says.

I continue to pleasure myself by pleasuring him. I am so very much in my own little world with his lovely thick cock and the small punctuated sounds my playmate makes as I do it. And I bring him almost to climax twice but stop right beforehand, and he growls in upset, and the third time, I try to do the same but my timing’s off and he gushes onto my chin. Whoops. I lick my chin. Nice. Not a smoker.

While his body slumps from satisfaction, I sit on the arm of the chair and caress his hair, his cheek. He opens his eyes, and I see not a smidgen of malice. That catches me off-guard and I regret what I’m doing keeping him tied up like I am.

His lips part slightly and with those eyes of his I have to kiss him. He lets me and oh, his lips do meet mine and they enjoy their playtime together. If lips were delicious, his would be.

His lips pull away to speak. “I wish I could touch you.”

“No,” I reply and continue to kiss him.

Then he suddenly takes my lower lip in his teeth and as I pull away he presses his teeth closer together.

“Untie my arms.”

“No!” I say sternly, kneeing him in the balls.

He lets go of my lip and moans in pain.

“Bitch!” he mutters, the scariness that he exhibits on screen locked in his expression.

“Enough!” I say. “I’m going out.”

I return three hours later to his sleeping frame in the same position I left him in. I give his thighs an appreciative squeeze and collapse on my bed, fully dressed.

In my dream, I am with someone, I don’t know who. We’re on a boat sailing. But wait. Has water entered the boat? My panties are wet and warm. And there’s an electric shock that pulsates every second or so.

I come to.

My arms and legs are bound to the legs of the bed. Gamboa’s head Is between my legs and that beautiful mouth of his must be giving me those shocks. I’m buck-naked and he’s fully dressed.

I’m scared at first, then bummed that he’s not naked, then I get lost in sensations. My clit is ridiculously sensitive and I pretty much hate its being concentrated on. He takes advantage of this revelation and brings me with his mouth and fingers from wanting to bash him in the head from the sensory overload to ooooh, that feels good and back again.

When I feel like I’m about to die or wish I or at least my clit would, he asks politely, “You want me inside of you?”

“Would it make a difference if I said no?”

He ponders this with a cute glance toward the heavens and shakes his head like a little boy.

“Hmmm…” I start to mutter in a disgusted tone, “I don’t want you inside of me, you lower-than-dirt son-of-a-bitch!”

In a second, he unbuckles his belt and throws his pants down around his ankles to reveal his hard-on that looks even bigger than before as he stands above me.

I ask, “Where is your underwear?”

“I left them as a souvenir.”

He checks my nightstand and finds what he’s looking for, a condom.

“Crazy bitch kidnaps me, I don’t know what she might have.”

I nod my head, then stop. “Get out of here. I don’t want you. You’re sick trash.” I try to believe it.

He grabs me by the small of my back and pushes me onto his cock like it was butter. My body convulses in pleasure at the first thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” I exclaim. “Oh, God!”

And his face softens and he thrusts long and slow which drives me utterly crazy as I am about to explode already I am so primed, and I’m moaning and writhing and wanting so much to touch him, to kiss him, but he shakes his head and he continues his drawn-out years-of-practice torture, and then he withdraws which is like being suddenly suffocated.

My body spasms for a few seconds as he wipes sweat off his brow and breathes heavily – it isn’t easy for him to stop, he’s just punishing me. He gives me a wicked smile. “Touché, pussy cat.”

I struggle against my restraints. “I want to touch you.”

“I thought you didn’t want me. I’ll just go home now.”

“Nooo,” I moan. “I want you, I want you so badly.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

“But that was just…I was just wondering what denying you would be like.”

He pulls his pants up and I whimper. He notes it and pauses.

“Fuck me, please,” I whimper. “Take me, destroy me, devour me. Don’t leave me like this.” Tears well up in my eyes. Embarassing.

His eyes go soft again and he removes his shoes and socks, and as my chest is heaving from desire, he takes his time undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. I whimper. I bite my lip almost to bleeding. My back arches off the bed.

He undoes my restraints. We are both free. We are both each other’s prisoners without the bonds. I rise up and embrace him, kissing him all over his face. His hands roam my body, his lips meet mine as they pass, we kiss deeply, we pull our bodies closer to each other’s. He enters me and I yell out almost in pain.

He thrusts long,luxurious, and deep, and he makes me come over and over, never holding out on me this time, and then when he comes, I feel elated, relieved, victorious, and well-fucked.

And when we awaken from our post-coital bliss, he asks me, “Why did you do all this?”

I shrug and stretch like a cat. “It’s just an idea I had for a story,” I smile, giving him a thank you kiss on the cheek.

“What? That’s all?”

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’m your prisoner.”

“And I yours,” he responds, pushing his new erection on my welcoming clit.

—–

Later… “By the way,” I suddenly remember. “Why did that guy punch you and why did you let him?”

He answers, “Well, you’ll just have to ask me next time.”

Oooh, there’s going to be a next time. Damn, he’s good.

Note: this story is fiction if you hadn’t noticed 🙂

12th July
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I stumbled upon this Fox News article about Andrew McLaren and my curiosity about this gorgeous man with an impressive past (and future?) took me to finding video on him on YouTube. There’s a well-done video of him doing the rounds as he begins a campaign to win a vacant Congressional seat:

I do love someone whom I can look at and listen to who does not at least appear to think along party lines. He believes in gay marriage, family values, gun rights, and the value of human life – not exactly opinions that mesh in the current political climate.

Hearing my man (as awesome as he is most of the time) rant about Obama all day long and get angry when I give a contrasting opinion, it’s refreshing to know that it’s not all about Republican versus Democrat out there.

Good luck to you, Mr. McLaren.

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