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College disappoints me.

Greatly.

I forget occasionally that it has not exactly provided me with the experiences I, and many other people, knew I’d get from it three years ago, when it all began. In the blur of this past summer semester, I didn’t have time to think of what has been missing. I barely had time to sleep. And when I did have time to sleep, I used it to work instead so I could sleep the next night… and then would work through the next night, as well. A vicious cycle when you find yourself buried under more and more and more work as the semester goes on, and especially so when you expect it to lighten at some point. I had time for nothing but trying to get through it, so what else was there to complain about if I had time for nothing else anyway?

I just completed this summer semester with stellar grades yesterday. Words cannot express how excellent it felt to wake up at noon today and know I didn’t have any assignments to complete, any exams to take before midnight, any trips to make to campus…

I have nothing to do today.

And damned if it doesn’t feel good lol.

I haven’t had any kind of break from school since last December, so I’ve been prematurely celebrating the end of this beastly summer semester all week long in between completing two final projects and four consecutive exams. Needless to say, mini-celebrations with my fellow classmates were the name of the game lol. It was during one of these mini-celebrations of impending freedom that I was abruptly reminded that my college experience is not and will never be what I expected it to be three years ago.

On Thursday morning, I had to both take a final and turn in a part of final project for one of my courses. The final project was actually a group project, and when I completed the final and was on my way to find the professor’s office so I could turn in my work, one of my group members spotted me outside, having just completed the exam himself. He asked me where I was headed, and this provided me with an excellent opportunity, as I had no idea where the professor’s office was lol. I asked him if he would show me the way, and he gladly obliged me. It was just a few minutes from the testing room, and we spent the time talking about the class, how glad we were to have finished it, and then about our college experiences in general. When all else fails with college students, they are still guaranteed to talk about their past courses and the professors who taught them when they come together. It is a universal truth, and I find it incredibly boring.

At one point, he began asking me about my degree and what kind of courses it required. When I started listing off the courses with “biology,” he stopped me and asked me if I took a certain well-known female professor’s version of the course. Now, this professor is well-known for being hot as hell, and not much else lol, and I knew of her even before I was trying to take her course. I did sign up for her class, but she dropped it due to a family emergency just before the semester was due to begin, so I wound up taking it with another professor. I explained this to my classmate and lamented that I really would have liked to take her course because, if nothing else, I wanted to see if she lived up to the hot hype. He confirmed that she is very hot, and I said that was a shame… but that I still had time to meet, woo, and fuck her, so all was not lost. The conversation after this point went like so.

Group Guy: But she’s married. (a little indignant)

Goldy: Doesn’t matter. Girls don’t count.

Group Guy: What do you mean?

Goldy: It doesn’t matter to me if she’s married. Her husband probably wouldn’t be that bothered by my attentions anyway. He can watch us.

Group Guy: But… you’d have to be a guy for that. (laughing)

Goldy: …What?

Group Guy: Clearly, you can’t have sex with girls. You’re a girl! You have to be a guy for that, you know. (laughing harder)

Goldy: …Are you kidding?

Group Guy: What do you mean? (blank stare)

He wasn’t kidding.

Ho. Ly. Shit.

How is it possible that the idea of girls fucking each other has remained completely absent from this kid’s 21 year-old brain? Don’t people watch porn anymore? At the very least.

What a sad life.

Mine and his, I suppose. He, by a great margin, is not the first person who has made it completely clear to me that sexual deviance is not on the college menu at this campus. And what’s saddest about it all is that my fellow classmates have failed me even under the tamest amount of deviance. What kind of college students are these people? Isn’t college supposed to be a time of discovery and experimentation and growth and freedom?

I feel betrayed by my own generation.

Fuckers.

(Or not.)

❤ Goldy❤

XII

You know, it’s easy to forget how quickly summer semesters move until you’ve signed up for one again, I’m finding. I’m currently taking a course in genetics and a course in maternal and child health, so, in a normal semester, this wouldn’t amount to very much work. However, normal semesters are about 17 weeks long, whereas summer semesters are about 10 weeks long, and the same amount of material is taught in both no matter what class you take. Hence, I have been saddled with twice the amount of work I would normally receive during a fall or spring semester, and I will take my fourth test in just over a week on Monday.

I am burnt the bloody fuck out, and it doesn’t end until late July.

So, since I’m busy being a good schoolgirl and have little sexiness of my own to impart at the moment, I’ve brought you all a present. I have a wealth of new sexy books that I’ve amassed within the last month and a half, and I’m deeper into some of them than others. One of these sexy books is actually not a sexy book at all, really. It was written by an unknown man (supposedly) in the Victorian era of London, and it details as many different sexcapades as roughly 580 pages can hold. Some of them are hot, some of them are funny, some of them are sad, some of them are scary, and many of them are sick as hell.

All that being said, I quite like it lol.

The book goes by the title My Secret Life: An Erotic Diary of Victorian London, and I have managed to slowly make my way through the first 24 chapters of it. As opposed to reading it leisurely throughout my spare amounts of free time in the day, picking it up has become something of a bedtime ritual on nights that I have trouble sleeping, which results in some interesting dreams. The best of these dreams came after I finished my favorite chapter of all… chapter 12.

Soon after I read it, my internet service provider had a major meltdown and I was without internet access for quite a while. It was a period of rest from exams and quizzes and responsibilities, so I decided to pass the time by typing up the chapter just to read it again, enjoy it more slowly, and possibly share it at some point.

Welcome to some point, kids.

Now, because it was written in the 1800s, the verbiage is of an odd sort, and some of the main phrases had me stumped for several chapters. I pinpointed the odd ones that stuck out to me and defined them as best as I could underneath the character list, just to help it all make sense. Once you get past the unique wording and find yourself in the middle of the centuries-old debauchery, I know several of you will find this not to your tastes, several more of you will be too ashamed to admit that it is to your tastes, and the rest of you will revel in it… so be mindful of that before you delve into this venture. This book is admittedly not for everyone, but it’ll stay in my library for a long time to come.

Without further ado… Enjoy.

❤ Goldy❤

~*~

Characters:

Walter (the narrator)

Fred (Walter’s cousin)

Laura (Fred’s live-in girlfriend of several years)

Lord A*** (also called Adolphus)

Lady A*** (also called Marie)

Mabel (the girl Walter is fucking and the girl/friend who lives in Laura’s and Fred’s house)

Key Phrases:

**“Directly”: used as “directly after”, ie—it’ll say “directly we had fucked we were to return…” and it means “directly AFTER we had fucked we were to return…”

**“Frig/Frigged”: used as “masturbate(d)” or the equivalent of someone giving a handjob

**“She had been gay”: still figuring this one out because he never explains it… but I’m fairly sure it means “she had slept with another woman” at any point in time, even if just once

**“Spent”: used as “got off”/“came”/“orgasmed”, etc.

**“We had better stop”: used as “we had better spend the night” at someone’s house

My Secret Life: Chapter XII

For brevity I compress the events of the next few months; it is a pity, but it would print to three times the length otherwise. I was mostly in London. One or two funny whoring incidents I must leave out altogether, and for the same reason: brevity.

An intimate friend of Fred’s was Lord A***, he lived with a lady who was called Lady A***. I don’t think she had been gay, and in that respect resembled Laura and Mabel. The three women were much together. We often saw Lord A***, and all became friends. Lord A*** was not very true to his lady. He lived in B*t*n Street, where he had at that time the whole of a handsomely furnished house, but only could half occupy it. His in-door servants were a middle-aged woman who cooked, a maid who was her niece, and his valet, who waited at table as well. A woman who did not sleep in the house came daily. He had grooms and a coachman, but not in the house. Lord A*** had quarreled with his father. He had been in the Guards, and drank very freely.

He invited us one night to dinner, and gave a splendid one. By the time we had finished, we were all noisy. It was never our custom to use baudy language when in each other’s company, Laura had a great aversion to it. Mabel liked me to talk baudy to her, but did not talk it herself. Fred always after dinner would let out a warm word or so, and was at once snubbed by Laura. For all that our conversation after diner was generally warm with double entente.

On the night in question our conversation got to open voluptuousness. Fred and Lord A*** went in for it, Mabel laughed, Laura hished and hished, said she would leave, but at last gave way, as did Lady A***; then we men got to lewedness. Whenever any sensuous allusion was made, my eyes sought Laura’s, hers seeking mine; we were both thinking of the quiet and quick fuck we had, with Mabel snoring by our side. We compared our thoughts on that night, but at a future day.

Just at that time a case filled the public journals. It was a charge of rape on a married woman, against a man lodging in the same house. She was the wife of a printer on the staff of a daily paper, who came home extremely late; she always went to bed leaving her door unlocked, so that her husband might get in directly he came home. The lodger was a friend of her husband’s, and knew the custom of leaving the door unlocked,—in fact he was a fellow-printer.

She awakened in the night with the man between her thighs, had opened them readily, thinking it was her husband. It appears to have been her habit, and such her husband’s custom on returning home, or so she said. The lodger had actually all but finished his fuck, before she awakened sufficiently to find out that it was not the legitimate prick which was probing her. Then she alarmed the house, and gave the man in charge for committing a rape. The papers delicately hinted that the operation was complete before the woman discovered the mistake,—but of course it left much to the reader’s imagination.

Fred read this aloud. I knew more, for the counsel of the prisoner was my intimate friend. He had told me that the prisoner had had her twice, that she had spent with him; that he had often said he meant to go in, and have her, that she had dared him to do it, and that she only made a row when she thought she heard her husband at the door on the landing, although it was two hours before his usual time of return. His prick was in her when she began the outcry.

With laughter and smutty allusions we discussed the case. “Absurd,” said Laura, “she must have known it was not her husband.” “Why?” “Why because—,” and Laura stopped. “If you were asleep, and suddenly felt a man on you of about my size, and his prick up you, very likely you would not tell if it were mine or not,” said Fred. Laura threw an apple at his head. Decency was banished from that moment, a spade was called a spade, and unveiled baudiness reigned.

“I should know if it were not you,” said Lady A*** looking at Lord A***. “How?” “Ah! I should,—should you not know another woman from Laura in the dark?” said she to Fred. “I am not sure for the moment if with a woman just for size, and as much hair on her cunt,” said he. “I tell you what Fred, I won’t have it,” said Laura ill-tempered, “talk about someone else, I won’t have beastly talk about me.” “I’ll bet,” said I, “that if the ladies were to feel our pricks in the dark, they would not tell whose they each had hold of.” Roars of laughter followed. “I should like to try,” said Mabel. “So should I,” said another. “Would you know, if you felt us?” said one woman. “If I felt all your cunts in the dark, I’ll bet I should know Marie’s,” said Lord A***. “That is, if you felt all round and about,” said Fred, “but not if she opened her legs, and you only felt the notch.” “I think I should.” “Why?—Is she different from the others?” Lord A*** was about to say something when Marie told him to shut up.

So we went on, the men in lascivious language, the women in more disguised terms, discussing the probabilities of distinguishing cunts or pricks by a simple feel in the dark. Each remark caused roars of laughter, the women whispered to each other, and laughed at their own sayings. Lewedness had seized us all, the women’s eyes were brilliant with voluptuous desire. More wine was drunk. “Call it by its proper name,” said Lord A*** when Marie remarked that a woman must know her own man’s thing. “Prick then.” “I will bet five pounds that Mabel would not guess my prick in the dark, if she felt all of us,” said I. “And I’ll bet,” said another. “Shall we try?” said Fred. “Yes,” said Mabel, more fuddled than the rest. Baudier and baudier, we talked, laughed, and drank, and at length set to work to make rules for trying, all talking at once.

One proposed one way, one another. “I can’t tell unless I feel balls as well,” said a woman. “Will they be stiff when we feel?” said another. “Mine will,” said Fred, “it’s stiff already.” “So is mine,” added I.

“How shall we know where to put our hands, if we are in the dark?” said Lady A***. “If a man is in front of you, you will find it fast enough,” answered someone. Laura had now yielded to the baudy contagion, and we made no objection, though Mabel and Lady A*** were the most forward. Then Lord A*** rang the bell, and told his valet he might go out for the night, and his housekeeper and maid they might go to bed, which they did at the top of the house, as we supposed. The sequel proved that to be doubtful, and that they must have had a most edifying night.

After lewed squabbles we arranged that each man was to give the woman if she guessed the prick right, ten pounds; the men were to be naked, the women to feel all the men’s cocks, and give a card to him whose prick she thought she knew. The room was to be dark. No man was to speak, or give any indication by laughing, coughing, or any other way, under penalty of paying all the bets. The women were to lose if they spoke, or gave indications of who they were.

I took three cards, and wrote the name of a lady on each of them. Then each lady took her card, and they went upstairs to the bed-room pell-mell and laughing. The women were to stand of a row in a certain order against a side of the room, we to follow in an order they did not know. They were to feel all pricks twice, each giving her card to the man at the second feel, if she knew the prick. We undressed to our shirts, took off our rings, so as to leave no indications, and in that condition entered the room. The dining-room door we closed, there was no light on the first-floor lobby, nor in the bed-room, for we had to put out the fire there. So holding each other by the shoulder, we entered, closed the door, and we were all in the room together in the dark.

We lifted our shirts, and closed on the women, each of whom in turn felt our pricks. One felt mine as if she meant to pull it off. On the second feeling, we got somehow mixed, a slight tittering of women began, some one hished, and the tittering ceased. Two hands touched me at the same time, but one withdrew directly she touched the other’s hand. A card was put into my hand, afterwards another card touched me, and was withdrawn. After waiting a minute, I nudged the man next me. “Have you all given cards?” shouted the man. “Yes,” shouted the three women at once. Then we all burst out laughing, and the men went downstairs, leaving the women all talking at once like Bedlam broke loose.

Looking at our cards, we found that each woman had guessed rightly her man’s prick; but we changed our cards, and called out to the women who came rushing down like mad. “Not one of you has guessed right,” said I, “you have all lost your bets.” “I’ll swear I’m right,” said Lady A***, “it’s Adolphus that I gave my card to.” This set us all questioning at once. “What makes you so sure?” “She says it’s very long and thin,” said Mabel, “and so it is.” “Hold your tongue,” said Marie. “I felt it,” said Mabel. “They all seemed the same to me,” said Laura, “and one of you pushed my hand away.” “It was I,” said Fred, “you wanted to feel too much, you nearly frigged me.” “Oh! What a lie.” Then we told the truth, and that each woman has won, which caused much noisy satisfaction, then we had more wine, we men still with naked legs.

I have told all I can recollect with exactitude, but there was lots more said and done. Fred pulled up Lord A***’s shirt, his cock was not stiff. “That’s not how it was when I felt it,” said Mabel. “You’ve guessed pricks, but for all that you would not know who fucked you in the dark.” “We should,” cried out all the women. “Let’s try,” said Lord A***. “All right,” said Mabel. “We are not prostitutes,” said Laura. “A little free fucking will be jolly, let’s take turns about all round,” said Fred. Then the room resounded with our laughter, all spoke baudily at once, every second, “prick,” “cunt,” “fuck,” was heard from both men and women,—it was a perfect Babel of lasciviousness.

“I’ll be ten pounds a woman doesn’t guess who fucks her,” said Lord A***. We echoed him. The women laughed, but led by Laura, refused, and squabbled. All wanted the bet to come off, but did not like to admit it. We had more champagne, the men put on their trowsers, we kissed all round, and talked over the way of deciding such a bet, the women got randier, one showed her leg to another, and at length all the women agreed to take part in the orgie.

The rest I shall tell as truthfully as I can. The drink and excitement I was under makes it difficult; but I will tell nothing I am not quite sure of. We arranged a plan with such noise and talking, that God knows how it was arranged at all. Where were we to poke? —in the bed-room? Impossible, there was but one large bed in Lady A***’s room, and one in the back room. How were we to fuck all together? We all rushed upstairs, took all the beds and pillows from both rooms, and from the upper rooms, and pit them on the floor in the large room, making one long bed, after moving aside the furniture. The fire had been put out. All this was done with shouts and yells, a fearful lascivious riot.

The women were to lie down in an order known to us, Lady A*** nearest to the door, and so on. There was to be absolute silence. Each man as he knelt between the woman’s legs was to put a card with a number on it under her pillow. We men knew which number each had, the women were not to know which man was to have her, directly we had fucked we were to return, each woman was to produce her card, and guess who had been up her, they were to be in their chemises, we in our shirts. I never shall forget the looks of the women as they went upstairs to arrange themselves for the fucking, but think that they scarcely knew the rules of what they were to do.

The women undressed quickly enough, for we had scarcely had time to tie up our faces in napkins to prevent our whiskers being noticed (Lord A*** had none), before a voice shouted out, “We are ready.” Then with shirts on only, up we men went. I only recollect kneeling down between Lady A***’s legs (we had agreed among ourselves how to change our women), giving a card, feeling a cunt, and putting my prick into it, then hearing the rustling of limbs, hard breathing, sighing, and moans of pleasure of the couples fucking fast and furiously; of my brain whirling, of a maddening sensuality delighting me as I clasped the buttocks of Lady A***, and fucked her.

We must have spent nearly all together, none when we compared after recollected more than his own performance. All were quiet. I was feeling round my prick which was still in Lady A***’s cunt, when a light flashed powerfully through the room. That devil Fred had risen, and lighted several lucifers, which then was done by dipping them in a bottle,—they were expensive. What a sight was disclosed at a glance!

All three women lay with chemises up to their navels, Lady A*** on her back, I on the top of her (rising rapidly at the light). Next to her Mabel seemingly asleep with thighs wide open. Fred kneeling between them, holding the lighted matches, Laura on her back with open thighs, eyes closed, Lord A*** cuddling, but nearly off of her by her side, and his prick laying on her thigh. The women shrieked, and began pulling down their chemises. I swore at Fred, the women joined chorus. “Most ungentlemanly,” said Laura, getting up. That got up Lord A***. Mabel lay still on her back as if ready to be stroked again. But all was said. In a minute the lucifers burnt out, and it was dark again. Scuffing up, we men went downstairs, leaving the women chattering. Soon after, down they came, looking screwed, lewed, and annoyed that the bets were off, and all chattering at once.

Mabel was quarrelsome. “You,” said she, turning to Lady A***, “said that your husband’s thing was long and thin, you tried to mislead me in the bet, you wanted to make me lose.” They had evidently been discussing their men’s pricks.

“So you have been telling how each of us fucks,” said Fred. Laura denied it. “We did,” said Mabel. “It’s a lie, Mabel, if you say it again, I’ll tell something more than you will like to hear about yourself.” Mabel retorted, Lady A*** chimed in. It was a Babel of quarrelsome lewed women, with their cunts full.

I feared a row, and that Mabel might after all know more about my having had Laura, the night we all three slept in the same bed, than I cared for; so I pacified them. Fred said we had better try again, Laura objected. “Oh! Yes, Mrs. Modest,” said Mabel. “When you found out it was not Fred, why didn’t you cry out?” “I didn’t know,” said Laura. “Ah! Ah! the printer’s wife,” we shouted, then more baudy talk, recriminations, and squabbling. Laura said she should go home, Fred said she might go by herself. Lord A***, who had half fallen asleep, said it was too late, and we had better stop. Some one said we could soon again make the beds comfortable in the upper rooms. “That be damned,” said Fred, “we will all sleep on the floor as they are now.” “Free fucking forever,” said I. Laura said I was a blackguard, Mabel said she should like it, Lady A*** said she didn’t care, if Adolphus didn’t, Adolphus said any cunt would suit him. He was reeling drunk as he spoke.

All this time we were in shirts and chemises. One woman had thrown a shawl over her, one a petticoat, but their breasts flashed out, their arms were naked, their legs showing to their knees, the men were naked to their knees in their shirts. The scene was exciting, the women hadn’t washed their cunts, Fred said so. Mabel asking him if he was sure of it. No, he would feel. Laura told him he must be drunk, and was a beast. “Drunk?” said he, “look here.” He turned a somersault, and stood on his hands and head, his heels against the wall, his back-side in the air, his pricks and cods falling downwards over his belly, his shirt over his head. Lady A*** took up a bunch of grapes, and dashed it on his ballocks. Then we chased the women round the room, tried to feel them, and they us. It was like hell broke loose, till we agreed to sleep on the floor together anyhow.

No lights; lights and piss-pots were put in the back bed-room,—a woman suggested that. “You’re frightened of farting,” said someone. The women went up to make the beds more comfortable, took more blankets, etc., from the upper rooms, whilst we men fetched the candles from the kitchen, the others being well nigh burnt out. The women had washed their cunts, we had more wine, and then we all were pretty well screwed, and Lord A*** pretty drunk when we went up to them.

Up to that time I was sufficiently sober to know all I have written, and plenty more. Surely I could tell a lot more of our conversation, but it would prolong the tale too much. After the last bottle of champagne I was groggy, recollect less clearly, was in a half-sleepy, feverish, excited, and bawdy state, my sleep was broken by others, but when awake my prick stood immediately, and I moved all night from one woman to another, fucking, and then dozing.

To satisfy Laura, and keep up a sort of appearance, we had said we would only have our own women, who were again to lay in a certain order. Directly they had left the room, we agreed to change. A*** doggedly insisted on having Mabel, so I was to take Laura, and Fred Lady A***. It was such a lark. My prick was up Laura when she cried, “It’s not you, Fred.” Then there were simultaneous exclamations, “I’m not Mabel,” — “What a lovely cunt!” — “Leave me alone!” — “Feel my big prick,” — “Damn, a cunt’s a cunt,” hiccupped Lord A***. “Oh!—ah!” — “Ha! My love fuck, — My darling, oh!” — kiss, kiss, — spending, — “aha!” — sighs of delight, — “cunt,” — “fuck,” — “Oh!” — “Ah! Ah!” And I fell asleep on Laura amidst this.

Awake again. By my side a wet cunt, a heavy sleeper. Turning round, my legs met naked legs. I stretched out my hand, and felt a prick, perhaps Fred’s, I don’t know. Getting up, I felt my way, stumbling over legs to the wall to the furthest woman, and laid myself on her. “Don’t Adolphus, I’m so sleepy,” said she. The next instant we were fucking. Others awakened. “Where are you?” said someone. Then all moved, one man swore, a hand felt my balls from behind. I was spending, and rolled off the lady, turning my bum to her. Then I touched Mabel, and put my hand on her cunt. A man dropped on her, and touched my hand with his prick. Ejaculations burst out on all sides, the couples were meeting again, then all was quiet, and the fucking done. Then all talked. All modesty was gone, both men and women told their sensations and wants. “You fuck me, — Feel me, — No, I want so and so,” Laura was as lewed as the rest.

Again awakening. A hand was feeling my prick. “Is it you, Laura?” “Yes.” I felt her cunt. “Oh! Let me go and piddle.” But I turned on to her, and we fucked “How wet your cunt is.” “No wonder.”

Again I awakened, someone got up, and fell down. “Hulloa! Who is that?” “I want to piss, and can’t get up,” said Lord A*** in a drunken voice. Someone opened the door, feeble light came across from the back-room, we helped him up and he stumbled along with us men to piss. Then he insisted on going downstairs. He could scarcely stand, so we helped him to the dining-room, we lighted more candles, he swilled more wine, tumbled on to the sofa, where we left him drunk and snoring, and found him snoring the next morning with the hearth-rug over him. We two went back to the women. “I’ve fucked all three,” said Fred.” “So have I.” “Laura’s a damned fine fuck, ain’t she?” Someone shut the room-door opposite, as we reached the landing. We pushed it open. Two ladies were pissing; Marie and Laura. “Where is Mabel?” “Drunk,” replied one. The two were past caring for anything, pissed and went back with us to the bed-room. I took a light there. Mabel was on her back nearly naked, we covered her up, for it was cold. Then I fucked Laura, and Fred, Lady A***. The light we left now on the wash hand-stand, so we looked at each other fucking and enjoyed it, and then we changed women. There was no cunt-washing, we fucked in each other’s sperm, no one cared, all liked it, all were screwed, baudy, reckless, Mabel snoring.

I awakened after a heavy sleep, chilly, feverish, headaching, and thirsty. I drew aside the curtains; it was late, light, but foggy; a nasty winter’s morning. Fred and the three ladies lay snoring, some covered, others partially so, the floor looking as if every article of bed-furniture had been thrown down with a pitch-fork. I drank water, and fucked out as I was, my lubricity was unsatiated. I could not resist gratifying it.

Moving stealthily, I uncovered the sleepers one by one. It was easy enough, as the clothes lay loose and in shapeless heaps. I saw Fred’s prick touching Mabel’s haunch, contemplated Laura’s thick-haired quim, saw spunk on her chemise. She looked lovely. Lady A*** on her back, her hand over her cunt, red stains about her, and on the sheet which I pulled off her,—her poorliness had come on. Mabel on her back looked ready for a man. My cock stiffened, I laid myself on Laura, and awakened her. That awakened Fred who mounted Mabel. Both couples took to the exercise in the foggy day-light, and a long time we were in consummating. “Oh! Do leave off,” said Laura, “I’m so sore.” My prick was excoriated, it had not been for so many a day.

Never have I been in such an orgie before, never since, and perhaps never shall be; but it was one of the most delicious nights I ever spent. So said Fred, so said Mabel; and Laura admitted to me at a future day that she thought the same, and that since, when she frigged herself, she always thought of it, and nothing else.

I thought of nothing else for a long time. Nothing has ever yet fixed itself in my mind so vividly, so enduringly, except my doings with my first woman, Charlotte. At the beginning of my writing these memoirs, this was among the first described. The narrative as then written was double its present length, and I am sorry that I have abbreviated it, for the occurrences as I correct this proof seem to come on too quickly. Whereas we dined at seven o’clock, and it was one o’clock I guess before we all went to bed together, and the stages from simple voluptuousness to riotous baudiness and free-fucking were gradual. At eight o’clock not one of us would have dared to think of, still less to suggest, what we all did freely at midnight.

{Fine.}

Hello, Lovers

Please excuse me while I orgasm.

The new toys, needless to say, have arrived, and I am a very happy girl right now. I had a wonderful experience with the website I ordered these from, so if you’re in the market for some new playthings, head over to Edenfantasys and I doubt you’ll be disappointed. They have an excellent layout, post customer reviews, constantly update their stock, ship in very discreet packages (plain brown with no markings, kids… doesn’t get any more discreet than that), and also ship very quickly. I’d give them ten gold stars if they’d let me, and I may actually be ordering another toy from there very soon… but not for myself.

My very kind mailbox friend had a great time handling these toys with me when I went to her house to pick them up, and I fear I may have started her on a glass craze. She’d never seen a glass dildo before and was looking at the five new toys I bought like she’d never seen anything so wonderful before… and I assured her that she hadn’t. Her favorite is also my initial favorite, and it’s one of two new glass dildos I didn’t post on the entry below, as I ordered two extra after making that post.

(Guess who’s on the naughty list this year, kids.)

While all of the playthings, both new and old, are gorgeous, none of them rank in the same league as the glass dildo with the pink head and 4 pink ripples on the shaft. It deserves a display case, and I can’t say that mine won’t wind up in one some day. The pink color comes from 24k gold infused into the glass, but the color varies depending on the light you’re under, so it goes from an almost purple-pink to complete gold, and the delicately designed pink/gold head makes it look as though there are flower petals inside.

So. Fucking. Pretty.

While my mailbox friend and I were taking in its beauty, she began asking me a constant stream of questions about glass dildos.

Do you like to change their temperature before using them?

(Yes, and the warmer the better.)

Do you think I would enjoy them?

(I’m not sure there’s anyone who wouldn’t.)

What color do you like best?

(I could never choose, and no one will ever make me.)

Do you think my husband would mind?

(If he does, I’ll knock some sense into him.)

How much did they cost you?

(…………A lot.)

I was reluctant to tell her just how much I’ve spent on upping my sex toy collection to seven, and especially not when I’ve also owned two vibrators in the past that have since been buried (and not in me), but I did tell her that the cheapest one was just under $70. She looked like she wanted to throw up when I mentioned that, but I did tell her they’re well worth the cost. I’m not sure she believes me, but I would hope that seeing me buy five highly expensive toys at once would assure her that they’re a good investment. We got away from the glass dildo talk about then and I asked her if she was still interested in buying herself a sex toy. She is, but she’s waffling on whether or not she really will buy one. She thinks her husband will be offended by the purchase when it’s something she wants to use with him both absent and present, but she wants one badly and seems to be waiting for someone to give her a push in the right direction before she takes the leap and gets one. I’m in debt to her greatly for letting me borrow her mailbox for this venture, and I’m thinking of sending her a bullet as a thank you present. I’m already bringing her a present in the form of liquor for her kindness, but I won’t deliver it until next weekend. My books come in on Friday night, but we’ll both be busy and she doesn’t have to work on Sunday, so she asked me to come over next Saturday instead so we can make a night of it. I imagine we’ll demolish the drinks and start reading through my sexy new books, and that could make for an interesting night.

We’ll see, kids. In the mean time, I’m off to get acquainted with my new additions.

My preciousssss…

❤ Goldy❤

All in all, looking back at high school, it did very little to prepare me for the rigors of college, I think. I had an advantage by taking advanced placement courses, which are supposed to be set up as college courses are and serve as better preparation for higher learning than normal high school courses, but the only valuable trait I picked up by taking them outside of gaining general knowledge was learning how to take notes and how to take them well. But, for as much as high school didn’t really prepare me for anything outside of that, it did pay for my college education. All the money I have to my name right now is scholarship money. It pays for classes, textbooks, groceries, doctor visits, school supplies, occasionally gas, birth control, and whatever else I might need while I’m still flush with funds.

Unfortunately for me, this free ride is about to end.

If all goes as planned, I will graduate with a bachelor’s degree next May. Just one year from now. I’m not sure what happens after I get to that point, to tell you the truth. I apply for vet school this summer and will find out by next March if that’s where I’m headed or if I need to pick a new career path until I can apply again next year, and my bank account will likely only stay alive in either case due to student loans, which I will need to survive any extra form of schooling. It’s very difficult to get scholarships for any kind of medical school, and I’m preparing to be $200,000 in debt within the next 5 years.

A scary thought.

One would assume, as a result, that I’ve gone out of my way to preserve the excess scholarship funds I’ve received over the last 3 years in order to retain some kind of financial buffer for a future which looks very bumpy right now. And I have. I’ve spent the money largely on school-related necessities. I very rarely go out shopping on my own, and when I do, I tend to buy very few luxuries. I know why I’ve received the money and I know the most prudent ways to spend it, and I think the state of Florida would appreciate how I’ve handled it so far.

Until now.

I’ve been in the market for new sex toys for a year or so now, but I’ve only started actively looking into it since this past April. The realization that I will no longer have free money to play with struck me very heavily, and I’ve decided to use it while I have it. I’ve not had a very good time with it, however. I keep running into websites that have what I want… but that no longer work or have been abandoned, and it’s taken me this long to find a single site that will finally deliver my toys to me.

Originally, I just wanted a plain, smooth-shaft glass dildo. My original glass dildo has a raised, blue spiral going up its length, and while it feels great for 2 or 3 rounds of play, it gets a little intense afterward, so I wanted something smoother that I could use once I reach the sore-but-not-done-getting-off point. I had my boyfriend go toy hunting with me on one of these sore nights, and I found a smooth-shaft glass dildo that I liked on a site that sold nothing but glass dildos. He went looking around at some of the others they had to offer, and he came back with a double-ended cherry glass dildo that also had a smooth shaft and asked me what I thought about it. I told him I thought yes please! and we reasoned that getting two new glass dildos couldn’t hurt. They’d surely get enough use to justify the expense, so I ordered them both… but from different websites. The original site only had the plain glass dildo I picked out in a size that I thought was too small, so I found a similar one on a different site with the dimensions I wanted and ordered the cherry glass dildo from the original website.

Long story short, I wound up only receiving the plain glass dildo. The single one that I had wanted all on its lonesome… but I also still wanted the cherry toy after having gotten a taste for it. That order had been canceled, so I was on the lookout for another site that sold it. It’s a Phallix toy, so it’s easy enough to locate on other sites that also stock Phallix products. I managed to find it again on another site… and then wound up wanting another glass dildo that they also had in stock. A cobalt blue one with a juicer-style head. I’d decided not to get it from the original site, but kept going back to look at it and showed it to my boyfriend as a “maybe next time” idea, and he asked me why I didn’t finally get it when I wanted it so badly.

I should have known then how much trouble I’d be in now.

With his encouragement, I ordered both of them, glad that I wouldn’t have to feel like I was missing something when just the cherry one arrived, and it fell through. The website was dead. All the links and security measures seemed to be working, but I was fooled.

And I was sad.

I took some time away from this sex toy searching just to get rid of the frustration of having lost two orders to shitty sites, and I finally returned to it last night. I found the cherry and cobalt glass dildos I wanted and then decided to take a peek around the hopefully much more reliable site just to see what they offered. Lo and behold, I found 5 books I wanted, and they added about $70 to my order. I thought I could get them cheaper from Amazon, so I looked for them there… and wound up picking 8 books I like (including the original 5) for $68. I couldn’t turn that deal down, and especially not when I’ve been waiting for a reason to buy all of these books for several weeks now.

I was almost settled on this situation when, out of curiosity, I wondered what kind of glass dildo I could get for a similar amount of money that the books were going to cost me, should I have gone that route instead of the literary one. I stumbled on yet another juicer-style glass dildo infused with gold particles, and it was actually $20 more than my books, so it technically didn’t even meet my books-price criterion…

But I was already hooked.

I couldn’t order anything until I checked it out with my courteous friend first to make sure she wouldn’t mind the onslaught of erotica and sex toys, so I slept on it last night and it gave me time to make sure that this haul is really what I wanted to spend over $300 of scholarship money on, knowing that I likely won’t have a chance to do it again very soon.

Needless to say, to my scholarship money, I bid adieu. I have bought all of these playthings. It’s Christmas in May for me, and I am very anxious to get acquainted with my new purchases, all of which will find a warm and welcoming home here. And, as I am also a generous friend, I’ve offered to let my own courteous friend borrow my books in return for her troubles and graciousness. This could lead down some interesting paths, considering the topics of these books. You may actually know or own some of them. Fanny Hill, Story of O (and its sequel, Return to the Château), the Sleeping Beauty series by Anne Rice, Delta of Venus, and a little book called Dark Rider written by a less well known author than those of the previous books. I’ve already informed my boyfriend that we are going to require an expansive library some day if I keep on this track, and he’s quite agreeable to the idea.

As for the new sex toys, my on-going search for them has sparked a desire for them in my mailbox friend, and it’s entirely possible that I’ll go shopping with her and help her pick out some of her own.

This could be fun, indeed.

❤ Goldy❤

Belonging.

Whether I enjoy the ties or not, I’m bound to everyone I know from the instant I meet them. The position I hold with one person may be inherently and wholly different from the place I hold with the next, but the ties, no matter how few, are always there, in joy and in suffering and in adventure and in monotony and in love and in hate and in life and in death. The nature of the ties that bind me to them depends solely on how much I’m ready to give them…

…and on how much of myself I’ll let them take.

To some I may give very little.

I afford my mailman a sweet smile and a pleasant greeting for bringing my mail to me, but I owe him nothing and I give him nothing else. His position with me forces him to take whatever I give, no matter how little, and ask for no more. He, too, realizes that I owe him nothing and that he can expect nothing from me beyond common courtesy. But we have a bond. He belongs to me as my mailman and I belong to him as his recipient… and he receives a cordially warm greeting for free.

To some I may give deceivingly less.

At any point in time when I collect my mail from the mailman, I can shift the tide of normality. My dress on any usual day centers on some variation of jeans and a tank top accompanied by a breezy pair of flip flops and an equally breezy demeanor. But let’s say that, one sultry day, I decide to afford my mailman more than the usual friendliness and choose to greet him in a pair of stockings decorated with delicate seams running up the back of my legs, covered slightly by a dangerously short black cocktail dress and flanked by a dangerously tall pair of heels. Perhaps on an afternoon when I’m preparing to head out on a dinner date, or perhaps on an afternoon when I have nothing better to do than torture the mailman. I might have a necklace with a tricky clasp dangling from my fingers and ask him, before taking my mail, if he’ll relieve me of my distress and fix it around my neck. He owes me nothing more than my mail, but may see no reason not to oblige me this favor… and may also be well aware of the thanks he will receive in return for his help.

The tide has been molded by me and it remains in my hands up until the very second that the mailman takes the necklace from my grasp. Once that occurs, I no longer have the ball in my court, and he now holds the ability to change the tide. What if he should drop this necklace, necessitating that one of us bends down to pick it up? Should he pick it up with my back still to him, awaiting the proper placement of the trinket, he could easily follow the seams tracing down my legs to the ground and, unless I move, sneak what he may or may not believe to be an unintended peek up my dress. And maybe he’ll need to wrap a worker’s hand around my thigh to steady himself on his way back up, having been walking all day and already suffering from aching knees. But, should I pick it up, he stands to face a few more possibilities. Perhaps the tops of my stockings and tips of my garter attachments will be uncovered by the journey down and the inevitable rumpling of my little dress, and perhaps he’ll be standing so closely to me that I gently brush his hips as I make the trek. Perhaps he’ll help me straighten my dress when I return with the necklace in my hand once more, and perhaps he’ll notice there are no panties hidden by the garter belt as he does so. The direction our story takes is up to him as soon as the necklace leaves my hands, but no matter which way it goes, the ties between us have forever been changed. He no longer belongs to me as just my mailman and I no longer belong to him as just his recipient, but we both become the other’s prey… and he can neither expect to receive more nor expect to receive a repeat performance. I owe him nothing, and he can ask nothing of me.

To some I may give deceivingly more.

Perhaps the mailman hasn’t realized that he is not solely my prey. Let’s say that it was not originally me who shifted the tide of normality. Having seen my naturally friendly interactions with the mailman, perhaps another man spotted the opportunity for play and—knowing that the ties that bind me to him compel me to follow his desires, to stay his playmate, to remain his co-conspirator, and to be his good little harlot—he arranged for the event to occur. Where I would have dressed myself in youthful comfort and airiness in preparation for the friendly meeting, he has chosen something far more decadent in that little black dress and pair of stockings that he instructed me to wear instead, and he intends the meeting to be more than friendly. Perhaps he is watching his plans unfold in my hands, and occasionally in the mailman’s hands, from around the corner or from an upstairs window. Perhaps he has a riding crop in his hand waiting for me, should I decide to change his will in any undesirable way… and perhaps he ran it gently across my exposed slit before the mailman arrived to remind me of the rules of this game. To remind me to be his good little slut.

Perhaps.

And, although the mailman knows nothing of him, he is now bound to him through me, and he will forever be bound to him through me, but he may never have the privilege of knowing.

Look around you, kids.

To whom do you belong?

❤ Goldy❤

The Return

Hello again, kids.

I’ve missed you so, and I take it from the emails and comments I keep receiving nudging me back into the blogging world that a couple of you have missed me, too. A sweet gesture in return for my lengthy absence.

A lot has changed while I’ve been away.

I’m a year older.

I’m working on becoming ten years wiser.

I’m a year closer to receiving my first degree.

I’m deciding what the bloody fuck I want to do with my life.

I’m adding to my sex toy collection.

I’m adding to my playmate collection.

I’m giving back.

I’m taking more than my fair share.

I’m setting boundaries.

I’m following rules.

I’m making new friends.

I’m letting old friends go.

I’m healthier.

I’m dirtier.

And I’m back.

I have some goodies coming your way very soon, my lovelies.

Keep an eye out.

❤ Goldy❤

PS~ Say a belated happy birthday to the blog, kids. Here’s to another year of debauchery.

Beautiful pussy, beautiful ass, beautiful girl: that says it all, right?

In all reality, the subject title to which it refers might say something entirely different, as I don’t speak a lick of German and found the phrase on YouPorn.com, of all places. Not the most obvious route one might take to learn German, but you never know what you’ll stumble upon in this world-wide web of ours, and I have just stumbled upon German gold in my search for a nighttime distraction. I’ve actually never come across German porn before, amateur or otherwise, so when I saw a video or twenty listed under names like “cute German couple,” I started watching them out of mere curiosity. What would be so different from the American (or non-nationality-labeled) porn I’m accustomed to that would require the clips to be specifically marked as “German,” so that someone looking only for German couples could find them? Were there secret German sex moves I was unaware of? Or had the Germans so far progressed the art of dirty talk that, for true connoisseurs, only porn featuring the heavy German tongue would do?

I had to know.

In my quest to solve this little mystery, I first watched this video. It features a German couple, of course, lying together on a bed, stark naked, and enjoying each other’s naked company. It wasn’t long into this video that I realized the man kept his watch on for the festivities. And my vagina cried, why?! Pet peeve, I suppose. It also bothers me deeply when people leave their socks on while they fuck, but to a much greater extent. Nonetheless, my hatred for the unnecessary accessory didn’t stick with me once I saw the entwined fingers of the couple as they held hands. Almost on command, a very long, drawn out awwwwwwwwww escaped my lips. I was about half way through this aww-ing when I wondered if porn was supposed to affect people this way LOL. How unusual. And yet, so adorable. This video is actually quite slow and almost boring (to those looking for hard fucks), but something about it is very touching, and it makes me feel all warm and tingly inside.

Yeah, that’s right. I said it.

While I could get off to that video, I’m not sure how many others could, and I was still focusing more on the sweetness of the couple than I was on either of them getting off as I continued my search for German porn, and, more specifically, what made it special and distinct.

And then I found this video, featuring yet another cute German couple. What amazed me almost immediately about this video, though, is that it’s porn within porn. Or, it starts off that way, at the very least LOL. I was in the middle of being heavily amused by this I-can-see-porn-forever concept when the male part of the couple began speaking German, and I absolutely could not contain my laughter when he said “wow” or “baby.” You might have to hear it to understand why, but, again, it is simply adorable LOL. Not so adorable that it’s distracting from the much more varied video that this couple has to offer, but all the same. Cute enough that, just like the hand-holding couple in the first video, the cuteness sticks with me more than anything else once the video stops. Maybe this is what German porn has that much of non-nationality-labeled porn doesn’t.

Who would have thought porn could be so fucking adorable? And German porn, at that.

You learn something new every day.

❤ Goldy❤

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