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Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever been that loud. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose my voice. He must’ve been good. Very good. Too bad the stupid vodka took the memory of it away from me.
Nearby Art wipes sweat off his brow while his on-screen self takes off the condom and puts it into the bowl where we found it today.
Art and I sit up straighter. If something unsafe happened, it would be going down on the screen now—not that you can consider what we’ve already witnessed “safe.”
“Do you have another one?” Lemon asks.
What a nympho. I’ve never blushed this much in my life.
On-screen Art shakes his head. “It was lucky I had that one.”
“Oh, well.” She scrambles to her feet and nearly falls over. “I know what we can do.”
She disappears from view.
Why do I have a bad feeling about this?
When she comes back, she’s holding the flogger.
What the hell? That thing wasn’t in the room when we woke up. Where did it go? I hope not up some orifice. At least not mine.
Oh, no. Please tell me our sex marathon never left the confines of this suite.
Lemon picks up a piece of cheesecake and a can of whipped cream. “Ready for the American version of parka?”
On-screen Art arches his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that involve a burger?”
“Lie down, face up,” she says in a pretty good imitation of how Art said those exact words at the banya.
He does.
She places the cheesecake on his chest, slathers it in whipped cream, and raises the flogger. “Ready?”
Whack!
The white mess is everywhere, and there’s a little bit of redness on Art’s exposed skin. He doesn’t seem to mind—no doubt too drunk to feel pain.
“Your turn,” he says.
She lies down, then closes and uncloses her legs.
Trollop.
He takes a scoop of ice cream from a bowl and places it in her navel. “Ready?”
Giggling, she shakes her head. “If you’re making asundae, add in some whipped cream.”
Floozy.
Side note, why are there so many words for slut-shaming a woman and just one lonely “manwhore” epithet for men? Stupid double standards.
My feminist musings are interrupted by Art’s flogging—as such things often are. Hey, at least he’s a lot gentler on her than she was on him.
Still, the ice cream and whipped cream fly all over the place.
“Now… lick it off,” Lemon orders.
I’m out of slut-shaming terms.
On-screen Art obeys.
She has another orgasm, loudly, then returns the favor for him. Just as he comes, she throws a pie in his face, yelling, “I knew you wanted a facial!”
A sexy food fight ensues, then more oral. Finally, they cuddle together and fall asleep.
