The real-life adventures of a girl who is willing to try just about anything.


My Princess Angel

I originally wrote this last March for my LiveJournal account. It was originally titled, “I’ve got to get emo for just a minute,” hence the opening line. It has been edited to include more intimate content and an update at the end.
Because I just felt a really big crack in my heart. I just got a friend request on Facebook from someone who’s been on my mind A LOT lately. Almost nonstop. Because her birthday is Friday. Not only is her birthday Friday, our BIG DAY is rapidly approaching. What is the BIG DAY? It’s a day in June of this year—the day her son graduates from high school. What is so special about that day? It’s the day that I’m supposed to kidnap her from her current life and whisk her away and she and I ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after. A sweet, naive dream written a long time ago by a sweet, naive, lovesick girl.
She is my Princess Angel. The one who set the bar for all who followed. She is the one with whom I learned that is absolutely possible to love and be completely satisfied with another woman. She is the one with whom I learned passion. And heart-breaking sacrifice.

I met her a few months shy of my 21st birthday. We worked together at a pancake house that was open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the week it was open until 2am. Except for Sundays. On Sundays we closed at midnight, just in time for us girls to get off work and head to the bar down the street for some late happy hour drinks. She and I were friendly in a co-worker way. I actually didn’t really like her when I first met her because I thought she was kind of snotty. But she was gorgeous. Naturally-red hair, freckles scattered liberally over milky-white skin, and eyes a color that make you want to lounge on an island in the Caribbean with a piña colada.
One Sunday night that could have been any other Sunday night with the girls, I had stepped away from our table to throw some darts with another girl. I’d left my drink at the table so after I finished my turn, I went back to get it. When I walked up to the table I was just in time to hear the question, “Have you ever been with another girl?” Since I’d arrived at that moment, I was queried by the lovely redhead herself.
Not having heard the rest of the conversation about whether it was “ew, gross!” or “so totally hot!” and not being nearly so bold and fearless as I am now (I wasn’t even old enough to drink in that bar legally), I demurred with a “no comment.” Grinning like I’d just fallen into her neatly-laid trap, she sprung on me. “Ah ha! I’ve got you!” Right away I flipped the question back to her. She donned a coy expression and mirrored my response, “No comment.” Having grown suddenly shy, I somehow managed to extricate myself from the conversation and headed back to the dart boards to finish my game.
I would imagine that there was more verbal sparring between us and drunken flirting, but I don’t remember much of the rest of the time at the bar that night. I also don’t remember under what excuse we were able to get away from the other girls. Amazingly enough, I don’t even remember our first kiss. I think it was probably quick and stolen at some point in the ladies’ room when we happened to find ourselves alone.
However, I do remember the first time we fucked. It was the first time either of us had ever had sex with a woman. We’d both fooled around with girls before, explored our sexuality a bit, so to speak, but had never gone “all the way.”
Looking for a place with privacy, we ended up going to this church at the back of a nearby industrial park. It’s where we sometimes went with the girls to get high after we’d left the bar. There were picnic tables behind the church and we were sitting on one of those, me on the tabletop with my legs dangling off the end as I had a habit of doing and her on the bench as one should sit.
It started so typically, with a massage. It was the easiest, most comfortable way for us to get to what we really wanted to do: touch each other. She’d said that her shoulders hurt so of course I offered my hands. She stood up and moved between my legs, turning her back toward me. Once my hands were on her, they only remained at her shoulders for a short time before they ventured further. When I reached down into the front of her halfway-unbuttoned shirt to squeeze her breasts and find her nipples, she turned around and her lips met mine.
That kiss lit a furnace of desire in me. For months, I had been fantasizing about being with a woman. Every time I went down on my boyfriend, I did my best to imagine what it would be like to be licking pussy instead. Under those circumstances, it’s incredible that I didn’t just strip her and throw her down right there. As it was, I slid off the table, unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way and covered her neck, chest, and breast with kisses.
It wasn’t long before I’d spun her around, boosted her up to the table and lifted her long uniform skirt while she leaned back to allow me access and give herself over to me. I removed her pantyhose and underwear, releasing the absolutely intoxicating scent of her dripping cunt. A natural redhead, the carpet did in fact match the drapes, as they say. Her red pubic hair was neither thick nor sparse, but curled toward her wet slit. I hesitated not a moment before diving in to pure heaven.
Since then I have likened the taste of her pussy to strawberries and cream but that is obviously more of an associative comparison due to her luscious red hair and milky white skin. I noticed right away that she tasted different than I do, tangier, but in no way unpleasant. I lapped her juices and tongued her clit until she begged me to stop. I don’t know how many times I made her cum, but it was more than a few. I could’ve continued all night, but as we didn’t get out there until after the bar closed at 2am, we could only guess at how late it was. We were both expected at our respective homes and didn’t want to have to do too much explaining.
She took a moment to catch her breath and then we were kissing again. When we broke apart she asked me if I was sure I hadn’t done that before. I assured her that I had not, but I would swear that to this day she doesn’t believe me. Finally we parted ways.
That first time was amazing and a whole new world opened up for me—and us— that night.
The months that followed are a blur of frenzied, drunken sex in no-tell motels, parked cars, bathrooms, wherever we could devour each other. Sunday-after-work girls’ nights were quickly complemented with nights of our own. As many as we could steal together. We both had boyfriends and neither of them knew about our illicit affair.
Although truth be told, I did most of the devouring. In all of the time that we were together, I think she went down on me a total of three times. But that was exactly as I wished it to be. I ate her pussy like a demon possessed, usually resulting in desperate pleas for mercy. One night in particular that I’ll never forget, we were at our favorite cheap, seedy, no-tell motel and the room was completely trashed by the time we were done. The sheets had been ripped from the bed, the mattress was askew, the pillows tossed to the far corners of the room, and the headboard ripped out of the wall. You know how they bolt headboard to the wall in places like that? How they’re not attached to the bed at all? She pulled it completely out of the wall, bolts and all. That was the night I licked her asshole for the first time, as I recall. I still have the motel key from the room that night.
She would beg me to stop, just for a moment, just to let her catch her breath. I would come up for air only long enough to grin at her wickedly. “You know better than to ask me that.” She was never strong enough to push me off because her cunt was to me as spinach was to Popeye. She would struggle and she would fight, but I always won.
It was only supposed to be mutual sexploration. Before we knew it, it had morphed into so much more. It was bound to happen, considering the exciting, intimate bond we’d formed. We were both miserable in our relationships with our men, but she was tied to hers by a child. My boyfriend eventually found out and made the fatal mistake of asking me to choose. Of course, there was no choice. I left him and started sleeping on her couch. It made things so much easier for us for a while because her man worked late nights. We had a few rather scary VERY close calls, one of which resulted of her sneaking into bed in the early morning only after his alarm clock had started to go off, under the guise that she’d had to use the bathroom.
We talked all the time about telling him, bringing him into it. We weren’t dishonest people, we didn’t enjoy hiding things. So one night at the bar where it all began, we pulled the thread that would eventually unravel us. Over margaritas, I played the evil seductress and she played the coy one. “You know how it’s always been my fantasy to be with another woman…”
In all of our planning, she and I had never made any ground rules. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing. We never really thought about exactly how far we wanted things to go. And as a result, they went too far. Her angry, hurt words will echo in my head forever: “I can’t believe you fucked her. You said you wouldn’t fuck her.” I’ll never know if she was more upset that he fucked me or that I fucked him. But what was a guy to do, caught between two hot, young women? Not to mention the fact that he had the largest cock I had ever seen at that time.
It didn’t end immediately, but in a lot of ways it might as well have. By this time, I was completely consumed with my love for her and I couldn’t hide from it any longer. All of our friends/co-workers knew, but the most important people did not. I had been sleeping on their couch for months. Additionally, I had quit the restaurant and was working in a bar with her parents: her dad was the manager, her mom was the service bartender, and I was one of the cocktail waitresses. It was a powder-keg situation that could explode at any minute. The pressure just became too much for me to bear.
I may have forgotten many things over the years, but I will never forget the night I broke her heart. I explained to her how much I loved her and that it was impossible for me to contain. I had to end it. The pain in her eyes spilled down her cheeks in the parking lot of our favorite nightclub. “You knew this is how it would be,” she cried. She got me back a few months later when she brought her new girlfriend into the bar where I worked.
After some time passed, we were able to have a bittersweet friendship. Her man finally got his act together and they got married. I’ve never in my life been surrounded by so many warm, supportive people as I was that day. Both of my hands were held and there were comforting arms and smiles. I stayed strong for her. I could have stopped that wedding, there’s no question, but I would not have won her by doing so. I think it goes without saying that I got obliterated at her reception.
Over the years, we’ve kept in touch here and there. Some times more than others, usually in fits and spurts. We’ve had a tryst or three. Once was a weekend out of town, when we fucked so loudly that the people in the room next door banged on the wall and told us to keep it down. At 5am on a Saturday morning. Did they have to go to fucking work or something? The last of which was a threesome with me, her, and Roland after he and I had been dating for about a year. He remains the only boyfriend with whom I ever shared her.
I always promised her that we’d be together one day. That one day, I’d steal her away. I put a definite time on it long ago: when her son graduated high school, because then he would be old enough to understand and he wouldn’t need her quite as much. He’d be a man. His 18th birthday is April 11th. I don’t have his exact date of graduation, but it’s approximately the first week of June. Every time she and I spoke, this eventuality was discussed and we looked forward to it.
Every relationship I have been in for the last 10 years has kept this in consideration. My partner has always known that there would come a time when I would have my Princess Angel again. He/she could make room for us all to be together, or he/she could step aside. I even told her husband once or twice that I was going to steal her away someday (he’d been told about our relationship at last many years ago because they were swingers for a time).
The last few years our contact has been infrequent at best. As of right now, other than that friend request tonight (which did not come with a personal note or email, nor was its acceptance followed by a wall post), I have not spoken to her in at least a year. It may have even been two. She lives less than 4 miles from my house. I only know 1 other person who lives closer to me than she does, and it’s probably by less than a tenth of a mile. For many years, I called on all major holidays, but most especially on Valentine’s Day and her birthday. Many times I would visit and gift her with a dozen roses for VD and a birdhouse (she was a collector) for her birthday. I stopped calling a long time ago, because my messages were no longer returned.
As the BIG DAY approaches, I’ve thought about her a lot. All of the promises that I made as a young woman who believed that anything in the world was possible. None of those were realistic and I know that now. She and I are so very different, I don’t even know that we would have any common ground. I say that, but in many ways I couldn’t be any more different than the man with whom I am madly in love.
I can’t help but wonder now if any efforts will be made on her part to take us beyond FB friends. Will I settle for wishing her generic birthday greetings on her wall? I guess I have 48 hours to decide.

I did post on her Wall for her birthday and she on mine 6 days later. And I did finally chat with her a few times. During one of our last chats, right before her son’s graduation last year, she told me about how she and her husband had decided to get a divorce back in January. The papers had been drawn up and filed. They only needed to be signed. But then they had a long talk. They had been together since their mid-teens, over 20 years. It had been a long, rocky road, but they’d made it somehow. They decided that they didn’t want to be alone. That they didn’t want to have to start over. So they dedicated themselves to their marriage in a way that they never had before. The last time I talked to her was at least 6 months ago, but probably even longer ago than that. She said they were happier than they had ever been. I sincerely wished her all the best.
She and I are still friends on Facebook and as a result I have discovered that this post is unintentionally very timely. Her status update for today: Today I have been married to the GREATEST husband in the world for 14 years! I love you babe! Can’t wait for the next 14! 🙂
Fourteen years ago today was one of the hardest days of my life, but I don’t regret it one bit.
Happy anniversary, my Princess Angel. I wish for you all of the happiness you deserve. I will always love you. And should you ever find your way to my doorstep again, I will never turn you away.

Sinful Sunday – Melted like butter

Yesterday was my local BDSM munch (for those that don’t know, it’s a social get together in a public place for newbies to meet online group members face to face) and afterward there was a party. I got to play demo dolly for a hot wax/sensual massage. She did my front and back and the only complaint I could possibly have was that there was not more wax involved.

me + wax = puddle of goo

if I’d had my way, there’d be none left in the jar!

Posted in participation with Sinful Sunday, hosted by Molly’s Daily Kiss.

Click below to see who else has been melted down this Sunday.


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