Elderly woman memory

Elderly woman memory

Posted in the Rome Forum

Bella Donna

Watertown, NY

#1 Jan 26, 2014
I concentrate my thoughts on the front of me, the tip of my clitoris, the vague ache in my crotch, and thrust it all forward in my mind. I throw my legs far apart so no touch of thigh to thigh reminds me that nothing hangs between. I imagine all my sensations the same but elongated, turned into the protruding tip of me, rather than pocketed, swallowed. For a second, a cock erects itself over my pubic bone. Then it shivers, it falls to pieces.

For years I referred to everything between my legs as my "bottom" ("if we crawled under that house and there was a crack in the floor and a lady was standing over it we could look up her dress and see her bottom," I said, my last such usage, to which my friend responded with a scathing, "her bottom?")

I began inserting the pages of books into my vagina as soon as I located that orifice. In fact, my libidinal attachment to books sped my exploration. I was in the habit of tearing off the corners of pages as I read and chewing them into pulp. I became quite a connoisseur of the different flavors and textures. You could truthfully call me a voracious reader. I delayed tearing off the first little piece as long as I could, but after the first rip I figured I had committed myself and might as well carry on, though I was reprimanded for chewing books that didn't belong to me, like my aunt's brand new copy of Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Though labelled a vandal and a hooligan by librarians, I have always felt the warmest affection for books. Why else would I want to ingest them? Later on I read a description of this malady, considered a nervous ailment. I was lumped in with eaters of mud and sand, which seems to me quite another thing, though not without appeal. There is a good word for it: pica, which also, appropriately enough in my case, is a unit of size used in measuring type.(Spelled pika, it's a little rodent.) I did not consider myself to be suffering a nervous ailment, of course. I liked the taste of books. New white paper, pulpy yellowing paper (dissolves), glossy coated paper that squeaked between the teeth, whose sharp triangular edges needed to be cautiously bitten blunt, I liked it, and also liked the cud I chewed it into, and considered it as good as gum, though lacking in flavor. In fact, on the theory that delicate things are more toothsome, and that everything tastes better with sugar, I once served a tea-party desert of moistened Kleenex with sugar on top. It was disgusting; I speculated that it would have been better not to use scented Kleenex, but the experiment was so emphatically unsuccessful that I never had another try.
GawdFUCKingDamn you nasty

Cantonment, FL

#2 Jan 26, 2014
The whole thing would be great erotica, if I could only get the image of an old woman out of my head while reading it.
Bella Donna wrote:
I concentrate my thoughts on the front of me, the tip of my clitoris, the vague ache in my crotch, and thrust it all forward in my mind. I throw my legs far apart so no touch of thigh to thigh reminds me that nothing hangs between. I imagine all my sensations the same but elongated, turned into the protruding tip of me, rather than pocketed, swallowed. For a second, a cock erects itself over my pubic bone. Then it shivers, it falls to pieces.
For years I referred to everything between my legs as my "bottom" ("if we crawled under that house and there was a crack in the floor and a lady was standing over it we could look up her dress and see her bottom," I said, my last such usage, to which my friend responded with a scathing, "her bottom?")
I began inserting the pages of books into my vagina as soon as I located that orifice. In fact, my libidinal attachment to books sped my exploration. I was in the habit of tearing off the corners of pages as I read and chewing them into pulp. I became quite a connoisseur of the different flavors and textures. You could truthfully call me a voracious reader. I delayed tearing off the first little piece as long as I could, but after the first rip I figured I had committed myself and might as well carry on, though I was reprimanded for chewing books that didn't belong to me, like my aunt's brand new copy of Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Though labelled a vandal and a hooligan by librarians, I have always felt the warmest affection for books. Why else would I want to ingest them? Later on I read a description of this malady, considered a nervous ailment. I was lumped in with eaters of mud and sand, which seems to me quite another thing, though not without appeal. There is a good word for it: pica, which also, appropriately enough in my case, is a unit of size used in measuring type.(Spelled pika, it's a little rodent.) I did not consider myself to be suffering a nervous ailment, of course. I liked the taste of books. New white paper, pulpy yellowing paper (dissolves), glossy coated paper that squeaked between the teeth, whose sharp triangular edges needed to be cautiously bitten blunt, I liked it, and also liked the cud I chewed it into, and considered it as good as gum, though lacking in flavor. In fact, on the theory that delicate things are more toothsome, and that everything tastes better with sugar, I once served a tea-party desert of moistened Kleenex with sugar on top. It was disgusting; I speculated that it would have been better not to use scented Kleenex, but the experiment was so emphatically unsuccessful that I never had another try.
KEE-ray-ZEE
hardandready

Ithaca, NY

#3 Jan 27, 2014
so to get u to suck it would u prefer me to stick it in a toilet paper roll, paper mache it, rap it in wrapping paper or what

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