Life is like a box of chocolates, someone’s already stolen the good ones. That person is usually me, for chocolate is one of my guilty pleasures. I say guilty, often I don’t feel guilty about it, but rather quite pleased and, after stealing a few more good ones, rather full.
Hello, my kinky readers! Today I talk about guilty pleasures. As Miss SJ says:
You’ve got time to yourself. You don’t have to work, go anywhere, see anyone, please anyone but you. What do you do?
Well, for my part, I delve into the most base of bodily needs. I plumb the depths of depravity and comfort. I reach such pleasure highs that no man, old, new or slightly used, should go to. Because no man, old, used or brand spanking new, should feel such things, for we cannot be trusted with these things, these wonderful, loving, sensual things. For if we did, then, surely, the world will explode?
I talk, of course, of the bubble bath. The other day, when I had my once a month bath, I was perusing the shelf, looking for a shampoo to tend to my voluminous and extremely bouncy hair, when I saw it. A bottle full of bright blue liquid, so bright it almost shone from a light deep within. Or perhaps that was simply me holding it up to the light to examine it. Tough call. I don’t know what came over me, maybe it was the larger than intended dinner, the two hours I spent pleasing myself while dreaming of my woman, or maybe that, when I opened it up, my head became woozy from the intoxicating fumes, but whatever. The result was the same. For I poured that azure gold into the bath as it filled up (slowly. It is older than me, after all). Swirling the water around with my hands, I saw the bubbles begin to arise. I was a little worried, not used to seeing bubbles in the bath, except on the rare occasions when I-never mind. Turning off the tap, I lowered a toe, but stopped before it breached the water. I had forgotten to take my clothes off. This is the power of the bubble bath. It makes a man become single-minded in pleasure-seeking, so single-minded that they forget all other things, all responsibilities, all cares of others are washed away with the grime and dirt on your skin. Derobing, I lowered myself in.
And was welcomed by nympho angels caressing my every body part. It was heaven. Cloud Nine can take a hike, this was about ten degrees better than Cloud Nine. It was Cloud Nineteen And A Half, caressing my skin. As I sighed and leaned my head back, I was not greeted with the cold porcelain of the bath tub. No. My head was too important for that harsh mistress. It was greeted with a pillow of bubbles. They crackled, whispering sweet things in my ears. ‘Yes, my precious,’ I would answer, not even knowing what they were saying (foreign languages were never my strong point), but it didn’t matter. It was so soothing. I closed my eyes, let my body relax. It was, of course, at that precise moment that I got an erection.
But I didn’t use it. I’ll let you sit down, take some time to recover, because I know that’s a shocking revelation. I denied myself gratification. My mind was abuzz with thoughts of handcuffs and spankings, of a woman laying atop me in the bath, my hands running over her body, but I didn’t give in. The bubbles said so. Instead, I indulged my inner child. I made an Ace Ventura quiff with my hair and bubbles, then, when that thinned down with the weight of water, styled an Elvis Presley. And then an oompa loompa hair. I was shaking my head back and forth when I noticed a tingling twixt my nethers. I had shaved recently. Maybe I don’t carry off the hairless wonder quite well, but I dislike having it in a mess, so shave every few weeks. This was that week. My skin, usually sore, was positively tingling with joy. As the bubbles stroked every pore, puckered hair, shaved lock and fresh wound (What? The sac is a very difficult body part to shave, I’ll have you know), I noticed how my penis stood proud above the bubbles and I couldn’t help be reminded…of the Jaw’s shark fin. Duuuuuunnnun. Duuuuuuuuunnnun. Duunununununun. This was the beat that erupted from my mouth, that echoed in the confined space, as I took hold of myself and swished myself from side to side, exactly (okay not exactly) like a shark fin, pretending there was a shark swimming beneath the bubbles. Lowering my head below the surface, deadening the beat to up the tension, until, when I least expected, my member leaped out of the water! I have a very vivid imagination, and most of the time I am very proud of that. This was not one of those times.
I finished my bath with little fuss, but lamented my departure from the bubbles. What can I say? I’m weak, and the bubbles so inviting. So it may not be a surprise to you that I did not resist. Not for long. The other night, I readied the bath, disrobed (I remembered that time), scanned the shelf to find a blue-bottle, poured the contents into the bath, stirred, turned off the tap, and jumped, literally jumped, in to the warm cloud-like, baby’s bottom embrace of the bubbles. But as my firm tush would attest, I was not embraced by type 1.3 bbm (baby bottom measurement) bubbles. I was rudely greeted by the cold, harsh white porcelain. I reached for the bottle. I had not picked up the bubble bath bottle (it wasn’t even up there, having been used up very quickly. Women. Pfft.) but mint mouthwash. I was not caressed by bubbles. I was not drifted away to a magic land on a flying bubble carpet. I had a bath. In mouthwash. On the plus side, my body was minty fresh.
Still, we must not lament these things. But move on. And what else do I feel guilty for? Well, I confess, when watching sports, I shall confer with my fellow men to determine who would be the underdog in whatever confrontation is on the television. I shall root for that underdog. But is that so bad? Many people do, after all. But I like it. Or perhaps it isn’t so much the underdog winning that like, but rather the arrogant winners losing? Perhaps both. One example of this was when I was playing tennis with my dear old dad (who, despite being old and having not played for over fifty years, still beat me. But it’s not the winning or losing that matters, but the having a good time. Whoever made that up clearly never won anything in his life).
As we arrived at the tennis courts, we started to feel some amount of apprehension, for there was a group of kids, young teenagers, descending on the courts like a plague of locusts. Several schools were having a tournament, it turned out. But we had paid top dollar half price to get in, and we would not be deterred by wild youths (who still played better than me!). We were at the farthest court. This was good. We would not be troubled by many. Upon entering, I scoped out the competition. A boy and a girl who, while not great players, were putting up a brave show. As we warmed up, I discreetly watched them. No, I’m not a paedophile, but thanks for the vote in confidence. No, I admit that it had been a while since I played, too, and had forgotten the basics, so I watched them, looking for tips, how to stand, how to serve, backhand and the like. It was at that time that the girl won. She was not a gracious winner. ‘Ah yes, maybe next time you’ll win,’ she said to the poor lad, ‘if you play a cripple.’ ‘What school do you go to? Can they even afford tennis racquets?’ ‘I go to a very good school, so many of our tennis stars learned at my school.’ I swear, you have not seen such arrogance and condescending haughtiness in one so young. I put the youths out of my mind, relaxing to enjoy a good game of tennis.
I discovered that, when I could get the ball to go where I wanted, I was very good. And when I couldn’t, I was very, very, bad. But my serves, when they went in the little box thing, were very good, nearly always aces, and when my dad did return, they were always rushed and easy to get to. My forehand was excellent throughout (but a small problem with judging distances and the small problem with the net…) but backhands, well, let’s just say I hit more flies and air than I did balls. But as I noted the youths coming and going, I also noted the haughty girl was still there, still spewing bile. This did not please me. And, as I started my serve at 4-5 down, I noticed she had met her match. I went down 0-15, 0-30, 0-40, and on that last point, where my dad was about to win the set, the girl was roundly beaten. ‘Yes!’ I shouted, just as my second serve hit the net, pumping my fist in the air. Which drew odd looks from my dad as he was mirroring my actions but for entirely different reasons, and the two youths who looked at me oddly. I had to think quickly, to tie my exuberance in with my defeat, and not the success of this underdog, and the loss of the harpie. ‘Yes!’ I yelled again, keeping my face the picture of delight. ‘Six-four down! That’s how you lose a game!’ I shudder at the thought of my lack of intelligence even now.
Now, this may have not been what SJ had in mind when she started that thread, but thankfully Duchess and Stranded have saved my face, by posting their guilty pleasures, which oddly enough are both to do with horse and tack sheds. Hmm. So, my kinky darlings, what are your guilty pleasures? Feel free to leave a comment, telling me (and any passing voyeurs) what your guilty pleasures are!
Take care, readers! And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!
(Don’t worry, that won’t be tying your hands. There’s precious little I wouldn’t do…Like tying your hands!)
Toodaloo!
Finger On The Button 