In mid-March, M and I spent a night in Durant, Oklahoma. His son spent Spring Break with his mother, and Durant is the closest thing to a halfway point we have. Our plan was to drop him off, spend the night at a cheap hotel, and drive back the following day. Of course, his mother flaked out on us and we shared the room with his son that night.

The following morning, while Mini M showered, M pulled me up on my knees and fucked me from behind. This gave him the benefit of mauling my breasts while he sawed into me with his cock, and gave me the benefit of looking over my shoulder and watching him go at me in a conveniently-positioned mirror. Watching his hips buck as he loses control and slams into me never fails to turn me on.

That day, we made a baby.

This time around, we were able to go slowly, make some noise, and mix things up a little bit. My growing belly is forcing us to get creative with positions. But somehow, we still wound up with him behind me, losing control and slamming into me. Oh well, stick with what works, I suppose.

With all the kids gone for most of the summer, we’re going to have ample opportunity to be naked in every room of the house. I’ll keep everyone apprised…

We need some porn.

OK, that may not seem like a major issue, but I’m stuck. I suggested to M that we should get some more porn to supplement our meager collection. As it stands, all we have is Anal Sluts 1-6. In an entirely unsurprising turn of events, he responded enthusiastically, but I am to choose the material. His position is that there is really very little porn that won’t appeal to him, so I should choose, thus giving him some insight into what makes me throb that he hasn’t already gleaned from my demure little blog.

So help me out, gentle readers. What should I get? Lesbian? Squirting? Group sex? BDSM? Enemas? Should I attempt to find some of that very little porn out there that won’t appeal to him? Or maybe I should try to find a nice pegging video. Shoot me a comment or e-mail and let me know what you think.

Yeah, I know, what’s up with with the non-blogging blogger? Well, it’s a few things…

As some of you may remember, M & I have purchased a company, and that has kept us both pretty busy. It’s going reasonably well, but there has been little time for much else. It’s getting easier though, and as we get things cleaned up, I’ll have more time for everything else. Hopefully starting this week, I’ll post at least once a week.

The other big change that is affecting my blogging, and for that matter, my entire life, is that I’m pregnant. Yeah, between us, M and I will have 4 kids. Considering that we currently have three boys, we’re seriously hoping for a girl. If not, I suspect that M will attempt to trade him.

At any rate, any pictures I post for the remainder of the year will likely be interesting. We’ve got some ideas; now it’s just a matter of finding some time to take them. Stay tuned.

St. Patrick’s Day is another one of those holidays, like New Year’s Eve where the ultimate goal is to get wasted and hit on people, except this time there’s not a midnight deadline. Oh, and everyone (and the liquor) is dolled up in green.

This St. Paddy’s Day, I hooked up with a few of my girlfriends and we paraded in our verdant splendor to our favorite Irish Pub, where the patrons are more likely to be natives rather than drunken college boys. Drunk sounds better with an Irish accent.

I’m not a fan of beer, and being green doesn’t make it any more appealing. But, give me a green martini and I’m your party girl.

When we arrived the band was on a break, and when they picked up their instruments and began to play, I wished they’d go back on break. I’m sure to someone, somewhere they’re a great band, but to me it was more noise than music. As if they were still three year-olds banging on mom’s roasting pan with a wooden spoon, but to give them credit, they hadn’t lost any of the child-like enthusiasm.

Then I noticed the bass player was Loverboy from Starbucks, and suddenly they sounded much better. Or perhaps it was the jolt of lust from my pussy to my brain that released enough endorphins to allow me to appreciate the subtle nuances of their art. Maybe I should have another martini.

After spending their next set playing the visual equivalent of “footsie” with Loverboy, he strolled over to where I was perched at the bar, positioning himself between me and my nearest girlfriend. It seemed to be a well practiced predatory move to separate the individual from the herd.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked.

While I can’t say I was enjoying the music, the show was certainly everything I’d hoped for. I’d been aroused by his finesse with a coffee cup, but his gyrating moves with his guitar were far more stimulating.

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” I answered.

He was wearing a green t-shirt sporting the image of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a caption that read: Magically Delicious. I really wanted to test out that theory.

I traced a fingertip along the leprechaun and asked, “Can I have a taste?”

His eyes locked on mine as he swiveled the barstool so that I was facing him. He put his hands on my knees spreading them apart and stepped in closer between my thighs. His hands slid up my thighs and circled my waist, his thumbs rubbing the sensitive exposed skin between my halter top and jeans.

I think I stopped breathing.

His lips touched mine, a light playful brush before sinking down to obliterate me with his kiss. My hands fisted into his hair, not to posses, but to hold on. I was drowning against a flood of emotions I couldn’t control. He was more intoxicating than the three martinis I’d had.

He didn’t back away after the kiss, and leaned his forehead against mine. He took in a shuddering breath, and I was relieved to see that he had been affected by our kiss as well.

I eloquently said, “Wow.”

He chuckled, but I didn’t hold it against him. It was hard to really think clearly with him standing so intimately between my thighs.

“Magically Delicious doesn’t come close.”

He played another set, and I had a feeling that there was going to be some bad bar music in my immediate future. Although, it was starting to grow on me. After another martini.

I left that night with a pot of gold: his phone number.

I am by no means a technophobe. I am a fan of gadgets and am right there at the electronic store chanting “open, open, open” when the latest new thing come along.

However, text messages are the bane of my existence. I just can’t understand why someone would spend the time typing a message with their thumbs when they’re holding a freakin’ phone. The first chain text message I received almost resulted in my commitment into a nice padded room with a matching jacket. You see people screaming into their phones, but rarely screaming at their phones.

I’ve trained all my friends to only send texts that don’t require a response. So I was surprised to hear the incoming text sound in the middle of my work day.

Text: I want you.

I didn’t recognize the phone number attached to the message, and where the hell is area code 541? A quick Google search told me it was northwest Oregon, with Eugene being the most populated city in the 541 area.

Curious, since I don’t know anyone from that part of the country and to receive something along those lines, one would hope you’d at least recognize the sender.

But you know me, I’m always willing to play, and while not a fan of normal “How R U?” messages, this one was at least interesting.

Hannah: What do you want to do to me?

Text: Pound my cock inside you until you cum screaming my name.

Oh! Well, it just keeps getting better.

Hannah: MMM. You’re making me wet.

Text: Wow! Lisa, you really got into it this time.

Lisa?!? Who the fuck is Lisa? I damn near shouted that in the middle of my office.

Then it hit me that I’m actually the one who’s been masquerading as someone else; that if someone is in the wrong, it’s me. But damn it, I feel like my lover just called out the wrong name in bed.

Am I obligated to confess at this point? I’m not quite sure of the protocol. But I’ve always been one who will admit to mistakes and own up to my misdeeds.

Hannah: Confession time. I’m not Lisa. I think you have the wrong number.

Text: Do you think I can have the wrong number again tomorrow?