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After enjoying six seven sexual escapades in the space of two weeks, I’ve noticed something surprising.
Well, something surprising other than the mountains of laundry generated by such frequent trysting. Sheets, blankets, pillowcases, towels and a few small silky things all queued up in my bathroom until I gathered the energy to herd them through the wash. Happy thoughts filled my head with each load I moved from washer to dryer, and from dryer to counter, and from counter to basket.
Clearly the only way to enjoy doing laundry is when pleasant memories of sweat, come and lube dance through my mind. In any case, I guess the magnitude of my laundry pile is really not all that surprising.
Nor, I suppose, is the smoothness of my skin surprising. Lube and come do wonders for my skin.
What does surprise me after seven sexing-ups is the condition of my back. I mean, I’ve done a damn awful lot of arching, stretching, curling, extending and otherwise harassing my poor bedeviled back, but instead of complaining about it, my back finally feels great.
It’s invigorated. It’s enthusiastic. It (along with my breasts, mind, ass and pussy) wants more sex. It wants to keep on feeling this good.
Sex as a cure for back pain. Someone needs to write this up in the medical journals. If there’s a study, I want to volunteer right now.

Monet Lingerie, Sexy Lingerie and Stiletto Heels
