I managed to mow the lawn before the heat was too bad. A few minutes ago one of our thermometers, which is in direct sunlight, said it’s 105 degrees and feels like 111. The other thermometer, in the shade, says it’s a frigid 85. No thank you. I’m more of a 75 degree girl. We’re not used to the heat up here in the upper left portion of the country. Especially west of the Cascade mountains.
Next weekend we’ll be east of the Cascades, in the desert. We’ll be camping along the Columbia River, which lends its water for irrigation. We’re hoping to find some fresh cherries and maybe even some early peaches. Both are great in sangria. Yes, please!
Lion is still in a state of denial. Orgasm denial. I’ve been edging him for almost a week and he’s absolutely ready for an orgasm. I’m not sure when he’ll get one, but he’s ready whenever I am. I wasn’t ready last night. As a matter of fact, I edged him within a stroke or two of a ruined orgasm; and I didn’t let up. As soon as I stopped, I gave him maybe five seconds to recover and then I was back to work. Afterwards, he said he was dripping. I’m hoping that means I will be rewarded with a lot of semen when he finally does get the chance to come.
Before I edged him, and even while I was getting him aroused, I swatted his balls. He hates when I do it, and I always remind him he said I can hit them harder, they can take it. He said he hasn’t told me that in ten years. I can’t help it if I remember certain things so vividly. I didn’t want to hit his balls back then. He encouraged me. Encouraged. And now he tells me it hurts when I swat them? I hope it does. It’s supposed to. And he told me, albeit many years ago, that I should do it. Silly Lion.