MISS MAKEOVER: STRAP-ONS – Miss Plum, dicks and dickheads

By on September 18, 2010

“I’ve got a new toy,” said Miss Plum, whose ample curves I’m very fond of. Not to mention her demure smile, her throaty laugh, and her humungous hooters. “It’s a fat, thick cock.”
“Sounds like Chris Moyles,” I say. “Or…I’m running out of fat, thick cocks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well you’ve got one now.”
“Yes. It’s a strap-on. I’ve got to stick into someone else, haven’t I? Duh!”
“I’ll stick it in you. After Madame has had her bottom smacked for cheek.”
She makes a cute, bratty, pouty sort of noise. I imagine her with her lower lip stuck out and feel myself moisten. I’d like to have her here right now. Securely tied over the spanking bench for a nice leisurely session with my heart-shaped red leather paddle, the one I keep for lovers. I’d warm her up gradually by hand, with much giggling and gossiping. Then, when she was ready I’d stoke up the heat. She’d mewl and sigh and give a few grunts of satisfaction and lift her lovely big bum so I could get at her lower curves and there would be plenty of time to stir her honey-pot and perhaps pop in a little finger-sized buttplug – so ladylike. There would be kissing and stroking and afterwards there would be cream – on her hot, throbbing bottom, and chocolates, taken internally, through the mouth, silly, and lots of kisses and then a great deal of rudery with a number of buzzing implements.
There would then be a fair amount of gasping and screeching, a quick exhausted huddle and chocolate, wine and cigarettes.
“My strap-on won’t fit you,” she says. “It was custom made. For me!”
Well, there is certainly no shortage of Miss Plum so the harness wouldn’t fit but I could still do a fair amount of damage with the business end of her prong.
Whenever I read a column by the average neurotic journalist – Liz Jones, say, the pinhead stick insect with four cats and homeopathy for horses – you feel like e-mailing her to mention that there is no longer any particular need to put up with poor service from the man in your life. You can dial in various males by the night or just keep a selection of silicone dicks in your bedside cabinet – much more satisfactory than keeping a dickhead on the couch, watching football or Star Trek. Men’s bits are never ever-ready, or they’re ready when you don’t want them to be, and then flaccid when you need them.
And these days we are blessed with such a wide choice of artificial prongage, including some genuine works of arts painted all the colours of the rainbow. When you consider that they all come without the usual attachment – a surly, drunk male who may not be particularly fragrant – it’s hard to go back to the Liz Jones paradigm: ‘I’m so hopeless, I can’t keep a man! Wail! Gnash! Twitter!’ Well, she had a man, sort of, but If I wanted a selfish freeloader like her little boy husband was I  would keep a cat. Needless to say she has four of those (never a good sign). Imagine how many she’ll have when she gets to be seventy. If she hasn’t starved herself to death by then. Or vaporised upon seeing a particularly red cut of raw meat in a butcher’s window.
Back to the more satisfying theme of ladies’ pleasure accoutrements: prongs come in every shape and size, vibrating and still, realistically dick-shaped. And there’s no longer any need to court the assholes who used to come attached. You can ride these beauties to your heart’s content then wipe them clean before storing them for future use. Compare this with shifting your average male inebriate after he has performed (probably not to your satisfaction and sometimes not even to his).
And yet we still crave romance, love which will last longer than a child’s fairy tale (from where we were originally indoctrinated in the first place.) Boys are expected to grow out of their youthful dreams of being warriors or spacemen. So why do girls go on wanting to be Cinderella? Why won’t we take life’s “No!” for an answer?

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