Steamy

…recommendations of steamy things to wear for curvy girls.

Dahlings! Miss Prude is ever-so-sorry, but she in unable to produce another Steamy tome for you this week or next, as she is gallivanting around the globe with a younger man. She will however give you another brief suggestion from Miss Virginia’s Closet.

Now, please recall that Miss Virginia’s recommendations are especially for curvy girls, so this suggestion comes with a caveat. Miss V does not think this little (and she does mean little) get up is especially, shall we say, supportive of certain curvy parts. But Mr. Prude gives to two thumbs up (among other things that are up), so she is including it here for her braver readers.

Everything in this “skong” stripper get-up is fully accessible. It’s already pretty inviting with the mesh and the tininess, but the split-cup bra makes it even better. Split cups may not make any sense when it comes to foundation garments, but when it comes to getting frisky they are ever so lovely if you partner wants to play tongue-and-seek those  perky little nipples of yours. (At least those don’t start sag with the rest of the parts, right darlings? They are always read to sit up straight like a good girl should.) True, “skong” may not be a real word, but if your tango partner likes the view from behind this will certainly do the trick. Sadly this get-up doesn’t come with a pole, though you could order one here. Get into this outfit with a pair of hooker heals and you’ll be ready to shake your money maker with the best of them. (Swing those tassels darlings!)

Miss Virginia will be back in a week or two with a new Steamy story. Good- bye darlings. Don’t do anything Miss V wouldn’t do–and well, that does leave you with quite a few options–even though if you are evangelically inclined. Ta Ta!

Stress Reduction

A Friday Fantasty

The dull sounds of über warriors shooting each other descended through the floorboards to Tamara’s bedroom. Her older son Jacob was waging war on the gaming system and the twins, just 5 years old, were his dedicated audience.

Tamara knew they were too young to watch that kind of video game, but the younger boys had been hellions all day long. At one point, she’d even found the cat skulking around the house with wet Incredible Hulk underwear tied to its tail with a twist tie. This meant three things:

a)      one of the twins had waited too long to go and was currently going commando

b)       the sandwich bread for lunches tomorrow was drying out on the counter

c)       the cat had lost all will to live.

Tamara knew she couldn’t face one more harsh reality without committing infanticide. The moment Jacob came home from middle school, she had plopped all three of them down on the couch with a bowl of Doritos. She did not care how many acts of gaming violence they were witnessing or how many chips were getting embedded into the sofa cushions. She just did not want to deal with one more parenting crisis.

In the relative sanctuary of her bed room Tamara kicked off her sandals and lay curled up on top of the bedspread. The afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains and in moments she was drifting in that soft-focus world between sleeping and waking. She heard the front door click open, registered the sound of the boy’s distracted greeting to their Dad, but could not rouse herself to get up. Instead she curled herself away from the bedroom door and buried her head in her pillow.

“Babe?” Chris queried as he opened the bedroom door. “That bad, huh?”

Tamara rolled over on her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. “What happened?” he asked, as he deposited his things on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Hellions.” Tamara moaned. “Mayhem.”

“Babe, I’m sorry.” Chris rubbed her back in gentle circles. “I’ll order us pizza.”

Tamara exhaled slowly as Chris’ hands continued their pattern. Encouraged by even this little response, Chris moved his hands lower down Tamara’s back, working the tight muscles around her tailbone. Tamara moaned again, and he drifted down her hips to work the deep tissue in her buttocks. “Babe, you are so tight.” He observed. No answer.

Assuming no news was good news in the amorous front, Chris slid his hands down the back of her legs and pressed the folds of her peasant skirt between her thighs. “Honey,” Tamara whispered, almost whimpering, “I can’t. I’m so tired.”

“All you have to do is lie here.” Chris replied.

“I don’t know,” she said dreamily, drifting into the comfort of his hands stroking the stress from her body.

“I know just where you need to loosen up.” he said in a throaty whisper. Chris slid up her skirt up her legs, running the flat of his hands up her thighs, and then lightly stroking own again with the tips of his fingers. Tamara let her legs fall a little apart. Chris repeated his strokes a few times, then let the upward stroke extend just a little further until his finger tips touched the elastic edge of her panties. Boy shorts. Chris knew Tamara thought of these as “practical,” but they totally turned Chris on. He liked the way they framed the curve of her rear, and even though there was far more material there than the special- occasion thongs, he could still pull the pliable fabric aside enough to —well, to do just about anything he wanted. He fingered the edges of the black fabric, then slid his fingers up one leg opening, touching soft hair hiding there. As he moved his hand more deliberately between her she tensed a little, then exhaled softly and relaxed. Chris stroked her with two fingers, first gently petting her like a kitten, then splicing her hair with a gentle push. Tamara moaned as Chris slipped in between her folds, stroking her hooded clit with little flicks of his finger tips. He was pleasantly surprised to find that she was already wet, and he knew in moments her clit would swell past its hood, eagerly seeking his fingers. He circled the area delighted, then, before she got too close, slid his fingers down to lower regions.

Chris knew from past experience that Tamara held all her tension in three places. The large muscles of her hips, the long thin muscles of her arms lower arms, and the tight hot opening of her cunt. He’d already worked the curved sides of her ass, and frankly, he was not that interested in her arms, elegant though they may be. With a push Chris slide both fingers into her and she let out a soft breathe of pleasure. Envisioning his way on to other things, Chris let his fingers slide deep into her and back out, in and out, in and out as Tamara’s breathing continued to deepen. On a last outward stroke, he took the pads of both fingers and circled along just the rim of her cunt, pulling the edges out gently, tugging the skin where the muscles felt tightest slightly up and towards her ass

“Ooooh. That feels so good.” Tamara moaned.

“I know,” he answered. Across the room on his side of the bed their dresser stood with a large oval mirror. The mirror reflected back to him the goofy, pleased look on his face. Seeing himself there in his shirt and tie, fresh from work with hand up his wife’s cunt turned him on immensely. The half-baked hard on that had been his since he saw Tamara’s legs on the bedspread now got serious, and he felt himself swell against his slacks. Hot with the thought of being inside her, Chris stroked around her tight red curve on more time, then added a third finger. He knew she liked to be full. One thrust. Two. Three. Fourfivesix. Now she was moaning incessantly, smothering the sound in her pillow. Chris was grateful for the battle that was going on upstairs on the Xbox. He could please her as much as he wanted and the three boys wouldn’t hear a thing.

Chris felt powerful now as the strain of the day washed away from Tamara and drenched his fingers.  “Do you want more?” he asked. She lifted her ass slightly off the bed in answer and Chris added the index finger of his other hand into the fray, stretching her as far as he could, pulling her cunt open wider as his other hand moved in and out rhythmically. He could feel Tamara’s tension release under his touch.

“Oh God!” Tamara groaned into the pillow.

Now that she was fully aroused, Chris could feel the rippled sponge of Tamara’s g-spot. He’d moaned and licked his lips. He’d recently become an expert at working this pleasure zone, and in just a few thrusts of his hand and come-hither curls of his fingers he could feel her juices rushing over him as she came. Tamara half-shrieked with the intensity of the sensation. But Chris didn’t want to stop just because she’d orgasamed once; he knew he was capable of more. He repeatedly stroked her from deep within to the very edge of her cunt, pulling down hard on the lip of her opening at the end of each stroke, stopping just short of real pain. Again with the moaning.

Now Christ was starving for his hot little wife, his cum beginning to weep down the sides of his swollen head. Abruptly he pulled out his hand, gasped Tamara by the hips and rotated her on the bed until she lay on her stomach with her legs hanging over the edge. Chris’s sticky fingers flew to his belt pulling it out from the buckle. He undid the button on his slack, pulled down the fly. In seconds his cock was spring out of his boxers. He thrust his pants down around his knees and three Tamara’s skirt up over her back. Her black boy shorts were pulled to one side, a darker patch of wetness showing where they were soaked in a wide swatch all around the crotch. Chris stripped them off her, watching her ass jiggle as she shook them off her ankles. Tamara slid off the bed further stretching her legs so that her calves were tight as she stood on her tip toes, her ass high in the air, spliced open and dripping. Chris grabbed her by the hips and pulled her close, thrusting his cock into her well-lubricated cunt. Tamara moaned and threw her hands out in front of her on the bedspread, clutching at the fabric. She turned her head to one side as he thrust into her. He could see the top of her head in the mirror, her sandy hair tousled with her earlier thrashing. He saw the stripes on his work shirt, the dark split of his tie, the hungry look and his face, the movement of his torso as he fucked her. God, she was so wet.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tamara had started to moan rhythmically with each thrust. Christ knew he would peak soon with that kind of encouragement. She slid her right arm down the bedspread and under her body, curling up slightly so her fingers could reach her clit. Chris knew he’d been dragging her swollen goodness against the textured fabric and that he was bumping her deliciously against the edge of the bed. Tamara was working herself hard, getting close to a second coming. He upped the ante, increasing the speed of his thrusts; angling his cock up deep and high; concentrating on the long slip of her skin from his head to his crotch. One. Two Three. Tamara arched her back and almost screamed in release. Chris felt himself explode within her, his cum flowing out around the edges of her cunt, joining the cream that already spilled out onto her thighs. He froze for a moment pressed all the way into her; feeling the waves of pleasure moving up and around him; his hands pulling her hips tight against him. He rode her a few more undulating pulses before folding over her and resting his chest against her back. They were both panting heavily. Chris reached up and pulled Tamara’s hair away from her face, so he could see the curve of her neck and whisper into her ear.

“Feel better?”

His only answer was a sort of humming moan.

“I guess I better go order that pizza.”

….recomendations of steamy things to wear for curvy girls.

Hello again darlings, Miss Virginia Prude here with your weekly recommendation for turning up the steam in your boudoir. Having recently been tearing through her dirty thirties at an alarming rate, Miss V decided to go on a lingerie buying binge before all her bits start to sage too badly. Now, Miss Vriginia knows Fredericks of Hollywood has a rather large reputation for trashiness, but darlings, why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? 

Take this little number for instance: the lace stretch fishnet chemise. It’s a peek show in stretch lace, and you know that can’t be bad. The fishnet weave is tight enough that things don’t pooch through the webbing, and the sheer panels reveal all the right places, especially those perky little…well, you get the idea. Curvy Miss Virginia happily reports that she feels extraordinarily hot in this sexy little thing. Unlike most of her other pretties which tend to come off at an alarmingly fast rate, Miss V has noticed that this gown seems to stay on for the ride. She thinks it must be the lovely texture on the tongue (or skin, as the case may be) where the peek meets the boo.  Thankfully dears, this sweet nothing is comfortable enough to sleep in–should it still be on one’s body when that satisfied post-coitus slumber leaves you knocked out and blissful on your satin sheets.

Miss Prude must admit however, that she is displeased with the accompanying g-string. Why is it that the gown may be the size of a pocket handkerchief, but the straps on the g-string are long enough to lace your gym shoes? This is a chronic problem with most comes-with-a-thong duets. Oh, if only we knew someone connected to the knickers industry who might influence manufactures to put those cunning little strap adjusters on g-string straps, like those on a brassiere strap –perhaps with a bit of rhinestone bling to combine function with fashion? Hmmmm…who do we know who might help us with this conundrum?

Thankfully this gown is even sexier without the g-string—that triangular shadow is just too Too TOO alluring. And those extra long g-string straps do come in handy for increasing his pleasure (and your delicious power.) Miss V recommends wrapping those satiny straps loosely around the base of your man’s member before giving him a little fellatio treat. The extra tension will certainly steam things up without causing things to end prematurely. Miss Prude has tried her hand at it, and is happy to report back that Mr. Prude was most appreciative.

Well ladies (and gentlemen) what are you still doing reading this? Go on now! Get! It’s time to go shopping!

Got a recommendation for lingerie and the like? The Vodka Tonic Ladies would be ever so grateful for your tips and tidings. Comments are open in the Steam Room, and the anonymous variety are fine, just fine, darlings. Don’t forget to mark your calendar for the next Steamy story coming your way Friday. Do do DO tell a friend (or bet yet read to one!)

Front clasps, 501’s, and Easy Chairs
a first-time fantasy

They had been going together for two months, twenty-nine days. Tomorrow was their three month anniversary. It was the kind of thing girls her age remembered, though they seemed silly in the eyes of others— his friends, her father, the merciless teasing of her older brother.

It had started in the mornings, those crisp cold days at the end of winter, when the frost sometimes still iced the picnic tables in the quad. Stacy’s mother dropped her off at school too early at school, anxious to beat the gridlock of commuters on the bridge. Stacy was younger than most of her classmates, having started school as early as possible so her parents could forego babysitting payments and make the dollars stretch farther for their young family. Now she was one of the only students in the class of ’86 who didn’t have their drivers license yet. Not that it would have mattered. Stacy’s parents couldn’t have afforded another car, and her own money, earned at fast food joints and mall shops was being tucked away for college in one more school year. So it was that Stacy arrived at school too early. She was always the first to huddle at the scarred picnic tables, learning who loved who ‘forever’ in their scratched surfaces. Stacy always found it ironic that a declaration of unending love could be made by carving ‘TLA’ into some table top with a pocket knife. It was on one of these mornings that he surprised her by coming to her, the boy with the dark hair and soft eyes who she knew only a little—mostly just in passing.

James was older than Stacy and in the class ahead of her. He was part of the mod artsy crowd, with his jeans narrowly pegged in with big safety pins, and his vintage sports coats showing their paisley lining on the turned up cuffs of the sleeves. She had gone to his apartment once afterschool. A small place a few blocks away where he lived alone with his mother. They had drunk Cokes and watched MTV. But that was with her best friend Marnie, who had been the go-between and the outing arranger. Stacy had assumed that James was interested in Marnie. Everyone was interested in Marnie. She cheered, and starred in all the school musicals, and chatted easily with whoever was nearby. There was something about the way Marnie laughed and tossed her hair, the way her calves curved up above the school-colored stripes of her cheerleading socks. All these things attracted boys to the wonder that was Marine, so Stacy never even considered that James might be interested in her. It wasn’t within the range of possibilities that this cute, stylish boy might be attracted to the slightly geeky honor student whose long list of high school accomplishments contained nothing more stylish than a French award and being the secretary of the student council. So when he walked across the empty courtyard on that first chilly morning to sit beside her in the cold, she was slow to connect what he was doing there. She couldn’t figure out why he would come to school so early when his apartment was within such close walking distance to the school.

Stacy had been struggling with the assignments from her AP Algebra class and James sat down and offered to help. He leaned into her across the page as he wrote out the problems with his left hand. Stacy remarked outlook absentmindedly on this, that he was left-handed, as all artists are meant to be, using as they did the right side of their brain. James paused in his figures, and they both gazed at his hands for a moment. Stacy noticed with a sort of rush that rose from her collarbones to her throat, that James’ hands were beautiful, almost elegant, and the thought flashed into her head that she would like it very much if those hands would reach up and brush back a piece of her hair. Suddenly self-conscious, she rubbed her own hands together, more for something to break the stillness than for anything else. Her hands had grown cold without the scratching of her pencil to keep them warm. James reached out then, as she chaffed her hands together, and took her own small fingers into his, wrapping them in his own to keep them warm. It was then that she realized this was a flirtation—that this cute, interesting boy was interested in her, in Stacy, and not in Marnie. She felt her face flush hot with the possibility.

That was three months ago—well, two months and 29 days—and they had been practically inseparable since. Now they knew each other’s favorite bands (The Cure, The Smiths, and for Stacy, also Duran Duran); who thought Pepsi was better than Coke (only Stacy); and what kind of gift they wanted for graduation (James was holding out for a used car.) They had started slow at first, just kisses on the doorstep, then making out whenever they found his apartment empty, or her living room unattended. They stumbled a bit, when James sunk into a funk after his father appeared unexpectedly for a week, and then disappeared again without a word. Once Stacy had gotten James to find words for what was troubling him, together they had waded through the darkness of that moment, and lately, they seemed closer because of it. Just yesterday, in the now-warmer morning in the quad, James had presented her with a present. Stacy expressed surprise, eagerly unwrapping the tallish box. Popping open the lid she withdrew a delicate paper replica of the Eiffle Tower, a tiny silver bell tied to the top with a thin blue ribbon. James had made it himself, sketching it onto heavy art paper and painstakingly cutting out the delicate metal bars with an exacto knife. Stacy marveled at the intricate design, the way the whole thing folded and hinged from one piece of paper. It was a small wonder of artful engineering. Stacy had just won a scholarship to go on a study tour of France that summer. James knew how much that trip meant to her, and made her this treasure both to celebrate that, and to mark their anniversary.

Now they sat in her living room pressed together in the big almost-a-double chair Stacy’s mother had just purchased as part of a three piece set. It was made of a rattan frame and overstuffed cushions in a stylized Hawaiian print. It was the first truly new item her mother had ever bought for the house, and to Stacy it seemed heaven sent. The chair was just big enough to justify squeezing into it with her boyfriends, (boyfriend!), but it was small enough that their bodies were always pressed close. They had spent many a night curled up in that chair, watching television with her brother and parents – Miami Vice, Remmington Steele, endless reruns of M.A.S.H. on late nite. Even then, under supervised eyes they had managed secretive touches; his hand slipping under her in the half-darkness, her palm sliding high on his thigh. Stacy took a quiet inner pride at the way the proximity of her body made him grow tight against his pants, causing him to shift his weight around in the big chair to find a more comfortable position in the crotch of his 501s.

But now, this Friday afternoon after school, Stacy’s family was out: her parents going for drinks with work friends, her brother at an out-of-town baseball tournament. She and James were alone, alone and nearly at their three month anniversary. Already she was sitting astride him, her skirt pushed up above her knees. She was sucking his tongue inside her mouth, pulling softly on his full lower lip with her teeth. James’ hands wasted no time sliding up from her waist to her breasts, cupping them in his artist’s hands, squeezing her hard in his hunger. Then his quick fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse as they kissed. Stacy melted, arching her head back and away from the place on his neck she had been lapping, so now he could more easily get to the undressing. She thrilled as she felt his fingers touch her, running down from her collar to the edge of her white lace bra where her slightly dark nipples were already erect and pressing through the unlined fabric. James traced a line along the inside edge of each scalloped cup, coming to rest on the silver clasp at the front center of her bra. This he managed with one flick (hadn’t they gotten this far many times already?) When Stacy pushed the straps off her shoulders and her shirt and blouse fell away, James let out an appreciative moan, running his fingers across both her breasts a few times before sinking his head to take wide mouthfuls of first one, then the other. Now Stacy moaned too and pressed against him, her legs spread wide around his hips, her body grinding hard against his clothed erection. She loved the feel of his mass pressing against her through the dark denim of his jeans, and moved herself rhythmically against him until she was sure her wetness was soaking through her thin panties onto his button fly.

Stacy reached for his belt buckle, his top buttons, freeing James of belts and bindings as his lips moved around her neck, his tongue on her collar bones. His hands slid up her bare legs and under her flowered skirt, resting on her hip bones briefly before sliding down her thighs, then back up again. James slipped two fingers of each hand under the elastic leg of her panties and hooked them over the top of the waist band, cinching the small fabric tight and pulling it against her skin like a harness. She looked at him then, with a light in her eyes and let out a throaty laugh that surprised her in its womanliness. They exchanged a look of knowing. Then in a rush of hunger Stacy’s hands flew to his waistband slipping it over and off his flushed head, beginning the awkward struggle to get them off his slim hips. James lifted himself up eagerly, shoving his jeans and boxers down past his knees. She settled back onto his lap, gasping in her hand what she had only ever felt before in hidden stages behind clothing. James fell back against the chair’s cushions, groaning with pleasure. After a few exploratory strokes James let go of his grasp on her hips, and held on tight to the wicker arms of the chair frame. Stacy slid off her perch on his lap and knelt on the carpet just in front of him, eye level with his swollen cock. She was impressed by its size, and the way the tip glistened in the afternoon light that streamed through the living room slider. She licked it tenuously, the first drops salty on her tongue. Then smiling, she lapped at its crown like licking the dripping sides of an ice cream cone. She looked up at him, taking in his enormously pleased reaction and kissed the tip, taking it just slightly between her lips like a plum, then tipping her head and sliding her tongue in one long stroke from base to tip before taking him all the way deep into her mouth. In a moment James was pulling away from him, his long fingers in her hair, his breathe coming in gasps as he begged her, “Wait. Wait.” He breathed raggedly and slowly for a minute, fighting to hold back his peak.

Stacy rocked back onto her heals while his eyes were closed, stroking the inside of his thighs slowly. She was so wet the lace edges of her white cotton panties were limp and soaked. Her body was aching with longing and she seemed to be both swelling outward and contracting deeply inward in almost painful anticipation. Stacy stood decisively and stepped out of her underwear, gathering her skirt up high on her thighs and climbing onto James’ lap once more, careful to give all his sensitive parts breathing room. She leaned close to his ear and breathed out a question. “Where is it?” she asked, her breath hot on his neck, the soft hair of her triangle so close to his crotch that it brushed against him. “Back pocket,” he sighed. Stacy leaned over the arm of the chair rummaging through his jeans to find the metallic packet. She found that necessary treasure, and settled on top of him again, her bare thighs spread open across his legs. Stacy struggled with the package while James slid his hands under her skirt, just along the joint where her smooth shaved thighs met his lean muscled ones. Stacy ripped off the top of the condom wrapper, then closed her eyes and gasped with pleasure as his finger parted her, probing in her wetness. When she opened her eyes he was smiling, practically licking his lips in anticipating. Stacy awkwardly rolled the latex over him, struggling to focus as James slid his fingers in her, first one, then two, stretching her virgin skin. As she finished rolling the condom down his long shaft he slipped his hand out of her. Stacy pressed against him hard, sliding her outer lips against the ribs of the latex, playing a little, feeling the slip of her skin against the curve of his cock without letting him dive inside her. James reached to stroke her nipples, bent his head down to her neck. Mercifully the layer of latex had backed down his trigger switch and they could linger a little on the exploratory rubbing and grinding, the luxurious friction of their bodies as they moved against each other. James pulled his upper body back to watch his fingers slide into her, moving up and down her slit with languid motions, finally finding the place in her wetness that froze her for a moment as she involuntarily whispered “There!” Stacy pressed against him, placing her own hand over his and moving it in slow circles. James returned to sucking her breasts, mimicking her circular rhythm with his hand. Stacy’s breath came faster and he picked up the speed, then let go of her waist and bent his elbow to slip two of his fingers from his other hand inside her. She moaned and swiveled her hips in time with him. His fingers seemed to be everywhere at once and she was woozy with sensation. On instinct, James slid in a third finger, making her gasp a little. Stacy paused almost infinitesimally before grinding on. Seconds later she arched away from his lips on her breasts and gasped out in pleasure, while he thrust hard and circled rhythmically. James knew he had seen for the first time, a girl cresting under his touch. He withdrew both his hands and opened his arms so Stacy could collapse against him, her face hidden in shyness against his neck.

In a few moments he put his hands on her waist and without moving her face from his warm neck Stacy lifted her hips, encircled the base of his cock with her first two fingers and her thumb, and in a slow languid motion lifted her head to look into his eyes while sliding down onto him. Simultaneously they moaned: she at the sweet painful stretch of her skin as his length and breadth filled her; he as he felt her soft hair arrive against his lower belly. Stacy slid up once, then pressed again all the way down and James groaned, thrusting his hips up and his head back at the rolling sensation of his release. Stacy felt him pulse inside her and knew he was flowing inside his latex glove. She glowed with pleasure that the heat and friction of her very own body could create such pleasure and release in this boy she found she loved. She rode him a few more times with her hands pressed against his chest watching his face be both tense with pleasure and slack with relief at the same time. After a few more undulations of her hips, James opened his eyes and pulled himself more upright with Stacy still in him. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, Stacy smiling wide with glee and pleasure. It was then James said it, in that awkward wonderful ending. “I love you, Stac.” he whispered, his cheek touching her own, his mouth close to his ear. She turned to him, very deliberately and holding his head in her warm sticky hands, kissed him, happy in the heat of their messy after glow.

Steamy stories are featured on Fridays. Tell a friend, or better yet read a story to one. And remember dears, you can comment anonymously in Miss Virginia’s steam room, so do Do DO give her some props! Ta Ta!

Hello Guests! Miss Virginia has been tip-tap-typing all the livelong day, but alas, the story about the red satin Lace Up Hip Huggers just isn’t coming together. It seems Miss V’s imagination is just stuck, Stuck, STUCK in her coming of age years in the late 80’s.

She’ll just have to write you a little tale about getting it on in her mother’s overstuffed chair — the rattan kind with the Hawaiin print apohlstery. (Yes, rattan. I know, very Mrs. Roper, isn’t it?.) Not that Miss V would have evah messed around in her mother’s living room. No, no, no. That’s just won’t do for a Southern Lady, will it mother? Well, remember dears, that’s why we call them fantasies (at least, partially fantasy….) You’ll just have to check it out on Friday, dears.

Now why don’t you all have a little flashback by listening to this “i was in love in the 80’s” song list by your very own Miss Prude. Just click here. May you have many hot kisses on the couch before your parents get home. Yum!

Holding a Boombox Over My Head for You,

Miss Virginia

Steamy stories are featured on Fridays. Tell a friend, or better yet read a story to one!

…recommendations of steamy things to wear for curvy girls.

When Miss Virginia was a teenager, she read a comic strip in which featured a wife in an overly tight dress. The wife was saying to her husband, “See, all these years and I’m still a perfect size 9.” The young version of Miss V remembers saying to herself, “If I am ever a size nine, just kill me.”

Oh, the irony.

You see dear reader, somehow Miss Prude had gotten it into her head that whatever size she was in 8th grade should be the size she should wear FOR LIFE. She would never ever have to shop at anywhere other than the 5-7-9 shop at the mall, and her skinny-legged extra-dark blue levis should fit her forever and ever, amen. (Even if she did have to lie down on her bed just to get them zipped.) No one — say, a self-aware mother for instance — ever told Miss Virginia that her body would in fact change over the years. Furthermore, she was never informed that body changes past the initial sprout of puberty were not only inevitable, but completely appropriate, natural, and par for the course. Rather, Miss Prude was indirectly informed that any change in size indicated a change in weight, leading one to be considered ‘fat,’  and therefore unlikely to ever get a boyfriend, and certainly not a date to the prom.

This being the case, Miss Prude is being most careful to make sure her own Fine Offspring are getting appropriate messages about body change, size fluctuations, and what-beauty-can-look like. Her current crop of tall leggy fillies is just about ready to become temporarily brain damaged by a suddenly active pituitary gland. And when they do there will be new sizes and new preferences, and Miss Prude certainly hopes she will be gracious and wise about coaching her girls through this. At the very least, they will know that size, well it only matters in some things…. (and my dears, I think we can agree when it matters, it really really matters.)

But the whole point of this post, which Miss Prude seems to have forgotten along the way, was to let her dear readers know that she will from time to time be posting her favorite sexy clothes and lingerie for curvy girls. Miss V considers herself a curvy girl at a size 8/10 in jeans, but also felt the same when she was a 10/12, 12/14 and on good days, even when she was a 16. (Miss V is very short, you see, and there have been several pregnancies, thus resulting in the Beloved Offspring, so sizes may vary.)

Miss Virginia’s first recommendation is the Sexy Little Things Satin Lace Up Hip Hugger from Victoria’s Secret.

I know what you’re thinking. When Miss V first received this little package in the mail, she was concerned that her curvy mama derriere might be a little too…malleable for such a lattice-like pair of knickers. But be not afraid, no plumber butt nightmares here! This little number is hot Hot HOT and makes a curvy girl’s ass look de-lish-i-us. (Ask Mr. Prude. He whole heartedly agrees.) Also, they don’t ride up,  bind, or in any other way bother the lady, so one can wear them all day long and know that she has a sexy little secret riding along with her in the carpool.

Go on now, treat yourself to one in red. Miss Virginia guarantees it will steam things up.

Got a favorite little number for Miss Virginia to recommend? The Vodka Tonic Ladies will love you if you send some new sites their way. Leave your tips in the comments. And be sure to tune in on Friday for a fantasty featuring these hot pants. Mwah!

Posted by Miss Virginia Prude, writer of  “erotica for the evangelically inclined.” Steamy stories are featured on Fridays.  Tell a friend, or better yet read a story to one!

Well dears, Miss Virginia is positively appalled to read that young women are not getting as good as they give when it comes to the department of oral stimulation. Now, Miss Virginia is fully aware that this was the case when she was young, back in the dark ages. But surely in our post blow-jobs-in the-White-House era there’s a little more oral equity? Alas, teenage and 20-something human of the male persuasion are not stepping up to the plate. And according to my Friends Who Date, there’s still a bit of a problem in the older classes as well. It seems that for some men, the fine art of eating out either:

1) ‘Grosses them out.’ (This from a gender which does not mind wearing the same pair of dirty socks for an entire baseball season. And does Miss Virginia really need to mention that on our part, there is actual swallowing?)  or…

2) Is foreign territory and they are unsure how to drive around Lady Town. or…

3) Does not even cross their minds because there is A REAL LIVE GIRL in the general vicinity of their penis, and they have therefore forgotten that she might, in fact, like a little action of her own. 

Miss Virginia is sad to say that she expects number 3 is probably the most likely answer, as many men, young or otherwise, tend to get a bit of a blind spot when it comes to potential pleasures. But just in case the problem is a lack of knowledge, allow MissV to direct your attention to the clever and unabashed Pretty Lady, who offers gentlemen of all ages a primer in the Equal Opportunity Orgasm. This tasteful little number will give your hunky companion a map to Lady Town, and will help you heretofore unsatisfied ladies get a good night of post-coital sleep.

You may introduce this fine article to your potential playmate by writing an email that says something like, “Ohmigod, this is so hilarious! You have to read this blog post about ORAL SEX!”  Then send him the link. Hopefully it will help the apprentice advance to at least the journeyman level, because darling, as Miss Prude’s Vodka Tonic Ladies like to say, “If you go down to Lady Town, you have to at least act like you wanted to visit.”

And please, dear readers, do not forget that if you yourself are in possession of young person of the XY variety, your job as a Good Feminist and Adequate Parent is to educate your young one as to the necessity of fair play in this arena. You wouldn’t let your Young Man to go about thinking women belonged barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen, would you? Nor would you let the idea that women should be paid less than men for the same work reside in your Fine Offspring’s mind. So please, if you cannot breach the subject with any boys dwelling in your household, please have a favorite uncle, good friend, or the mail man introduce your son to the topic of Cunnilingus Equity. If we all do this for our Young Men, a whole generation of women will be deeply grateful.

Does anyone else have some helpful advice? Are there any parents out there who have had a talk with their XY offspring about giving as good as they get? Any stories of successfully negotiating the general problem with your man? Do tell Miss Virginia all about it….

Posted by Miss Virginia Prude, writer of  “erotica for the evangelically inclined.” Steamy stories are featured on Fridays.  Tell a friend, or better yet read a story to one!

Oh, it sounds ever more naughty that it really is, darlings! Miss Virginia has just signed up on Twitter, a fun little website that let us send each other adorable love notes. Miss Virginia thinks she will use it to send the kind of helpful little tips the Vodka Tonic Ladies do Do Do love to exchange. Want to keep up? Click here and follow me!

…A mostly fictionalized account of what Miss Prude wishes her amourous teenage years had included. This, and dating boys in bands. Sigh, don’t you kind of miss it? Well, enjoy!…

We were young then, and much in love, those days when he took my fingers into his mouth one by one, his lips a caress and a question. And then, a soft exchange, the pads of his finger tips on my tongue, long fingers, an artist’s hands, which I sucked with long strokes, my naiveté not quite catching the connection to other pleasures in other places.

It was the typical awkwardness of teen love – first times (too dry, too tight), bad angles (back seats, park benches), and of course, the ridiculousness of ‘protection’ (so embarrassing, so silly). In time though, we found our way–I always wet and ready for his touch, eager for new experiences; for the probe and search of his fingers, the paradox of his body at once both velvet and hard. Who can forget those early exploratory couplings? The instinctive arch of your body towards his, the thrust of his hips into your own. And finally, after weeks of near-misses, that first cresting gasp under his touch alone, the wave of your pleasure rolling over his fingers—or better yet, the pulse of your body sliding over his lips, his tongue, his wet and hungry mouth.

I never minded the ways we had to sneak and bumble. Mad couplings in parking lots, me astride him in the bucket seats, his jeans pulled low, my skirt hiked high. It seemed we were always half dressed then, boxers splayed open by a body with a mind of its own; satin things pushed aside, the lace wet with anticipation. Oh! And his army surplus coat used as a picnic blanket to save our backs from grass stains, my knees dented with the impression of pebbles as I sucked him, aroused by the salty drops first on my tongue, then rush in waves to my mouth.

Or if even those small minutes of solitude could not be managed there were always hands slipping behind belts, fingers under waistbands, palms sliding up a thigh and under the hem of loose shorts in the back row of movie theatres, or once, in the high shelter of a ferris wheel stopped mercifully long at the top of its arch.

And of course, almost as sweet as the every-time-we-can coupling were the love letters tucked under windshield wipers, flowers left on doorstops, silly stuffed animals with red satin hearts. And the phone calls, so long one of us would fall asleep on the other end. Or the heated glances across the classrooms–too obvious by far to other students and to teachers who turned towards the blackboard and rolled their eyes. Novel then, and thrilling were the kisses behind locker doors, hands held at orange picnic tables over Snickers bars and Diet Cokes.

Then always, after a week of those fine preludes, the weekends would arrive, when curfews lengthened and parents went out leaving behind empty rooms. There in whatever space could be stolen, there awaited the damp pull of skin against skin, and the new moans of hunger in the dark.

Miss Virginia is waxing nostalgic these days. She’s been watching Joan of Arcadia with one of the Beloved Offspring, who is, technically, a tween, but will be in the throes of first kisses and first crushes before you can say “pituitary gland.”

As in all shows about the dreaded high school era, there are a large number of crushes on Joan of Arcadia, including a darling first-love story between the title character, Joan, and her oddball pal Adam. Joan is a spiritually sensitive misfit; Adam is an oddball artist with a secret history of family trauma.

Miss Virginia is heavily reminded of her own high school era, whence she spent most of her days as a spiritually sensitive misfit ‘sort of’ dating her own oddball arty friend with family trauma. It was confusing, maddening, and…exhilarating. And although Miss Prude had to consume an entire box of Ho Ho’s when said oddball art friend took her best friend to the prom instead of Virginia Dear, I’d still take a little hit off that young love drug in a heartbeat.

Sigh. Don’t you kind of miss it, darlings?

Truly, high school is hell, and nowhere is it cattier, sillier, or more hellish than in the Deep South. Miss Virginia is ever-so-glad she did not hit her peak as, godforid, a head cheerleader or some other such rubbish. Miss V “likes to think the best of me was waiting just around the bend” in the real world. A late bloomer, Miss Virginia was confused 99% of the time when it came to teenaged members of the opposite sex. There’s an adorable actorboy who plays God in this particular episode. My Darling Offspring would say this boy was ‘hot,’ but I will need to opt for the term ‘jailbait.’ At any rate, the actor boy/’God’, points out that even if you were confused most of the time in high school, adding flirting to the mix certainly meant you were “introducing whole new levels of confusion.”

Still, in spite of the confusion, the heat and the hormones of first crushes and first loves curries its own kind of addiction. And, since Miss Virginia has always been the type of girl that believes love and sex are a mashup of physical and emotional/spiritual chemistry, the intensity of walking with crushes and loves through those first grown-up things, like family traumas and public dating, well, it’s all part of the deliriously heady package. The combination of that physical chemical rush and the emotional upheaval gives one a high that simply does not come with any other age. Now the eldest of my Beloved Offspring, the budding scientist, would say this has only to do with chemical highs and altered brain activity. But I prefer to think it has a little something to do with looking at a naked soul. Either way, that new love thing is addictive, and many Many MANY years of monogamy and parenting has made Miss Prude the teeniest tiniest bit jones-y for just a little bit of that old first-crush feeling.

Are you getting out your yearbooks yet? Googling names? Searching people out at Classmates? Miss Virginia thinks you should. It could be very good for the imagination (if you can get past the Embarrassing Horror that was your hair in 1985.)

Okay, now Miss Virginia highly recommends that you go listen to this on repeat while I write you a little something mostly-fictional about a first love. Go on now. Miss V will be back with a bedtime story for you real soon…….

Welcome to the reception area of Miss Virginia Prude’s private steam room, offering erotic stories for the evangelically inclined.

Miss Virginia would like to remind you, that although you may be married, no longer twenty, and perhaps even the bearer of Fine Offspring, this is no reason why you shouldn’t avail yourself of some of the classier erotica available on Mr. Gore’s most excellent of creations, the world wide web.

You see, Miss Virginia is a Good Southern Girl and does not feel especially comfortable reading stories involving leather whips being applied to anyone’s privates, or to any other location for that manner. Nor does she need to know what you and your husband did with your old college roommate when you jetted off to Cancun last summer. But she does love a little bit of lasciviousness when she can find it—and much to the delight of Mr. Prude, Miss Virginia has decided to share her frisky little favorites with y’all.

To avoid completely embarrassing her three Beloved Offspring, MissPrude is blogging anonymously and offers you only these facts for your orientation purposes:

Miss Virginia Prude is a lady in her thirties, living in the southern part of these United States of America. Being a Good Christian Girl, Miss V spent the majority or her life assuming her body was the tool of the devil and feeling naughty (in a bad way, you see) every time the slightest amorous thought drifted through her feminine mind. This being the case, Miss Prude did not manage to find her full sexual awakening until much later in life, when she was already wed to the aforementioned Mr Prude. In spite of her adoration for the clever and well written show, Big Love, Miss Prude did not find polyamourous relationships to be an adequate outlet for her lately awakened sexual appetites. But she did wish to reclaim a bit of her sexual prowess before things began to sag too too terribly, and to live at least part of her life as a cheeky little monkey. So Miss V decided to write some bedtime stories that would leave her readers nicely aroused, without offending one’s moral aptitude. Thus Miss V’s blogspot, Steamy, was born.

Now, you should be warned, Miss Virginia does love to pontificate, so you’ll also find her standing on the proverbial soapbox and proffering unsolicited ideas about post-twenties sexuality, body image, and other things that we of the feminine sex must so often consider. In other words, all the things you ladies talk about after you’ve had two or three Vodka Tonics will be fodder for a little hot blooded discussion here in Miss Virginia’s steam room.

Now, I must insist that you all be on your very best behavior while you are here. No nasty suggestions in the comments please, and if you must tell us how these stories have improved your private life in the boudoir (or up against a tree, or on the beach blanket in Natucket, or what-have-you), do Do DO exercise good judgement. Miss Virginia knows you can find a way to express your fine sexual self without being overly anatomical, no? We don’t need to re-write Gray’s Anatomy do we, dears? And won’t it be ever so lovely to amass a collection of women-friendly erotic for ladies like us? Oh, do say yes!

Well now, let us get around to clicking about the site, shall we? Have a good…steam.