Welcum!

If you’re new here, welcome! If you’re returning, welcome back!

Looking for my most recent posts?  Scroll down a bit. 

*This* is a sticky post. (Keep comments about the stickiness of *your* post to yourself, please.) It was the first post I wrote on this blog space and it’s a permanent fixture on my home page for two reasons: (1) It clearly outlines my rules (please read them if you haven’t already), and (2) It helps a very specific group of people find me.

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GENESIS

Of a new blog…

Why?

Because of my Exodus from the Blogland I formerly called home.  (A.F.F. anyone?  Beuller?  Beuller?  Anyone…?  Beuller…?  Feverpitch60 has left the building…)

So.  Genesis because of Exodus.

Perhaps you were thinking along the line of Leviticus?  Deuteronomy?  Numbers?

Think again. 

There will be no commandments, but there will indeed be RULES.  And while I can’t promise to stay on topic (sex, love, gardening, pet ownership…one thing leads to another, I’m afraid…and all topics eventually lead back to sex ~ it’s a hazard of being a certain age, I think), I can promise that there will be…erm…language…and photos (if I can figure out how to upload them) and occasional glimpses at my mind, body (yes, I’m an exhibitionist), and soul.  Oh!  And my funny bone. 

I’d like to say all are welcome.  But really, you should be over 18.  And you will have to adhere to the rules.

Oh dear, you are thinking, with all this talk of rules…  Is she a (gulp) Domme?

Yes!  (Insert evil laugh and whip-cracking noise here.)

Well, actually…

No.  Not really.  I mean…

Let’s save this discussion for another time, shall we?    The reason for the rules is more along the lines of preventative maintenance.  I learned the…hard way (heh)…on my previous blog that internet anonymity can sometimes bring out the worst in people.

So without further adieu…

THE RULES

1.  I am a PERSON.  Not an OBJECT.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

2.  While I’m usually pretty fun-loving and don’t take things too seriously, I am still a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

3.  While I may talk about sex on this blog, that does not give you the right to treat me like a sex worker.  I am a WOMAN.  I am MARRIED to a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Respect us as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

(Also, don’t steal stuff.  Read the Purloined Pictures page before you borrow from me.)

These rules apply to ALL interactions, including but not limited to:  blog posts/comments, emails, and chats.  Anyone who feels they cannot follow these rules is free to leave at any time.  Deliberate ignorance of these rules will result in banishment from the Land of Fever.

Mrs. Fever has spoken.

So it has been written; so it shall be done.

“I would crawl through mud…

…to be with you like that,” said he.

Yes.  That’s what he said. 

So here’s one for the cowgirls.

And the cowboys.

And the ’80s rockers.

And the Daisy Duke fans.

And everybody who thinks THICK is sexy.

These boots were made for walkin’. 

Happy Wanton Wednesday!

Double-Teamed. And Fuck The Rules.

So I got this cool award:

Twice.

Which means I’ve been double-teamed.  And awarded…in a…sensual…way… 

So I already said thank you to Nate by accepting his erotica challenge, and now it is time to say thank you to Seattlepolychick, and go on about the business of passing this bloggy award along to someone else. 

So, DA RULZ:

1. Thank the blogger who awarded you with a link back to their blog. (See Da Links, above.)
2. Copy and paste this fine award on your blog.  (Yeah, yeah.  Ms. Hot Lips is up there, front and center.)
3. Answer 7 sensual questions posted by the blogger who awarded you.  (I answered the 8th question for Nate; I will cherry pick SPC’s…  Heh.  Cherry.)
4. Select seven sensual bloggers to give this to.  (Seven is a bit much, eh?)
5. Create or borrow seven sensual questions for those seven sensual bloggers to answer.

‘Kayso…

I’m not so good with rules.  Unless I’m the one making them. 

So I will just do this my way, and try to go along with the spirit of the thing, okay?

Ms. SPC asked, “Do you like playing with temperature.. icecubes, candlewax, etc?”

Answer:  Last summer, on a scorching July night…  I melted an ice cube in 90 seconds.  Yes.  Ninety.  Seconds.  That’s what I said.  You do the math.  It would be accurate to say I give whole new meaning to the words Wet Spot. 

Seattlepolychick also asked, “Name a sexy sexy song.”  (Well, actually that’s not an ‘ask’, as it is not in question form.  But I’ll not dwell on grammatical particulars.  I have other things on my mind.)

Answer:

And then she asked this:  “Name something you LOVE to do sensually, sexually to someone that really isn’t about you.. that’s about giving pleasure to THEM.”  Which is the question I’m going to modify a bit and ask YOU, my dear readers.  And which is also the question I am going to ask Wenchie (Deviant Wench) in passing along this award.

So, please, dear readers.  Tell me.  What is something (or several somethings) you like to do sensually (touch, taste, sight, sound, scent) with a lover, that is not about you…and not about them…but about sharing pleasure? 

Sharing.  Pleasure.

Touch…

Taste…

Sight…

Sound…

Scent…

Mmmmmhmmm…  Yes, that’s what I said.  Again:  You do the math. 

Aaaaannnd…

GO!

That Line

Yes.  That line.

You know exactly which line I mean.  Don’t you, sweetheart?

That line.

That.  Line.

It starts on the flushed bulbous head of your cock ~ MY cock ~ where your swollen tip flushes red in the center and leaks…

Drips…

Weeps…

For me.

For.  ME.

That line.

The one that trails from tip to tail, burning thick and hot, jumping with your pulse, straining with every heartbeat, on fire for me.

For.

ME.

The one that starts where I fuck the tip of my tongue into that gushing hole and flick your precum into my mouth on the upward stroke, before spanking over it again with the flat of my tongue.

That line.

It starts where you seep, trickle and weep…

Mmmm…

And ends at the base of your balls.

Hmmm…

Or does it?

No.

No, it doesn’t.

No.  It doesn’t end at the base of your balls.  It’s longer than that, isn’t it?

Oh, yes.

Yes.  It.  Is.

Yes, sweetheart.  That line.

That line.

The one that I trace with my lips, caress with my tongue, tease with my teeth…

Oh yes, sweetheart.

Feel.  Me.  Trace.  That.  Line.

Over your throbbing glans…

Descending along the veined diameter of thick, hot, velvety hard flesh…

Oh, yes. That line.  That.  Line.

Fluttering over the center of your balls…

To your perineum…

And ending…

Oh fuck yes.  That line.  That.  Line.

At that tight…

Little…

Puckered…

Forbidden…

Hole.

All.  The.  Way.  Down.

Feel me trace that line?

Feel.  Me.  Trace.  That.  Line.

All the way down…

And all the way back up, to flick the tip of your cock ~ MY cock, sweetheart…  MINE! ~ once again.

Yes, you know exactly which line I mean.  Don’t you, sweetheart?

That line.

The one I trace reverently…

Atavistically…

Wantonly…

Animalistically…

Tenderly…

Yes, sweetheart.  That line.

That.  Line.

That line…

IS.

MINE.

Life is a bitch… And love is a dog.

I wrote this post on my former blog almost a year ago.
I saved it at the time because I knew there would be a day I’d want to revisit it.

We said goodbye three months, 15 days, eight hours and 27 minutes ago.

Tonight I am missing her terribly.

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My pup is polyamorous.  (She’s also an Independent Thinker…but that’s another post entirely.)  She loves Mr. Fever, she loves me, she loves her kitties (yes, the cats are hers – not ours, lol), she loves everyone who comes to visit (because of course they’ve come to visit her – why else would they be in her house?), she loves the neighbor dog (they sniff each other and sing puppy love songs through the fence), and for some strange reason, she loves cheese…

She also loves her spa day.  Which is how she got that purple bow on her ear.

She loves the doggy park, she loves car rides, and she loves – no, she LIVES FOR – her walks.  Well, she doesn’t actually walk, mind you.  She prances.

Sometimes, on her walks, she sees kitties (loves kitties!) or baby cows (loves baby cows!) or new sniff spots (loves to sniff!), and the happiness that emanates from her when she runs across these lovely things is contagious.

In a nutshell, my dog enjoys life.  And she is full of love.

She’s not perfect.  In fact, she has…  Issues.  Physically and psychologically.  She freaks out if she’s left alone for more than a few hours.  She has a deformed foot.  She has arthritis in her hips.  She is losing her hearing.  She’s not as spry as she once was.  But if anyone has ever aged gracefully, it is her.

She is a three-time veteran of the Humane Society.  She was abandoned as a puppy, given up by her first adoptive home, and left behind when her second adoptive parent took off for another country.  (Understandably, she has abandonment issues.)

Then she came to us.  She became part of our family.

She’s been ours for over six years now.  And we’ve been hers.  We love her. She’s enriched our lives.  And her attitude is admirable.

She’s taught us a few things.  About appreciating the little things; they’re actually big things.  About embracing new experiences with enthusiasm, regardless of past hurts.  About living life to the fullest.  And about love.

We all have our issues.  Pain.  Aging.  Abandonment.  We’re imperfect.  Our bodies sometimes fail us.  But despite all of this…despite our pasts, our losses, and our letdowns…we can still be enthusiastic, optimistic, and excited about life.  We can still revel in our everyday experiences.  We can still appreciate the good things in our lives.  And we can still love.  It’s a choice we make.

Sometimes people say, “Life’s a bitch.”

You know what?  That’s an incredibly positive attitude as far as I’m concerned.  Because if life is anything like my bitch, then life is all about love.  Doesn’t get much better than that.

Speak

Your low honeyed gravel voice, pitched in sunset tones against my ear, is echoed in the slow sticky molasses drip between my thighs.  Speak, love…  Talk to me.  Tell me what you think, how you feel…  School me in your desires and teach me your fears…  Speak of what has been and what will be.  Just speak, love.  Your whisper is a spark, your growl is a flame, and I am awash in the heat of you.  Please, love…  Speak.  Talk to me.  Say anything.  Anything.  Speak of Jedi Knights and Harrison Ford (yes, yes, I *know* Han Solo shot first…yeesh!) and a limping broken C3PO if you wish; the subject matters not.  It is your voice…  Only your voice…  Aural sex does not even begin to describe it.  Speak, love.  Talk to me.  Your voice is the sun, burning me from the inside out.  It is the softest breeze cooling the singe, raising goosebumps along my limbs.  It is a cleansing rain after a drought…  Wet.  I am WET.  Quivering.  Weeping.  Dripping for you.  For YOU.  Wrap yourself up in my limbs, love.  Take root in the earthy depths of my core and grow.  My breasts are your apples, the world is our orchard.  Push inside and feel me bloom.  And always, always…  Please, love…  Please, please…  Speak.

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This paragraph of erotica comes to you courtesy of Nate’s prompt, which required:

1. An apple orchard
2. A robot with a limp
3. Sunset
4. At least one famous person (alive or dead)

(Um, the prompted words are in blue.  In case you were wondering.)

I *do* so love me a creative challenge. 

P!NK

When your skin is the same color as your nipples?

Too.  Much.  Sun.

This was my Friday. 

Happy Wanton Wednesday!

Evening: Reflections and Refractions

It’s twilight now…

The sun no longer high, the temperature not exactly low…

And I find myself reflecting inward on this space between.

It’s not day, but not quite night…

A gradual time of change, moment by moment, until the sky sparkles with new light…  Dazzling silver against midnight blue.

*

I basked in the sun today…  Reveling in the warmth of the sun’s rays bathing my body with sweet kisses of heat…  Imagination drifting, yet thoughts laser-focused…  And coming a million miles a minute…

Sharing each of them, one heartbeat at a time, like so many petals unfolding.

Each idea a living thing, opening itself up to the nurturing warmth of sunshine.

*

My skin is pink.

I am glowing.

Radiant.

*

Sunshine…

Heat…

Me.