Well, well, it takes a while to accommodate the audience with the combined term of cougar-bunny. And now, suddenly, I throw a new variation on the market: the cougar-bee. Should I explain myself? Don’t think so, it’s just a game of words.
The happening is that Doris was hit by another wet nightmare. See? In men these are called wet dreams, but my woman perceives them as nightmares. Can’t tell if any manly nightly utopia returns a dystopia in any woman. Seems, according to her confessions, that only when she sees and senses me working on her pleasure, be it day or night, be it tangible fact or dreamable fiction, only then she feels good about it. She once dreamed about strolling naked without problems in a public place full of male friends of ours. That was another nightmare, according to her. Another night, she dreamed how I fuck her, toes in sea, on an idyllic beach, no friends or otherwise in range. That, she declared, was one of her most romantic dreams. And I’ll materialize it with the first occasion. Promise! First thing first would be taking us to the seaside. Us alone, like when we remain home alone, no kids, and this is the toughest part.
To my analytic guessing, Doris’ subconscious indicates that while the exhibitionist triumphs by day, the cornered prude in her rings the bells by night. Not to ignore the Godzilla in the room, the amount of stress brought on her by the kids creates a considerable tension. This can’t be addressed and dissipated by the restrictive prude. Hence she will often claim her cougar roar late in the mornings, just after sending the kids to school. Thursday morning, after a haunted sleep, after the usual stress with the young ones, after breakfast and the sixty-nine plus missionary dessert, Susan, from the neighboring boutique, gives her a few blouses. I picked the shirt with a happy bee on it and asked Doris if she wants to buzz the lawn mower for the camera. She was game. Let me show you!