I love the thwap of the newspaper landing in the yard before the sun comes up. I was out walking Angel this morning and saw the newspaper guy for the first time in a long time. When I was smoking, I'd see him almost daily because I'd be out on the front porch with a cigarette when he came by. I'd run up to his truck and take the paper from his hand. Comment on the weather and his schedule. I miss that.

I went to bed last night with lower back crampiness, one of the few signs I get that maybe I'll start bleeding soon. I never know for sure. But Molly waking me up by sticking her paw under the bedroom door and pulling on it every three minutes, making it go thwump thwump thwump thwump, was not the best cat decision ever made. After about 18 sets of thwumps I was ready to kill her. I shot out of bed, burst through the door, snatched her up and shut her in the bathroom. And when it was finally time to actually wake up, about ten minutes later, she did not get breakfast. Lest anyone feel sorry for my cat, don't. She weighs about 45 pounds, mostly because over the span of her lifetime as an office cat (ret. 2000), she perfected the art of being annoying enough to force humans to give her extra food.

The bright spot of my work day was a French guy who pointed me to his photos�a few really good, most a little cheesey�but this is the one that made me grin.

The low-point was my high hopes for a real Italian sub place dashed to pieces in an unfortunate lunch incident. And people wonder why I always eat lunch at the two places I know I like instead of trying anything new. Okay, so maybe people don't wonder that. Anyway, there's a new restaurant in the food court. I had an awesome hamburger served on toast and really good fries yesterday. They have Italian sandwiches too, with Italian names, featuring meats that end in vowels. The cashier has a New York accent. I thought this time it might be real. *sniff* A real Italian sub, as I've only dreamed of and read about in books ... and heard about time and time again from Sara, who used to live in Philly, and Jake, who has visited there and experienced the real Italian sub.

But no. This sandwich was large, but a pathetic imposter. It was not served on a crusty roll, but something that is only best described as a long bun shaped like a roll. There was no spice to it. It was Anglo in the extreme. Poor sandwich. In fact, that's basically what it was�a cold cut po-boy with mustard and mayo and a touch of oil and vinegar just to seal its pretender fate. Half of it is sitting in the fridge at work where it may die a horrible, slimy sandwich death for all I care. Die, you three-dollars-worth of leftover bad sandwich.

Another highlight of the day: got a picture of TLH's bling bling. Yeah, she did good, if you care about that kind of thing.

You don't usually get to read about my sex life with Deb, but this is sort of a special time, so with Deb's permission, I'm making an exception for October.

Deb brought in October with a bang and not a whimper. Well, there was some whimpering�but the good kind. She felt like a flogging and I really felt like obliging. The attic was hot, so we cranked the fan way up and opened all the windows. After just a little kissing and holding, Deb was stripped down and hugging the cross and ready to go.

I love rubbing the flogger over her back. I love her back. Deb has a broad, strong back that's athletic in the way of someone who uses their back to work on a daily basis, not like someone who works out daily just to look good. Her muscles rise on either side of her spine, forming a deep furrow. I aim the flogger for the planes of muscle across her shoulderblades.

She took a hard flogging. Really hard. At the end, I was going up on my toes to get a higher downswing. I don't think it made a big difference, but it felt big to me. Cruel. Magnificent. Arousing. I could barely hear her sobbing gasps over the noise of the fan. And in between sets of hits, I was inside her. And she pushed her ass out to meet me.

Eventually she'd had enough and I helped her to the bed where she could relax and come hard. Then we held onto each other and dozed for a while. This was all before dinner, which Deb had planned to make. After the fucking she decided she didn't feel so much like cooking anymore. I went downstairs and treated myself to a salad and leftover Chinese. She stayed up in the attic and napped for half an hour.

No casualties.

When Sara sleeps, she's hot. Like a radiator hot. I put my glasses on the bedside table and moved in close next to her. Smelled her. Let the weight of my body ease into her. Absorbed heat from her.

I wanted to feed. I kissed her. Her cheek, her chin, her ear, her neck. I crawled under the covers ground my hard cock up against her ass and smiled as her body responded. I ran my hand through her hair and took a handful. She responded to that, too, sucking in a deep breath.

"Even unconscious, El, your instinct is to act like food."

I was impatient. I slid her panties off and started to fuck her. Damn, it had been too long. Or at least it felt like it. I knew I couldn't get away with using my hand for long without trashing the bed, so I took out my cock, rolled on a condom and sank into her. It felt so good to see that peaceful, blissed out look she gets just before we start to really churn.

I set out a towel and bed pad and went to work with my hand again, and this time we didn't have to worry about the sheets. Splash. Heavy splash. About five pounds worth of splash. Ungh.

But we have to pace ourselves. I have to pace myself so her body can last all month. Okay, one more orgasm, but that's it.

It's going to be a goooooood month.

Casualties: one condom, two towels, one bed pad. Sheets survived.