You might call it a washing machine, this kitty calls it his personal hub of warmth and comfort. Well, they do get hot after prolonged use If I fits, I sits Is that first knob actually turned on? Cats know just a few things in life, but not the dangers of falling asleep on cookers. This very cosy scene shows a clutter of ginger cats sharing the warmth of a portable heater.
This furry friend doesn't mind being dazzled by this lamp, as long as it's providing it with a consistent source of heat. This ginger and white cat has fallen fast asleep on an aptly-dubbed Thermaltake computer. Left: Radiators appear to be a hotly sought after sleeping spot in the feline world. Right: Like moths to a flame, cats will also seek out the snuggest spot. A very relaxed kitty is rudely awoke by its human while it soaks of some rays on a windowsill.
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Who said the vivarium was just for the bearded dragon? The confused reptile looks to its owner for comfort. A bemused bearded dragon demands answers as to why a huge, furry animal is squatting in his heated home.
After a hard day prowling the streets in search of mice to toy with, there's no better feeling than coming home and vegetating on top of a radiator. The box was the ideal spot for this clutter of moggied who are enjoying a group chill-out session together. Who wouldn't want a complimentary cat with their morning latte?
This cardboard holder is the purrrfect place for this kitty. These two appear to have struck up an adorable partnership on a very chilly-looking farm. Left: It is not advised that you cover games consoles with blankets, towels or cats, in order to avoid overheating.
Right: A cat exploits this computer's heat output.
Robert had gone ahead of her, not noticing what was playing out behind him. But, when Robert saw her face crumpling, a kind of magic happened. All the tension drained out of his posture; he stood up straight and wrapped his bearlike arms around her. He kissed the top of her head, and she laughed and wiped her tears away. He kissed her then, on the lips, for real; he came for her in a kind of lunging motion and practically poured his tongue down her throat. It was a terrible kiss, shockingly bad; Margot had trouble believing that a grown man could possibly be so bad at kissing. When he was done kissing her, he took her hand firmly and led her to a different bar, where there were pool tables and pinball machines and sawdust on the floor and no one checking I.
She actually was a little anxious about what to order; at the places she went to, they only carded people at the bar, so the kids who were twenty-one or had good fake I. With the drinks in front of him and the kiss behind him, and also maybe because she had cried, Robert became much more relaxed, more like the witty person she knew through his texts. He kept coming back to her initial dismissal of the movie, making jokes that glanced off it and watching her closely to see how she responded.
She was starting to think that she understood him—how sensitive he was, how easily he could be wounded—and that made her feel closer to him, and also powerful, because once she knew how to hurt him she also knew how he could be soothed. The effect of this on him was palpable and immediate, and she felt as if she were petting a large, skittish animal, like a horse or a bear, skillfully coaxing it to eat from her hand. By her third beer, she was thinking about what it would be like to have sex with Robert. Probably it would be like that bad kiss, clumsy and excessive, but imagining how excited he would be, how hungry and eager to impress her, she felt a twinge of desire pluck at her belly, as distinct and painful as the snap of an elastic band against her skin.
Outside, she presented herself to him again for kissing, but, to her surprise, he only pecked her on the mouth. She pushed her body against his, feeling tiny beside him, and he let out a great shuddering sigh, as if she were something too bright and painful to look at, and that was sexy, too, being made to feel like a kind of irresistible temptation.
Once they were inside it, though, she leaned into him again, and after a little while, by lightly pulling back when he pushed his tongue too far down her throat, she was able to get him to kiss her in the softer way that she liked, and soon after that she was straddling him, and she could feel the small log of his erection straining against his pants.
Corpse Cats And Criminals - The Reykjavik Grapevine
The house was in a pretty, wooded neighborhood not too far from campus and had a string of cheerful white fairy lights across the doorway. At the front door, he fumbled with his keys for what seemed a ridiculously long time and swore under his breath.
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She rubbed his back to try to keep the mood going, but that seemed to fluster him even more, so she stopped. The room they were in was dimly lit and full of objects, all of which, as her eyes adjusted, resolved into familiarity. He had two large, full bookcases, a shelf of vinyl records, a collection of board games, and a lot of art—or, at least, posters that had been hung in frames, instead of being tacked or taped to the wall. As she thought this, she saw that Robert was watching her closely, observing the impression the room had made. But then he was kissing her, throwing her bag and their coats on the couch and ushering her into the bedroom, groping her ass and pawing at her chest, with the avid clumsiness of that first kiss.
There was a bottle of whiskey on his dresser, and he took a swig from it, then handed it to her and kneeled down and opened his laptop, an action that confused her, until she understood that he was putting on music.
What is the Reykjavik Grapevine?
Margot sat on the bed while Robert took off his shirt and unbuckled his pants, pulling them down to his ankles before realizing that he was still wearing his shoes and bending over to untie them. Looking at him like that, so awkwardly bent, his belly thick and soft and covered with hair, Margot recoiled.
But the thought of what it would take to stop what she had set in motion was overwhelming; it would require an amount of tact and gentleness that she felt was impossible to summon. She tried to bludgeon her resistance into submission by taking a sip of the whiskey, but when he fell on top of her with those huge, sloppy kisses, his hand moving mechanically across her breasts and down to her crotch, as if he were making some perverse sign of the cross, she began to have trouble breathing and to feel that she really might not be able to go through with it after all.
Wriggling out from under the weight of him and straddling him helped, as did closing her eyes and remembering him kissing her forehead at the 7-Eleven. Encouraged by her progress, she pulled her shirt up over her head. Robert reached up and scooped her breast out of her bra, so that it jutted half in and half out of the cup, and rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
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This was uncomfortable, so she leaned forward, pushing herself into his hand. He looked stunned and stupid with pleasure, like a milk-drunk baby, and she thought that maybe this was what she loved most about sex—a guy revealed like that. Robert showed her more open need than any of the others, even though he was older, and must have seen more breasts, more bodies, than they had—but maybe that was part of it for him, the fact that he was older, and she was young.
As they kissed, she found herself carried away by a fantasy of such pure ego that she could hardly admit even to herself that she was having it.
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