Liberator Wanda, The Mistress of Mississauga, and a good laugh!
Bridgeting the Gap
DooneLetter - Spring 2024

Hello Friends! Hope this newsletter finds you well. We’ve had a wonderful winter and spring here on the Space Coast, but the heat is rising and I’ll soon be seeking cooler temperatures in the north and west. But whatever the weather outside, know that I’m keeping it steamy, right here, for you. Here’s what to expect in this issue:

As is typical, I begin with Sex and Sensibility, which is where I talk about whatever is on my mind, of a sexual nature of course. This time, I’ll be describing what I consider to be the single best product for female sexual satisfaction, either solo or with a partner, and ESPECIALLY if you’re on the north side of 50. And NO, I’m not being paid for this endorsement. Just knowing how transformative this advice may be for both men and women, is consideration enough for me.

In the For Your Eyes First section, I was planning to continue with excerpts from my Golf Match story; I’ve only one more chapter to write. But as is my bad habit, I’ve started another story before finishing that one, and that’s what I’m so excited to share with you. The Mistress of Mississauga is a tale of a mild-mannered family man who wanders from the straight and narrow and finds himself caught up in international intrigue. It will be one of three stories of a darker nature - novella noir, if you will - that will be published in the second volume of Erotica for the Refined Palate. I hope you enjoy the first two chapters included here.


Finally, in the Not Tonight Fellas, I’m Just Here to Get Drunk, section, I’ll top you off with one of my favorite jokes. The older you are, the more you’ll like it.


And away we go . . .

Sex and Sensibility

This is the Liberator Wanda - a comfortable contoured support for hands-free stimulation.

It’s typically marketed for use with a Hitachi Magic Wand, which drops into the hole and provides clitoral stimulation while riding in either direction, solo or dog fashion. However, that’s a very limited description of its capabilities. In fact, I don’t even own a Hitachi, as it is far too powerful for lil’ ol’ me. I prefer gentle persuasion, rather than a brute force attack.

Anyhoo, that hole can hold other devices. Realize, though, it goes all the way through to the bottom, so to work with most vibrators, which are far smaller than the Hitachi, you will need to shove some socks in there first.

In addition to vibrators, dildos with 2 to 2.5 inch flanges stay secure when the base is pushed into the top of the hole - no socks required - allowing the ladies all the fun of cowgirling it, without a person below. If there are two of you, this pillow makes the bow-wow so much better - easier on the knees and back. And if you’re into some bum fun, it’s perfect for double penetration without inviting a third person into the action.

Into fellatio? I know, that’s a stupid question, but how about a little sompin’ sompin’ for yourself while you’re paying the bills? Simply mount the pillow on the floor while you J. Edgar Hoover whoever is in the chair in front of you. Perhaps you’re a seafood lover, doesn’t matter; you can receive while giving, and without the distracting acrobatics required in a 69 - that’s for younger, thinner, more flexible folks.

I remember the last time someone suggested a 69 to me, I said, “How about a 68? I’ll go down on you and you can owe me one.”

The only drawbacks I see with this pillow is the price, which is about 100 bucks, and the fact that I can’t get it past TSA without some embarrassing inquiry. At home, I store it behind a corner chair so the maid doesn’t stumble upon it with the vacuum cleaner. Obviously, I'm assuming the maid is not a subscriber to this newsletter.

So ladies, I believe I’ve made my case for the Liberator Wanda; truly a supportive friend you will value for years to cum. And gentlemen, this is a thoughtful gift for which you will be thanked multiple-O times, and depending on how adventurous you are, you just might want to High-Ho Silver on it yourself.

For Your Eyes First

The Mistress of Mississauga
Chapter 1: Lloyd Danvers

“Thanks again, Chief!” shouted Lloyd Danvers as he left the beach to walk the short distance to his bungalow. He was plumb worn out and waterlogged after a day of pre-planned waterfront activities and anxious for some alone time. Lloyd was one of only two salesmen at ToneDef Communications honored that year with a week at the Clitz Royal Resort in Grand Cayman. Known facetiously as Club Davos for the abundance of top political figures, CEOs, and Hollywood elite who traveled there to see and be seen, Lloyd found the environment and its clientèle overly pretentious. Nonetheless, the allure of the luxurious accommodations was undeniable.

This visit, his third, he was a 5th wheel. Sharon had been overwhelmed with a bathroom remodel and had stayed back home in Scarborough, leaving Lloyd to spend his days with one of his entourage: his boss, the boss’s wife, his rival Chad, and Chad’s girlfriend-in-progress. As for late afternoons such as this one, it was typically just Lloyd and his left hand, then a catnap before dinner. Today, however, was an exception to the rule, for when Lloyd unlocked his Hacienda-style front door, he thought he heard giggling buoyant on the private saltwater pool just beyond his lanai. He grabbed a cold beer on his way to investigate, and shortly thereafter, his suspicion was confirmed.


Waist deep in the pool with a lavender martini perched in her piano fingers was Lloyd’s Mistress of Mississauga, as he called her, and if that wasn’t surprising enough, she had company.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“You told me your wife wasn’t coming, so I thought I’d surprise you.”

Kerry placed her plastic martini glass on the edge of the pool at Lloyd’s feet and twisted her long fawn mane high on her head to better secure it with the wide-toothed comb, while Lloyd gazed down into the deep gorge formed by the compression of her cowajungas by the balconette bikini.  

“You know Dragana, of course,” she said, smiling up at him with an exaggerated wink, as if to suggest he had locked legs and swapped gravy with the woman he now recognized as one of the resort staff. Tall, very thin, and surprisingly pale, with a stylish black satin bob, cut shorter in the back and angled to the front, she wasn’t Mexican like most of the menial workers; she was some sort of European transplant who worked in the front office and wore tropic-casual attire, rather than a uniform. Regardless, he’d had only minimal contact with her and it had been strictly business.

“She let me in,” Kerry added.

Ciao, Monsieur Danvers,” said Dragana, addressing Lloyd in the disparate dialects, “You no mind?”

Of course he didn’t mind, well, notwithstanding the worry his boss would discover the subterfuge; that would be a disaster of extraordinary magnitude. Their wives were tennis partners; there would be no way to protect Sharon from the scandal, and having been duly embarrassed, she would be compelled to divorce Lloyd just to save face. As for Chad, he’d love nothing better than to see Lloyd lose his job so that The Chadster could turn his #2 salesman jersey in for #1.

All torqued up with the pessimistic possibilities, Lloyd plopped on the edge of the pool and took a long draw of his beer to settle himself. Then realizing he had over-reacted, as he was inclined to do, he talked himself out of the scary scenario he had just conjured. He was pleased his paramour was about to be under him, and it was just for one night; he was headed home tomorrow. If he could just get rid of this office manager person, he and Kerry could get in a quickie before dinner, then he’d make up some excuse to get back here early and bed her again for the night - the ENTIRE night. For obvious reasons, that was nearly impossible to negotiate back home, and knowing it was now in the cards had Lloyd hardening with new optimism.

“So Dragana,” he asked, interrupting the chitchat, “Who’s minding the office?”

“Arturo,” she answered, then proceeded to explain just who this Arturo fellow was in broken English mixed up with some Spanish, which she appeared to speak with more proficiency. But it may as well have been Maltese since it all sounded like gibberish to Lloyd.

“She’s off the clock,” said Kerry, disappointing him with the translation, for he wanted Dragana gone, so he could cream the Twinkie with Kerry.

Just then the mid-afternoon sun broke over the west end of the bungalow, flood-lighting the outdoor space and prompting Lloyd to lower his Maui Jims. He labored to his feet, wincing with the painful ping in his left knee, leftover from the knee surgery two years previous.

“Can I get you ladies anything while I’m up?” he asked, just out of politeness - he didn’t really mean it.

Dragana pointed to a bottle of sunscreen on a chaise next to the pool. Lloyd held it up for her consideration, and when she nodded, he threw it into the water in her direction, prompting a thumbs up. Her gestured instruction had come through loud and clear, and Lloyd felt lucky the lotion was all she wanted and she hadn’t attempted to describe some fancy umbrella drink in Spanglish.

Having limped to the kitchen, he poured out the last half-inch of his flat, warm beer, then rested his palm on the cool concrete counter and watched Kerry through the window as she smoothed the sunscreen over her sun-kissed shoulders. Damn, she was hot, and for some inexplicable reason, she was all his. Theirs had been such an easy, uncomplicated relationship, from the moment the young doe-eyed beauty had taken up residence on the barstool beside him at Toronto’s Festival of Brews.

Kerry Coltrane was a successful freelance clothing designer, working with luxury fashion houses - Gucci, Prada, Armani and the like. She was powerfully engaging and dangerously charismatic, and in spite of the obvious age disparity, they had a lot more in common than just beer. The hours flew by unnoticed, and when she peered through Lloyd’s nerd-black glasses to gaze into his admiring eyes, and leaned in for an Eskimo kiss, it didn’t matter the festival was over, because he knew they weren't.

And so, after texting Sharon to tell her he was too drunk to drive home and was staying at a downtown hotel, he spent the night with Kerry at her condo in Mississauga. It began as benign as it could have in those circumstances: a whiskey nightcap accompanied by some light touching and soft kisses on the couch, but not surprisingly, it bloomed into rapacious rub-a-dubbery, then a straddle, some titty badgering, and finally a BJ in her bed while her Westie, Wagyu, looked on.

In the past, Lloyd had avoided the seduction of a sidepiece, as any such temptation ended with a recall of that bunny boiling on the stove in the movie, Fatal Attraction. But now, three years after he succumbed to Kerry’s indecent proposal, he had the combo to her condo, a garage door opener, and he was the dog’s best friend.

Per their routine, Lloyd would leave work early on Wednesdays and spend the afternoon in her bed, in her arms, and between her legs - it was literally a hump day - then a nap, a homemade meal, and the half-hour drive back home. Kerry was quite comfortable with the arrangement; there were no arguments and no demands. As for Sharon, she never questioned Lloyd’s loyalty, probably because there was no indication he wasn’t. He labored long and hard for the benefit of their expanding family, when he could have retired years ago. So, it was fine with her if he wanted to blow off steam once a week after work. Obviously, she didn’t know it was Lloyd who was getting blown, and as far as he was concerned, she never would.

Just then Lloyd felt a tingle in his trunks, and he realized he needed to get out there and move things along. In just over an hour, he’d have to report for pre-dinner refreshments, and Kerry wouldn’t be on the menu until much later - a torturous delay for the dessert he hungered for right now. He hobbled down the hall to the bathroom to retrieve a little blue pill, then stepped back out onto the lanai with a cold Modelo Negra in hand.

“DO me,” said Dragana, provoking a chuckle from Lloyd as he took up his previous position on the pool edge. Obviously, she meant  “Do ME,” but had placed the emphasis on the wrong word.

“Sure,” said Kerry, taking her meaning.

Dragana tilted her head forward and untied the bikini top from behind her neck. The tiny triangle cups fell onto her sunken tummy, exposing her teacup titties with the dark chocolate nipples. Lloyd stifled a gasp and his mind immediately got way ahead of himself as it often did. Had he miscalculated the group dynamic? Would he be expected to perform in some fashion foreign to him and his arthritic frame?

Then, as was typical, he talked himself down from the ledge. After all, he and Kerry had a simple, straight-forward extramarital affair going. She wasn’t interested in anyone else - she called him Boyfriend - and when it came to sex, she’d never expressed any desire to go beyond the conventional. She was strictly vanilla, and that was how Lloyd liked his ice cream. But when Dragana’s size 2 bikini top was ceremoniously cast off and landed in Lloyd’s lap, the fight-or-flight response washed over him once again, and this time justifiably so.

Oh shit it’s really happening, he fretted, as he did his best to appear only casually interested in Kerry’s hands, as they creamed up Dragana’s alabaster body and toyed with her Tippi Hedrens.

Clearly this was no longer about sun protection.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm,” Dragana moaned, then she turned to face Kerry and kissed her - a quiet, friendly invitation - to which Kerry RSVP’d aggressively in the affirmative, unleashing a tempestuous tongue tussle and underwater exploration of each other’s abyss.

Now many a man would have jumped into the pool just then and joined in the jiggery pokery, but the escalating passion playing out just five feet in front of him made Lloyd uncomfortable, both with Kerry’s surprising acceptance of it, and with the uncertainty of what he was supposed to do about it. Even if he could perform under such pressure, in less than half an hour he was expected at the bar by his overbearing boss.

Then suddenly, the wanton water aerobics was over and Dragana swam to the other side of the pool. She hoisted herself onto the lip of it, her double-A’s down on the deck, her achromatic ass in the air, as she attempted to get to her feet. But Kerry swam after her, yanked her bikini bottoms off, and spanked her. SLAP! SLAP!! SLAP!!! SLAP!!!!

To say that Dragana enjoyed the unnecessary roughness would be a vast understatement. She squealed with delight, then let loose with a string of syllables in what sounded like Swahili.

One thing was for certain: Dragana was capable of saying Yes in many languages.  

She pulled herself out of the pool, her imposing ebony bush dense enough to house a flock of sparrows.

"You!" she ordered, come-hithering him, as she got on all fours on the oversized cabana bed. “You!” she repeated, pointing at Kerry. 

Lloyd was confused by the one-word command, but as before, and strangely enough, Kerry appeared to know exactly what to do. She climbed up the pool steps, dug around in a duffel bag, and drew out a 9-inch rubber peter mounted in a harness.  

OUCH! thought Lloyd.  

“Come, come, Herr Danvers,” said Dragana, as Kerry suited up in the strap-on and got on her knees behind her. 

Lloyd looked at his watch and frowned; there was no damn way - there just wasn’t enough time. Plus the whole scene was surreal. It felt wrong - OK, just more wrong than he was used to - but more importantly, it felt dangerous. 

“Sorry ladies,” he said, waving them off, “I really need to get ready for dinner.” 

“Oh, come on, Lloyd,” said Kerry, coyly cocking her head, “Live a little. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Was it? Lloyd wasn’t so sure. Until today, he didn’t think this was even possible. Now, everything he thought he knew about Kerry was in question. How could she be so explicitly intimate with this woman - this stranger? Had she been doing this kind of thing all along? Maybe he wasn’t her one-and-only after all. He needed an explanation, but that would have to wait.

“I can’t be late,” he said, easing into the pool for a quick cool-off and to reset himself. He took a deep breath, submerged to the bottom, and gazed up through the glassy surface as it stilled overhead. Gradually, the blurry spectacle of his mistress graciously moving up and down over the overzealous office manager, came into focus. Unexpectedly, and despite his reservations, it stirred him, and when he popped up for a breath, the sensual sound of their carnal encounter wafted over the water, compelling him to swim towards it. He found the steps, started up them, then stopped, stunned, as he watched the two women make love. It was as erotically hypnotic as anything he’d ever witnessed - a gloriously choreographed sapphic ballet that rendered him spellbound.

And then it didn’t matter what time it was, because Lloyd had lost any awareness of it. All of his resources had high-tailed it to his pecker and he was harder than high-carbon steel. He zombied to the side of the cabana bed, closed his eyes, and felt the gravitational force of the feminine seduction draw him into their dance - the powerful essence of their salty sweaty sex acting on him like a drug, slowing and exaggerating every sensation: Kerry’s soft hands on his bare chest guiding him onto his back, her deep-throated purr in his ear, reassuring him, while Dragana drifted to her knees, her staccato nails trailing down his legs as she dragged his swim shorts to the deck.

Ohhhhhhh fuuuuuuuuck yessssss,” he exhaled, hearing the words echo back with the ebb and flow of his hips, as Kerry’s mouth moved south to maul his length, and Dragana ministered to his sac of marbles and massaged his sacred spot. Delirious with the double-teaming, Lloyd inched his way to what he knew would be a cacophonous climax, and when he finally hit that high note, the vibration from his operatic wail almost blew the canopy clear off its fragile bamboo supports.

“KERRY! KERRY! KERRY!” he cried out, as if he had lost her in a crowd. It was the last thing Lloyd remembered before his senses overwhelmed him and he shut down.


Chapter 2: The Chadster

“Well, is he OK?” barked the boss, snapping his napkin into his lap. 

“Oh yeah,” said Chad, with a flick of his wrist, “He’s fine - just running late. He fell asleep.” 

Chad took his customary seat and picked up his menu, but having been walloped with what he had just witnessed, was unable to focus on the evening’s offerings. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it, but holy fuck, he had stumbled on the mother lode of inside information - this was GOLD! And of all people, Lloyd Danvers? Lloyd fucking DANVERS?! The mildest of mannered men, getting a double blowie, and during a company-sponsored vacation with the boss? Had he lost his frickin’ mind?! 

“And for you, Sir?” 

Chad peered up at the server and passed the menu to him.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said, pointing at his girlfriend, Shenice, “and a Captain Morgan and Diet Coke.”

And who were those women, anyway? He wondered. Prostitutes most likely. I mean, who’s going to suck Lloyd’s dick for free? He’d be lucky to get a B-day BJ from his wife. That’s why The Chadster stayed single. When the BJs stopped coming, he just traded up to a new pair of tits. He had to admit, though, he’d never had two babes on the bag.  

Fucking Lloyd Danvers.

And thirty minutes later, Fucking Lloyd Danvers appeared - in the day’s dirty shorts, a wrinkled teeshirt inside out, mandals, and his gray hair Alfalfa-ed atop his sweaty head.

“Jesus, Lloyd,” decried the boss, “You look like a clown’s day off.”

“LOL Chief,” blurted Chad, slapping the table and causing the cutlery to rattle against the empty plates.

“Sorry,” said Lloyd, taking his seat, “I didn’t have time to clean up. I must have been terribly tired. I fell asleep and slept right through the alarm.”

“Yes, I know. Chad told us all about it,” said the boss. He raised his arm and waved the server over.

“What can I get for you, Sir?” the waiter asked, but Lloyd had been left speechless by the boss’s revelation, and after more than a few moments of awkward silence, Chad took the helm.

“He’ll have the onion-crusted grouper,” he ordered, relishing Lloyd’s unease, and Lloyd nodded a weak approval.

“Have you talked to Sharon?” asked Winona, “I hope she registered us for that charity tennis tournament next week. I texted her, but she hasn’t confirmed.”

Lloyd attempted to carry on a coherent conversation with the boss’s wife, when it was obvious his mind was otherwise occupied with the possibly dire consequences of his poolside pole varnishing. Chad, chin in hand, studied the struggle with great pleasure.

“Listen, Lloyd,” said the boss, interrupting his wife, “Chad and I have been discussing who will take the lead on the Freedonia proposal. You’re the expert on the Hawker II; I’m assuming you want it.”

But rather than responding with the perfunctory Yes that everyone expected, Lloyd appeared pensive, as he sipped his Chardonnay and carefully considered his answer. He threw a side-eye at Chad, who winked at him on the sly.

“If you want it, Chad, you can have it,” he said, matter-of-fact.

The boss drew in his chin and furrowed his brow.

“Are you sure, Lloyd?” he asked, “I know you’re busy, but this is a big fucking deal. Regardless of what they say they want now, Freedonia is tripling their military budget. If we can get a foothold, it’s likely we can sell them thousands of Hawkers, and it may be possible to up-sell them on the Eagle down the road.”

Ho-lee-SHIT! thought Chad. Lloyd knows I know and he’s throwing me a bone - a BIG one. Question is, do I want to use my leverage right now? The effort I’d have to put in to get up to speed on the Hawker II radio would be substantial, and I don’t know crap-all about the new Eagle series.

“No, no,” said Chad, shaking his head and slapping Lloyd’s back, “You’re the expert, Lloyd; you earned it. I’m happy being Number 2 . . . for now.”

Another surreptitious wink.

“Well, it’s our last night here,” he added, rubbing his hands together gaily, “Shall we dance the night away, ladies? What do you say, Chief?”

“Sure, why not,” said the boss. “Go get yourself cleaned up, Danvers.”

Lloyd stood and pushed his chair under the table.

“Thanks boss, I don’t think so,” he said, quietly.

“Why not, Lloyd?” asked Chad, “It’s not like you’ve got anything going on back at the bungalow.” He bit his bottom lip, barely able to contain himself. “Come on, get dressed, and we’ll see if we can scare up some girlie action for you.”

“Stop it, Chad,” said Shenice, playfully punching him in the shoulder.

Winona laughed.

“I don’t think we need to worry about straight-laced Lloyd,” she said, taking her husband’s hand and standing, “His nose is so clean, you could eat off it.”

“Thanks for that, Winona,” said Lloyd, with a soft smile, “but I’m going to have to decline the invitation. I’m beat. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

He took three steps back, waved, then waddled away.

“Wait up!” yelled Chad, hop-skipping to catch him, “I want to ask you about a couple things.”

Chad expected the brush-off, but Lloyd surprised him.

“Sure,” he said, friendly, “Just need to take it slow; my knees are killing me.”

“I’ll bet,” said Chad, with a chuckle.

But as soon as they were out of sight, Lloyd turned on him.

“What else do you want, Chad?” he growled, “I offered you the Freedonia gig; why didn’t you take it?”

His dour demeanor caught Chad off-guard. He may have been a lot older and physically far worse off than Chad, who was the company pickleball champion, but like a snake cornered and coiled up in the garage, Lloyd was on the defense and poised to strike.

“Relax pal,” said Chad, with a lazy grin, “I just wanted you to know your secret’s safe with me, that’s all.”

But Chad’s guarantee sounded disingenuous, because it was, so it did little to ease the tension manifested in Lloyd’s jaw.

“No really, I mean it,” Chad added, putting his arm around Lloyd and walking him towards the bungalow of ill repute, “and even if I told someone, they wouldn’t believe it. Hell, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, I wouldn’t have believed it either. Lloyd Danvers - a dirty old man. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Chad’s cheeriness was short-lived. Lloyd grabbed him by his seersucker button-down and balled his fist up under Chad’s dimpled chin.

“Don’t you ever call me that again, you pompous prick.”

Then Lloyd let go of the would-be blackmailer with a persuasive push, sending Chad ass-over-teakettle down a manicured mound of grass where he came to rest under an Angel Trumpet tree. Covered in mulch, he managed to crawl his way back up to the cart path, relieved to find that Lloyd was long gone.

To be continued . . .

Not Tonight Fellas, I'm Just Here to Get Drunk

A fertility doctor is surprised to find a very elderly couple waiting for him in one of the examination rooms. The 90-year old man introduces himself and his new 85-year old bride. The doctor says congratulations, but is confused as to why they are there.

“We want to have a baby,” says the old man.

The doctor laughs.

“You must be joking,” he says. “That’s impossible.”

The old man takes offense.

“I watch the news!” he yells, “and from what I hear, women can become men, and men can become women - and even get pregnant, so don’t tell me what’s possible and what isn’t. You just do your job!”

After a contentious back-and-forth, the doctor just wants to get rid of them, and so he gives in.

“All right. I’ll need a specimen,” he says, passing a sterile container to the old man, “Bring it back tomorrow.”

The doctor hopes that’s the end of it, but the next morning, the same old couple is waiting for him in the same examination room.

“Well?” he asks, “Do you have the specimen?”

The old geezer hands the container to the doctor, who takes it from him and holds it up to the light.

“There’s nothing in here,” he says, stifling a smirk.

“Well I tried,” says the old man, “I tried with my right hand. I tried with my left hand.”

He points to his wife.

“My wife tried with both hands. She tried with her teeth in - she tried with her teeth out.”

The wife nods.

“But no matter how hard we tried,” he says, “We just couldn’t get the top off that jar.”

Well, that’s it for the Spring 2024 newsletter. There’s plenty more about me and my writings on my website, as well as TikTok and YouTube. Also, I’m always looking for Dear Bridget letters that I can share with my readers and listeners. Email me with just about anything at

Until next time, MWAH!


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Copyright 2024 Bridget Doone