I’m afraid of jinxing it.

I’m afraid of jinxing it, but I am bursting with words.  I have been hiding from the blog for fear that if I lay letters down here my men will whittle away with each click.  I don’t want them to disappear.  Not yet.  I’m not finished with any of them — there are possibly more lurking that I will continue to keep close to my breast.  I don’t want to lose any of them.

::

My thighs cradled him as he pumped deeply into me, his kisses deep and fervent.  Somehow he managed to hold himself up and reach around my bottom, shift my flesh and slip a strong finger into my asshole.  I cried out and ground down hard on him, clutched at every sinewy, flexing muscle I could.  He growled in my ear.

His room was dark, no nerdy light show this time, and my body fell into a black abyss of sensation which centered on me, like an undulating chocolate fountain, never ending.

His finger remained lodged in me, his cock a hard, fleshy piston, my body a reactive live wire.  I came hard and melted beneath him.

He freed his hand and slammed into me but with a strange cadence.  “No,” I pleaded, “Don’t stop there.  More.  All the way.”  He plunged in deeply now again and again.  Then stopped short again, seemingly oblivious.  “NOOOOO,” I said again.  “All the way.  Please.”

Again he buried himself in me and I rewarded us both with a clawing, mewling climax.   “Thank you,” I breathed into his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

I caught my breath and rolled over onto all fours.  “Fuck me in my ass,” I said.  I arched my back and wagged my behind.  I imagined they looked like two pale moons  in the dim light.

He pet my sopping pussy and dragged its wetness to my other hole and pushed his meat in.  Slowly, naughtily.  Good girls don’t get fucked in the ass.  Or is it God girls?

He moved gingerly at first until it felt too good to hold back.  He gripped my hips like he meant it this time, nothing soft about his touch.  I didn’t cringe now like I did when he first touched me.  I can’t do light touch.  It makes me want to vomit and run and hide.  I didn’t want to hide now.

I came from just the thought of how filthy we were, how dirty.  Two otherwise upstanding citizens doing this disgusting thing.  I loved it.  And I loved hearing him unravel behind me.  He came for a second time.

Earlier in the night we’d met for dinner near his house.  It’s our 4th date this go around, the first go around having happened in 2015 followed by a two year gap.  We have a little script we follow now.  First drinks, then dinner, back to his place for a little more imbibing, then up to his room where our limbs entwine and he drives into my body.

I enjoy his company immensely: he’s smart, liberal, ridiculously complimentary, generous.  He takes me to the nicest restaurants and buys me stupid-fancy hipster cocktails.  He also plays with my asshole.  I dig him.

::

Hands bound above his head, blindfolded, he lay on his side.  The belt cracked on the bright pink X I had drawn on his right cheek.  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he gritted out.

Crack, crack, crack!

Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am.

I’d opened the door to this tall blond man wearing leather and a blast of cold air.  “Ignore the dog,” I said.  It came out throaty, bossy.

He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.  I raised up on my toes and put my arms around his neck and kissed his cold face.  He tasted faintly of tobacco.

I drew him with me as I fell against the wall behind the door and wrapped his hair in my fingers.  I pulled him off my lips and pushed him down to my breasts.  He dropped to his knees and peeled off my clothes, a cardigan, black velvet boy shorts and a black camisole.  I silently laughed how my thoughtful choice of clothing was not noticed.

He hunkered lower and latched on to my pussy, now eye-level.  I held on to the wall for support, and his chin-length hair.  I let my big lover worship me from his knees for a minute, two, before I pulled him up and undressed him, and led him into my room cast in a cool afternoon light.

I would tie him up, light a candle, draw on him, slip his tiny dark pink nipples between the tines of golden bobby pins, and straddle him as I rode him.  I’d push a pale pink butt plug into his tight little hole, then later my finger, and I’d slurp him up until he’d say, “I’m at a 7, Ma’am,” breathless and with some apprehension.  He was not allowed to cum and did not want to displease me.

Writhing on top of him like a wicked little girl on her wicked little pony I flicked his nipples and held on as he bucked his hips.  What a deliciously good boy he was.  As I drew closer to orgasm I flicked faster imagining the tip of his cock somewhere near my sternum; I was riding a bronco, not a pony.  My hands went numb and my scalp tingled.  It was time to burst through the surface of the water.

I pressed the Hitachi against us both and told him to hold still, to only twitch inside of me.  I felt the pressure swirl somewhere down low and begin to build, stars pressed against my eyes with each blink.  “Ok,” I whispered.  “You may cum now.”

He moved like a healed man on godly legs, wild and desperate.  I stared at his blindfolded face and the jagged grimace that told me he was completely in his body, in me, in us.  He told me he was going to cum peppered with random Ma’am’s and I told him I was cumming, too.  And then we cried out together and I gulped big gulps of air, desperate, dying, living.  He keened his pleasure then lay still, vibrating a little.

I kissed his lips and resituated his blindfold, traced the starbursts I’d drawn around his nipples, now plump and dark rose with life.  He hissed.  “Those are very sensitive, Ma’am.”

“Good.”  I flicked them both.

I came again, even bigger than the first, with him soft and spent in a little pile of flesh beneath me, still safely wrapped in the condom.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ejaculated he said.  I climbed off of him and investigated.  The condom was full.

“Wow,” he chuckled.  “It was an all-body orgasm; I couldn’t tell.”  I wondered silently if it could be said he just had a “female orgasm.”  I could hardly spell my name.

I remounted him, carefully, and removed the blindfold.  I felt shy.  This was the transition back to Hy and him.  Not Ma’am and him.  I talked him through my removal of the bobby pins and pressed firmly with my palm, told him to breathe.  Men are such babies, I thought.

I slowly untied the black neck tie from one of my blouses from around his neck, ceremoniously, and lay down in his crook.  We talked about what we’d just experienced like we were excited children after their first roller coaster ride.

I had to leave in 45 minutes to get my baby from school, he had to leave in 45 minutes to go to work.  “Let’s go sit on my couch,” I said.  I gathered my clothes from the pool of fabric by the front door and dressed.  He plopped down next to me and I put my feet in his lap.  “There’s lotion,” I motioned to the bottle I had ready on the table.

He massaged my feet until we had to go; we kissed and hugged at the door, told each other we looked forward to next time.  I dig him.

 

 

Friday, December 8th, is Boobday!

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I am not kidding – time is WHARPING by.  How the ever loving fuck has an entire week flown by already?!  I only did last week’s Boobday yesterday!

Anyway, here are my Christmas tits and some lovely tatas from Annie Savoy (one of my fav movie heroines ever, btw).  I hope you all have a great weekend!

I hope to actually write some real shit some day soon.  But don’t worry, all is well in my world.  I’ve just not carved out time to write.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

What a fortuitous light flair.

NOT my tits:

I need this bra of Annie’s stat.

No one worth possessing

Can quite be possessed;

Lay that on your heart,

My angry young dear.

–       Sara Teasdale

 


Friday, December 1st, is Boobday!

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It’s a miracle I survived this week.  I know I say it every week, but it’s true: I have been so fucking busy.  When Peyton is with my ex I work much longer hours and try to squeeze in something social on the nights I’m not working late.  It means I wake up exhausted with just enough in me to post to Instagram and run off for the day. I nearly missed waking up Tuesday morning because I’d fallen asleep while trying to set my alarm.  I felt like a toddler falling asleep in her spaghetti.

I may be largely absent from this space from time to time, but my need to connect and be out there and share myself with the anonymous world is still alive and well via IG.  There’s a WordPress plugin that connects IG to a blog, but because my material is more “adult” the plugin repeatedly drops me – fuckers.  I’ll try and figure something out because I hate all the blank space I leave here.

Anyhoo, on with our lovely hotties for the week!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

Just bending the light.

NOT my tits:

Annie all in white, like a pearl in the snow.
In my sex fantasy, no one ever loves me for my mind.
– Nora Ephron
::
I feel Sandy.

Just a lazy “post traveling for the holidays” day.

::

 


Friday, November 24th, is Boobday!

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I can hear the Pacific ocean in the distance and children chattering happily. Yesterday was a long haul of constant cooking and cleaning and negotiating family demands, but I’m happy. And grateful.

My life, while solitary in the love department, is rich and full in every other aspect. Thank you for sticking around while I figure it all out.

I hope you all have a wonderful Friday and weekend!

xx

Hy

PS: I did this all from my phone, so lemme know of there are any glaring mistakes or broken links! I’m on satellite internet out here and can’t use my laptop. 😭

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

NOT my tits:

Sandy gets all wrapped up.

A little rope party fun

::

Love the light on Annie.

Permit your dreams to see the daylight. – Bernard Kelvin Cline

An InLinkz Link-up

<

She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency.

I’ve been hanging out with a man from my past lately, Chase.  He was one of the first men I went out with after The Neighbor dumped me in 2015 and also one of the few men who was able to weave affectionate play with hardcore fucking.  After 2 or 3 hot, naked dates he faded away in a fog of love with another woman.  Two months ago he reappeared and wanted to reconnect.  He and the woman had just broken up.

I called Chase my sexual brother at the time because his attitude was so open, yet caring.  He flung himself in bed with me as quickly as I did, but also maintained a thread of communication and friendship afterwards.  We went to a movie, we smoked weed on his balcony, we cuddled.  And we fucked.

Upside down and sideways, with spanks and splashes and lots of laughter.  He didn’t judge me, just went along for the ride.

It was over quickly, but he left a good taste in my mouth for the existence of a man who could be like me: wanton, but sensitive.

This past Friday he told me how different I am today from 3 years ago.  “You’re less… hungry,” he said.

And he’s right.  I am far less hungry.

In fact, I border on the disinterested altogether.  My sex drive is alive and well, but my hunger is gone.  I have finally been beaten into submission: I am no longer so eager to spread my legs hoping that this man might be like me only to be cast aside the next day.

My good IG friend, Mrs. XO, said this when I told her his new take on me:

“… I’ve had men say the same thing to me as well.  Like, what happened to that horny af milf?  Ummm, idk.  She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency?

I couldn’t have said it better.

I am talking to a handful of other old lovers, as well, ghosts from my past who for whatever reason are back knocking on my door with their hardons.  A date here, a fuck there, a hug like old friends.  I’m enjoying the process, my heart safely cordoned off.  With each of them we’ve already left each other and we survived.  I survived.

I had a reader once, a bright woman who spent much of her precious time reading me and writing to me, beg me to stop hurting myself via men.  She wanted me to take responsibility for what was happening to me – all the hurt and rejection, she said, were my fault because I moved too fast with men and expected too much.

I didn’t agree and we locked horns.  I insisted I wanted to be accepted for who I am.  I wanted to do as I pleased and not be hurt.  She maintained that wasn’t how the world works.

Finally, years after our long email debates part of what she said to me has soaked in: I cannot trust those who have not earned it.  Merely existing in my world is not sufficient proof that you are trustworthy.

And so I am having very little sex.

Chase and I have spent 4 nights together and I have only recently touched his cock while my friend Jack blew him and Jack’s [new] fiancée fingerbanged me to climax.  I could have fucked all three, but my heart wasn’t in it.  Wednesday my date with Lance, a man I met 7 years ago, ended with a peck in his car despite past dates ending with a puddle beneath my bottom.

I wonder what it’d be like to meet someone and wait weeks before having sex, actually make it mean something as a pair with a serious relationship in mind.  The last time I did that, however, I ended up married to the wrong man.  All that “meaning” having clouded my better judgment.  Surely I wouldn’t make the same mistake…

I’ve waited weeks before having sex several times this year, but a relationship was never the end goal, just a D/s dynamic.  And while trust was integral I’ve realized yet again that promises are worthless and even agreed upon patience can’t protect me from abandonment.  Nothing can protect me.

So if nothing can protect me then I need to walk into the flames and accept what comes with truly no regrets.  I’ve said this so many times, each iteration closer to a mindfulness about people and myself.

I don’t regret anyone I’ve ever slept with – I was hopeful with each and every one of them and I was completely myself – but my hope was misguided.  It was based in the belief that they were truthful and like myself – open and eager to connect.  My reader-friend was desperate for me to realize that’s not how the world works, but I was stubborn.

Now I can still be myself, but accept more truly that people are not like me and that things have the high probability of going awry.  Men have hangups and baggage and plans unknown to me.  They have fears and hopes and shame.  Perhaps the timing was colossally wrong, whatever.  The end result to this realization has been this reticence to sex… and an incredible sense of calm.

I’m just chillin’ in my corner of the internet making ends meet, mothering, focusing on my health and fitness, listening to 90’s Hip Hop and rap like it’s my job.  To borrow and tweak Linda Evangelista’s famous “I don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day,” quote, I don’t get out of bed for less than being treated like a person.

Which means, not surprisingly, I go out a lot less often.

 

 

Friday, November 17th, is Boobday!

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A great week, a great weekend to come, and a great week coming up.  It’s been a combination of things I’ve done for myself coupled with positive interactions with others, a nice balance.

Enjoy the beauty that’s on offer this week!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

Amazing how some kind attention can make me feel.

NOT my tits:

The lovely Annie offers her lovely self.

Wanting to be liked can get in the way of truth.

– Delia Ephron

::

I really love this image. I love the natural heft of SMN’s tits and the cock in her hip.

I’m not photoshopping away these random dark freckles. I’m not perfect, but perfectly flawed and I’m okay with that.

::

A VERY sexy Sandy, y’all.

Wearing the cut out dress for a little play hooky from work fun.

::

Miss Determined exercised her rights last week, yay!

Tuesday was Election Day! What to do with the sticker?? LOL

 


Anticipation.

I chose my outfit a day early: a black pencil skirt, a slip, a light pink lace bra which would show tastefully through my opaque white blouse.  My cuffs were black as was a strip of silk that I tied haphazardly below the highest button.

In the cool morning light my stomach fluttered as I dressed carefully; slipped on black lace panties, the short black slip, and the rest of the tantalizing draping.  Business appropriate, but with an ulterior motive.  That black silk that rested between my breasts all day will be wrapped around him once the moon rises.

9 o’clock.  Au naturale.  Nothing up his ass or around his cock.  Fresh underwear on if he wears some normally.  Stone sober.  I want him just as he is.

I have inventoried my new toys and laid them carefully on my white bed, their black shapes like a seedy jigsaw puzzle.  I have attached a silk loop at the center head of my bed to the steel frame for the cuffs to be attached to if I so choose to use them and looped two more silk ties in the upper corners to the wooden mattress slats if I eschew them.

I have condoms of all sizes and only a little lube.  I doubt I’ll need it.

My nose is powdered, my pussy spruced up.  I have placed a single hair tie on the coffee table beside a bottle of lotion.  When I am ready, he will tie his jaw-length hair back and my eyes will turn black with desire.  He will remove my black booties and socks and rub my aching feet, his hair tied back while I devour the length of his long body with my black eyes and imagine his heart beating against his muscular chest.

Candles are lit.  The house smells like tobacco and cinnamon.  A Led Zepplin record from my mother’s 1970s collection plays tantalizingly in the low light.

He called to say he ran out of time to buy wine, but he will be on time.  I bought red wine for us anyway.  I can’t stop my heart from beating wildly in my chest nor my pussy to stop thrumming intermittently when I think about his imminent arrival.

He will be here in 7 minutes.

I know part of why I’m not writing.  

Life.  Life kills my boner to write. 

I’m currently sitting at a bar alone and all I want to do is write.  Partly because I’m alone and bored, but also because the energy is filling me up, like foam from the tap.  My mug spilleth over.

I feel more observant, more on point, energized.  For months I have typically felt spread thin.  I’m worn out, sad, hopeful, determined, grinding, slugging through.  It’s a lot of emotion to sort through every day. But I rarely am filled with brimming creativity.  Until moments like this.

When I’m surrounded by strangers, completely ignored. 

 It’s like writing pornography.  I’m so turned on to write.

I was here exactly one week ago today.  One of the many Chrises had texted me and wanted to see me again.  We met here and talked and laughed and drank fancy hipster cocktails before walking around the hipster neighborhood and binging on sake and sushi.

He lathered me in compliments all night long.  My hair, my body, my dress, my ass.  He loved it all.  I was sopping wet with his attention by the end of our night.  Figuratively speaking.

We drove back to his house and smoked “the finest weed you can find in this town!” while I deftly avoided the inevitable.  He’s not that great at sex.  

The first time I blamed myself.  The second time I realized it was him.  But he is friendly to a fault, cute, attentive, a true pleasure to spend time with so I willed myself to relax as he began to touch me.  Softly, timidly, too intimately.

When the licking, whining, cuddling dogs no longer provided enough buffer between us I decided to give it another whirl; the weed had relaxed every nerve and I floated slightly above the both of us.  Let’s do this.  

Upstairs he moaned as I undressed and I savored his sweet kisses.  We moved better together this time, though I still yearned for more, for less thought and more abandon.

I came a time or two, eyes closed willing it to be just a bit better while trying to  immerse myself in what I was actually getting.  And then it was suddenly over.  He’d silently cum and I’d fucking missed it, robbed of even the pleasure of his.

I asked him how he’d like it if I did that.  He got the message.  

We dozed sideways on his king sized bed for a minute or two before I begged off.  

“The dog.”  

He understood.

It was the next night when I was out with another man trying to get into a bar that I realized my ID was gone.

I looked for it everywhere – including my date’s jeans and underwear – but to no avail (though I did find a perky, willing cock).  

A day or two later I called the bar from my date with the Chris and voila!  They had it.

And so here I am, alone, thrumming with creativity and verve, and chatting up a handsome stranger who sat beside me while he waits for his date.

The Chris knows I’m here and will be here shortly.  Maybe this time I can parlay this surge in creativity into more than just a blog post and finally get him to make some noise.

[Ed. note: He said he’d be 45 mins.  Forty-five minutes in I was at 6% on my phone and texted him as much.  He was on another work call, don’t wait on him, sorry. And so I left.  Alone once more and robbed of the will to write yet again.]

Friday, November 10th, is Boobday!

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Another week, another “Shit!  I haven’t written!”

I’m still here.  As always.  Still looking to get my groove back, but if you think about it, my muse has been gone a very long time.  Nearly 3 years, longer if you consider the last year of our relationship as the magic waning.

I need a new muse.  Desperately.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

Chilled.

NOT my tits:

Sandy has the bruises I want.

Reminders of an afternoon with the boy toy

::

Love how Ms. Ellie languishes here.

Just a little something someone bought for me…

 


Friday, November 3rd, is Boobday!

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I honestly can’t believe I didn’t write at all this week. Good news is that I’m working a lot more, bad news is I’m completely spent each day.  I’ve also had Peyton a bunch this week even though it’s not my week (yay for me! but bad for my writing).

November is the month I’m going to make a writing schedule and see how it goes.  Like, Mondays are designated writing days, or whatever (probably more like Sundays, Thursdays and Saturdays).

Lots of lovelies this week!:  Sandy, Ms. Determined and Annie Savoy.  Give them love and everyone who links up, too!

Love you guys lots and lots.

xx

Hy

 

NOT my tits:

 

The lovely Annie Savoy and her circle of light and glowing orbs.

Claim your space. Draw a circle of light around it. Push back against the dark. Don’t just survive. Celebrate.

::

Ms. Determined showing off her pretty negligee.

Here are my boobs this week, all worn out from too many recent late nights watching the Astros play. And you know how that turned out!!!

::

Savage Sandy and her Boy Toy.

A little play time with the BoyToy while our “love child”, Biscuit the Bunny, hides its face in the corner 😂

::

 


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