I write a loving tribute to my houseboy.

You said you didn’t want me to ask Downstairs Neighbor to vacuum, you’d do it. You didn’t say when, but I knew you would keep your word. I put on my new white linen night shorts and a men’s Hanes tank-top, see-though and delicious on my heavy breasts. I can’t figure out if you’ve seen me more dressed in day clothes or night, but you’ve given me inspiration to look sexy before bed for months now.

Your knock came around 9:30. You were dressed for the gym, no smiles, just your vacuum cleaner in hand and a look that said, “Let’s get this over with.” I felt guilty. My floors were covered in chewed pencil and torn sheepskin rug from the puppy. You plugged it in and started combing through the debris.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. Your mood, usually bright and sweet, was somber. I asked if you were ok. You shrugged. I busied myself with moving big objects out of your way, bending over, pulling my shoulders back. I’m not sure you noticed.

Then the vacuum began to smoke. “Fuck,” you murmured as you turned it over and started taking it apart, a tendril of grey twisting up to the ceiling.

Now I felt awful. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, TN!”

“Maybe you should pick up all the fleece.”

I hurried to comply as you tinkered away. No luck. “Are you mad at me?” I ventured. The energy in the apartment was off, weird.

“No, not at all. I’m mad at the dog.” We both looked at her plaintively looking at us from her crate, cute beyond measure, but guilty as sin.

“Ok, good. When you’re not your usual chipper self I feel bad, like it’s my fault.”

“That’s sorta your problem,” you answered, “I’m really fine.” I knew what you meant. I was projecting.

As D-Day looms heavy on my mind I am hypersensitive to all our interactions. I’m reading everything into nothing, you poor thing. You have no idea. “You’re right,” I forced a smile on my face and sat to watch you switch to my behemoth of a vacuum and continue cleaning.

When mine died, too, you went back to fixing yours. With the motor running and no smoke to speak of you went about your task. “So, how was your day today?” I asked you.

“Eh. It wasn’t that great, not that bad.”

“What’d you do tonight?” I had hoped my earlier pics would have prompted you to rush over, but you’d said you were “busy.”

“Nothing.” My heart lurched. You just don’t get it.

“How was your day, Hy? You’re not your usual chipper self, either.”

“Eh. Not that great, really. I wasn’t nearly as productive as I wanted to be and when I feel that way, I get angsty and can’t chill at night. It’s one of those nights for me. I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

“I’m the same way.” You quietly passed the cleaner by the couch and I looked off towards the kitchen, my thoughts lacing through me like barbed wire.

Your wave caught my eye. I turned to look at you and you used your fingers to draw your mouth up into a smile. It had the effect you wanted: a smile tugged at my mouth. “Ok,” you suddenly said with a silly exaggerated sigh. You started to take off your shorts. You were rallying for me!

Your black gym shorts fell to the ground followed shortly by your grey shirt. The pile of flesh behind your boxer briefs wobbled tantalizingly before me. “Go get your panties.” My face lit up.

“Really??”

“Yes, really. Go!” Your smile split your boyishly handsome face.

I jumped up and ran into my bedroom, picked out a pair of red and pink striped bikini underpants and raced back, my arm behind my back. You looked at me skeptically and then laughed out loud as I brought the ridiculously girlie panties round in front of me. You took them, gave me a haughty look and stalked as manishly as possible to the kitchen for privacy to change. You came back out with your heavy meat cradled in red and pink, your balls bulging out of the crotch, not quite entirely covered.

You pulled your shoulders back and strutted back to the vacuum, chin held high. My peals of laughter and delight rose above the engine. I buried my face in my hands. It was utterly ridiculous and wonderful and so many other things. My exhusband and you, TN, share some things, namely a brooding, introverted nature. My experience has always been that once my exhusband entered that head space he never came out; it was my job to make him ok, everything ok, me ok. But you, you’re not my exhusband, you’re better at controlling your demon, you’re smarter. You saw me, saw my need and you rose to meet me, to draw me out. It was unexpected and loving, dammit. You were loving.

“I had a thought earlier tonight to come over, cum on you, and then leave. Would you have liked that?”

The question made me shy. Its demeaning undertones demanded trust and it made my heart race. “Yes, I would,” I replied plucking at my shorts distractedly.

“I thought you might…” your own shyness surrounding such an audacious act evident.

“You know, you should utilize me more. This isn’t going to last forever.”

You came to where I was sitting and turned off the machine. I stroked you and felt your cock leap under my touch. I came around to take pictures. You politely obliged me. Your rigid pink manhood jutted out of the tops of the fabric, the vacuum at your hip.

“I think it needs your mouth,” he observed. “That’s not going to end any time soon.”

I fell to my knees and slurped on your sweet skin, tugged on your sac. You moaned and pressed your hips forward, pulled away and switched the vacuum back on. I sat back down and watched you enter my bedroom. I hurriedly followed and picked up the floor, tossed my vibrator in its bedside basket and sat on the bed smiling like an idiot, so happy.

Then you took it right back out and tossed it to me with a meaningful look. You wanted me to masturbate while you vacuumed. I giggled as my pussy giggled, too. “I’m not going to clean one more inch until that thing is turned on.”

I rolled my eyes and laid down, dying of embarrassment, excitement crawling through me slowly. The engine of the vacuum drowned out the one between my legs. I reached my left hand around under my buttock and slipped two fingers inside of me. I caught the jerk of your head as you stopped to watch. You switched the light off so I wasn’t staring into the brightness and then I felt your crushing weight on me, your mouth latched to my nipple.

I drew my fingers out of my sopping pussy and ran them through your hair, clutching you to me. I began to quake. My body had already released itself 5 times just a few hours earlier to thoughts of being watched by you and loved by another. You said I’d have to go for 6 or die trying.

I could smell me on my fingers, my perfume strong and heady, ready to beckon all the rutting men around me to my sex.

You sat up then and pushed your erection into my mouth. I sucked as my clit buzzed. I remembered catching my lips on the edge of the head in your car Saturday night and I quivered, pushed down farther on your shaft. Sucked, sucked, sucked.

You moaned as I began to shudder and the orgasm spilled down through me, your deliciousness muffling my cries of pleasure. The hardness of your arousal in my mouth counterpoint to the fluid spasms running through me. You kissed me fiercely and laid down, your head at the footboard.

“I’ve never done that before,” I said in a panting exhale.

“One you can scratch off the sexual bucket list once you put it down?” you wondered.

“Yep, pretty much.”

Unexpected.

That was the name of the night.

Tentatively, I began to stroke you, you were so hard. “I came 20 minutes before I came over. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. You have any idea how many times you’ve said that to me? I don’t know why you do that. I’m right here.”

“So am I supposed to only cum when you’re around?”

“Not all,” I purred as I took your tip in my mouth, “Not even close. I’m just saying…” and I bore down on you and stroked and pulled and licked and flicked with all my might. You stretched out under me, gasped, then sat up and grabbed me, threw me down on my back and pulled my shorts to the side. My slot was slippery and you slid right in, my panties pulled to the side so you were fully exposed.

The fabric was too much, I begged you to take mine off. You ripped them off with one smooth motion and came back inside of me and pinned my hands above my head when I tried to cover my face. A climax swooped up and through me as you pounded into me. I sobbed as you looked at me with a shit-eating grin on your sweet face.

You held my ankles high as you sat up and reared back, bludgeoning me with your cock. I cried some more, spilled ejaculate down my crack and all over your balls. Panting, I begged you to do what, I don’t know.

You kissed my neck and I inhaled your scent committing it to memory. I grabbed your back and shoulders to pull you all the way into me, more more more. I thought I was going to die and you took mercy on me and pulled out, but then spanked me hard for wanting to quit. Once, twice, three and four times. You slipped back in my hole and pumped some more and laid your hand hotly on my flanks for good measure. Stingy, flashing, writhing.

Then you were done. You kissed me and got up to turn on the light. You lifted my legs to view your handiwork. “It’s not as red as I’d hoped, but good enough.” I could only nod assent.

All of it unexpected.

I sat up and found my shorts as you found your clothes and got redressed. I found my shoes and got the puppy’s leash to let her out for the long night of sleep ahead. You gathered up your vacuum and followed me out the door. “Thanks for that,” you said.

“No, thank you,” I replied.

Back up in my apartment I heard you leave for the gym. Your whistling filled the halls and my heart as you walked down the flights of stairs to your car.

I hope you’ll miss me half as much as I’m going to miss you, TN. You are what I want.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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20 thoughts on “I write a loving tribute to my houseboy.
  1. <3

    I don't want to say anything else, I'd break the spell you've woven this last series of posts, which have been enchanting. I think this a case of "I'll have what she's having." Yes, please! Infinity, infinity. :-)

  2. This hits a tender nerve and I feel your pain. It’s like straining to watch the end of a romance in a smoky room heavy with the last fragrances of spring. I want to see clearly but the smoke is burning my eyes. I keep looking to see the sweetness return, but the smoke was born from the burning of it. So I savor each glimpse until I have to leave.

      1. It’s why I started writing here – to let go of another. I have wondered though – as the time passes through me like a virus – why I continue to want something that isn’t as vivaciously present for me as I was/am for that guy. Is it because I set my sights lower than I should since he was all I loved in bed? Time gives me perspective as my heart holds it’s breath. fuck, I need to get out of here – : (

        1. Aw, Jayne. Honey, you know the heart loves any way it chooses. Me, I like my men unavailable and distant. My mind is never pleased with me about it, either. One is always winning out it seems. Maybe you just need more time to feel less; time always helps.

          1. Unavailable and distant is safe …until you want more. I know – and therein lies the rub. I’m working on that – adjusting my sights for more. Time isn’t helping but putting myself out there and getting out of my comfort zone does.I just want what I want dammit.

    1. I should tell you that all my friends listed under my Dissolutes tab are superb sex-writers, as well.

      But thanks for the kudos all the same!! xx Hy

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