I come from sexual assault: A tale of #Metoo

(Ed. Note: TRIGGER WARNING. The following post may be triggering for some as it contains real life accounts of many non-consensual sexual acts.  Please read with caution.)

My first sexual experience with a boy – a man of 19 when I was a summer shy of 16 – was rooted in assault.  Every touch, kiss, and fondle was coerced from me.

His breath smelled, he sat too close, his fingers hurt my tender skin as he dug his way down into my jeans and then into my body.  He reeked of Obsession.  I refused to let him look at me naked, never took off my clothes, but he managed to snake his hands onto my flesh and they explored my virgin body instead.  In broad daylight all over his parents’ house, exposed and helpless.

He called me every night long past a decent calling time and kept me up until 3 and 4 in the morning.  I dragged myself to work at the pool where we both taught swim lessons and lifeguarded; I shied away from him in public.  I didn’t want anyone to know about us.

I can still taste the kiss he planted on me after his lunch of a big Dairy Queen burger with onions.

One warm summer night my friends and I all dipped into the Everclear stash of Tammy’s drunken, passed out father.  My friends were vaguely aware that this 19 yo man and I were dating, but they didn’t press.  He and Tammy had dated for several months and every night he’d sneak in her bedroom window and fuck her while her father lay passed out on the couch in the living room.

By all accounts, despite being a year younger than me, she had wanted it and him and thus everyone assumed I did, too. Not wanting to appear less sophisticated than her I didn’t correct them.

The liquor stoked a restlessness within me.  He knew I was there and what I was doing and he’d told me to sneak out and come see him.  To do what, exactly, I never considered.  My innocent 15 yo brain could only explore so far before my imagination gave out, romance novels notwithstanding.

With enough alcohol to embolden me I called him and shared my plan: I would steal one of the 16 year old’s cars who was too drunk to notice and drive across town to see him.  But just for a little while.  “Don’t take advantage of me,” I said.

Underage, without a license, I traversed my little bedroom town and parked in front of his house.  He was waiting for me in the dark awning of his converted garage bedroom.

I don’t remember what we said to each other except that I said those magical, protective words again: Please.  Don’t take advantage of me.  I felt light and hot and like a grown up.  Wild and free.  I’d told him not to hurt me so therefore he wouldn’t.

I knew he wanted me – whatever that meant – and that felt like power.

We kissed in the dark, alone and in his bedroom, a place we had never spent time before.  He walked me backwards towards his bed.  His room smelled foreign and faintly like dirty laundry.  Like a musky boy.

The backs of my legs hit the bed and we stopped.  I stopped.  This was enough.  I was done.  But how??

He was not done.

He pulled off my shirt and I crossed my arms over my bra.  He pulled my hands apart and took off my bra.  I had never been topless in front of him and I shivered with embarrassment, a vague sense of wrong washed over me, but… I had put myself here.

He pushed me back on the bed, pulled down my pants and I shuddered with humiliation thinking he could see in the dim porch light that I was wearing my mother’s high-waisted underwear.  He didn’t notice that I was wearing my mother’s panties.

He only wanted them off.

I froze as he slipped them past my straight little hips and off my foot, pushed my knees apart and put his face between my legs.  There.  Where no one had ever been before, where I had not asked, where he had no right to be.

His tongue was hot and wet and acid.  Mortification, horror, fear pressed me deep into the mattress.  I was disgusted that he seemed to be enjoying it.

I pulled him up, told him to stop, and he kissed me as if it were a lovers moment, my first experience ever of tasting myself on a man’s lips and I pressed mine shut and turned away.

He pulled me into his arms to lay on his bed.  I thought it was over.  That he’d gotten what he wanted and I was safe again.  Stiffly I lay against his bare chest.  He was in only underpants.  I didn’t know what to say.

Then he took my hand – I thought he wanted to hold it – but instead forced it down to his groin, to his hot, hard skin.  I snatched my hand away as if it were burned, sat up and couldn’t stop the verbal outpouring.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I said.  “No, no, no,” spilled out to nothing as he helplessly watched me find my clothing in the dark.  Retroactive words that couldn’t turn back time.

I was sober now.

He continued to treat it like it was a tender moment between us and hugged my stiff body goodbye.  I walked to the little red Pontiac Le Mans 5-speed and drove back to my friend’s house and cried.

I cried because it was my fault.  I cried because I was supposed to feel differently than this, this despondence, this hurled into space feeling.

I had called him, flirted with him, went to him.

I hadn’t fought or slapped or kicked or said even one word to him to make him stop.

But none of what had happened had felt right — nothing about our entire “relationship” had felt right — but I was raised on dysfunctional interactions with men – you must be so beautiful you stop traffic, so desirable you make him reckless and irrational, so lovely you make him weep.  Not listening to how I felt with him was what I’d been bred to do: what I needed never mattered.

He shipped out the following fall and married a sad creature from our high school.  He occasionally wrote me letters telling me how special I was.  By then I didn’t care.  I no longer wanted to impress him.

A decade or so later, with a divorce and two children under his belt – including a daughter – he apologized for that night.  He avoided calling it assault, but he acknowledged that if I never wanted to speak to him again he deserved it.  My reply was gracious, but lackluster.  I had shrunken it down: It was just a bad night.

I wish I could remember when I named that night for what it was.  It wasn’t right away, I know that.  For years I considered that just another really bad sexual experience, a bad start. “Sexual assault” was too hard to swallow.

I didn’t date another boy until I was in college and those fumbling attempts at sex were consensual, though I was barely present.  I would drink too much and throw myself at these boys and descend upon them fearlessly, my tender heart a million miles away.

I fucked like that throughout my 20s, through serious boyfriends who’d paw at me and beg and wear me down until I finally said yes, through drunken liaisons with hot, willing men in bars whose names I barely knew.

Close to 30 I began to try to marry sex with emotion and embarked on sober sex with a lover or two before I met my exhusband – who was so not sexually charged that I considered him safe enough to open up with.  I had missed the mark again.

Another decade and I left our sexless marriage and was back to heartless fucking and a lot more “bad sex.”

Sex when I didn’t want to have it after a wonderful date.

Oral sex when I had said I didn’t want it.

Being abused by a “so-called dominant.”

Being fondled in public on a first date without my consent.

Being completely ignored when I said “No, not tonight.”

Maybe having sex with the bastard who dragged me across a room filled with people into a dark bedroom, but I can’t remember because I was so fucked up or maybe I just blocked that part out.

The date with the Frenchman who coerced me into his car, into his apartment, and into letting him jam his disgusting, fat tongue down my throat.

The same Frenchman who insisted on pawing me and trying to sneak his hand up my skirt despite my many firm NOs.

The light-weight chef who blamed the whiskey or two he’d consumed on his boorish sexual advances.

I literally cannot count the number of times I have been physically assaulted in my life —  Twenty-five?  Fifty? — let alone count the number of times I have been assaulted by unsolicited dick pics and disgusting “erotic” messages online.  If I had to guess at that combined number it’d have to be in the thousands.

After a couple of winter assaults in 2016 I began 2017 with a date at a swanky restaurant with Rex, a feminist and bleeding heart liberal.  Imagine my surprise when I registered the shock on his face as I told him, “Literally every woman you know has been sexually assaulted.  Every. Woman.”  He should know this already, right??  But, no.

He wanted to know more, why hadn’t I reported anything ever? A bad thing happened to me at the hands of someone else and I should report such bad things. “Because it wouldn’t have held up in court; I know what kind of world I live in. I did X, Y, Z and a jury would find me at fault.”

He had no idea that No didn’t actually mean No to a whole lot of men out there, that women felt compelled to follow through with a situation because she felt responsible, that some women — myself included — did things with her body because it might mitigate potential violence should she try to fully stop her date, that all women understand she bears the burden of proof and if one signal were mixed she has no legal leg to stand on.

I began to feel responsible for the mixed signals I had given.  How would he know if I didn’t say No?  If I didn’t fight?  If I ended up just going along with it because my body responded to his touch?  I was a part of the problem, too, then right?  I was actively contributing to misinformation about sex and women and the miseducation of men.  Wasn’t I?

It wasn’t until this fall, right as the Harvey Weinstein news was crashing down upon us all, that I wondered this aloud to a young man who wanted to connect with me before we embarked on a sexual relationship.

Nate and I sat in his dark Volvo outside my building and he listened to my concerns and he became incensed at my logic.  Incensed.

I could hear the horror in his voice as he realized I was owning the revolting behavior of the men who had hurt me over the years.  “NO, HY.  NO.  MEN KNOW WHEN A WOMAN DOESN’T WANT IT.

“But what if I didn’t want him to know??”

“NO.”

“But what if I went along with it?”

“NO.”

“But what if eventually I just stopped saying No??”

“NO NO NO NO NO.  WE ALWAYS KNOW.”

The windows steamed up from his shouting.  I felt like I had been punched.  Not by him — no, I was in awe of his emotion about this — but by a new reality: those incidents hadn’t just been “bad dates” with ignorant, stupid men, they had been sexual assaults by men who knew better.

They knew they were hurting me.

They knew they were pressuring and pushing me.

They knew I didn’t want to.

They knew.

Just like that 19 yo boyfriend always knew.

I don’t think that this makes every man who assaulted me a bad man and a predator.  It makes him irresponsible, possibly an opportunist, certainly a jerk, but not an automatic menace to society.  That would require more data if we are to be fair.

And a man is as much a product of his socializing to conquer and take sex as I have been socialized to please and give it.  Imagine how different our world would be if we raised our men to give sex rather than take or get it.

Honestly, how the fuck are any of us to know when No is a real-No and a No is an I’m-Supposed-to-Say-This-So-You-Don’t-Think-I’m-Easy-No.  Aziz Ansari is a numbnut dipshit and a perfect example of this and that date personifies my guilt about my role in all of this.

He [willfully] believed all her dodging and eventual capitulations were part of a consensual chase, that it was his role to pursue, but those two poor souls were definitely not on the same date.  She was in hell, he was the romantic hero of his own romance novel.  But he still knew, he just assigned a different meaning to her behaviors.

She was being coy, playing hard to get, and if he could somehow convince her to say Yes then it was consensual.  Score 1 for the good guy!

And she’s thinking, “If I say Yes, then maybe it’ll stop.”  Or, “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”  Or, “Maybe he really doesn’t know and I won’t die if I just do it.”  Or, “I did invite him back to my apartment/go to his apartment/a secluded area/his car so I’ve given the signal I’m interested and I can’t stop now.”

This issue does not lay at the feet of only women to solve.  It is not about us saying No louder or avoiding situations or running away or “just leaving.”  It’s about men understanding that it lays equally at their feet to be honest, present, and responsible.

Men need to question the model of masculinity handed to them, the Patriarchy which tells them once turned on it is their duty and right to satiate their need by any means necessary.

Women must reject what’s been handed to them, as well, this belief that they are solely responsible for what happens to them.  If only she hadn’t worn that skirt, had that drink, said Yes the last date/hour/minute then this wouldn’t have happened to her.

What we’re taught is breathtakingly fucked up.

Once we realize what we’ve been spoon fed we all – both men and women – need a path to redemption.  Men need an avenue to a safe place for growth and forgiveness and women need a route to believe in her inherent human value and her rights to safety with men.

Being violent is only the most obvious assault, but it’s not the only way men force their sexual will on women.  They also intimidate, beg, cajole, plead, manipulate, wear down, corner, argue, and insist upon.

And because he didn’t raise a hand against her he believes he did nothing wrong and the woman who just went against her instincts to survive the encounter is left with a jagged empty space in her heart and a truckload of guilt for bringing it upon herself.

But he knew.

And now we know, too.

.

.

.

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Post inspired by Katie’s, “Not that bad.”

Friday, January 19th, is Boobday!

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Whew.  SO. FUCKING. BUSY.

I need a subway to ride twice a day or a less intense life, some institutionalized structure to my life so I can write.  I have SO many posts to write it’s becoming overwhelming.  Hopefully I’ll hammer some things out this weekend and next weekend Pey is back with my ex so that will free up a little evening times.

I hope you’ve all had an extraordinary week!

xx

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:

Old skool.

 

NOT my tits:

Mrs. MnM bringin’ the H E A T.

 

Annie grabbing her light.
Sexy Grace dancing in the dark.

 


Friday, January 12th, is Boobday!

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This week has sped by and I didn’t have a chance to catch my breath to write, though to be perfectly honest the bug didn’t bite me much this week so the itch was faint.

Enjoy all the gorgeousness.

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:

I have some stories to tell.

NOT my tits:

Miss Over 50’s gorgeous swells and shadows.
Stepping out of the shower….

::

There’s a spot right next to Sandy where we can all lie down.

The BoyToy is away for 2 weeks. Lonely Boobs

::

Sexy Grace makes her Boobday debut.

I chose to send a picture because you and your blog are an inspiration to me. I chose this picture because I was fresh out of the shower and I thought my boobs looked good!

::

 


Some things warm my black heart #SOSS

A few weeks ago some folks put their heads together and came up with a community-building meme called Share Our Shit Saturdays.  It was in response to censorship among the major hosting and social-media platforms against sex- and body-positive images and content.

Patreon kicked out its adult content makers, IG has a long-standing battle against the female form and anything remotely hinting at sexuality, Facebook hates nipples.  Years ago many of us older bloggers jumped the WordPress ship and started self-hosting after some of our friends were wiped out completely with no notice; years’ of work lost in a single algorithmic button-press.

The idea behind #SOSS is that if we all do our part to share what we love then we will circumvent the institutionalized censorship we’re otherwise powerless to prevent.  Admittedly I’m not a huge reader of blogs (I have 5 or 6 that I routinely follow up on), but I promise that when one (or more) really makes me feel something I will share it here, which brings me to Cara.

A seemingly innocuous post about her year in review brought tears to my eyes.  Her [long] list of accomplishments notwithstanding, it was her omission of the love that has entered her life that really moved me and Michael’s loving spotlight on it.  I just love it when Cara writes about herself.

Another post that caught my cold, black heart was Fern’s letter to Sunshine, the man she spent the New Year with.  As I explore my own dominance with a young man I lean on Ferns to be my Fairy Domme-mother and I love the heart and logic which drips from all her words about her experiences.

Love you all.  Enjoy.

 

Friday, January 5th, is Boobday!

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I feel ridiculously good and light this week and I have no idea why.  I’ve written more here and even left comments on friends’ blogs (I have lurked for months and months), participated in a couple of memes, and generally been quite filled with optimism about my writing and the blog.

I wish I knew why!

But it doesn’t matter and I’m just taking advantage of it by prepping Boobday a whole day early when I’m not dog tired and when I’m not miserably trying to focus on the task at hand.  Yay 2018!

Thank you for being here, everyone!

Happy New Year!

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:

Classic ta-ta’s.

NOT my tits:

Annie has her hands full.

All the while I am thinking of you.

An avalanche of white carnations

Is drifting across your voice

As it drifts across the voices of confession.

But the snow keeps whispering of you over and over.

– Thomas James

::

Sandy stays warm.

Keeping warm as the Blizzard approaches


Little resolutions.

I resolve to fall back into the safe space of Hy.

To reconnect with myself and the world, to pin threads which span the globe with my words and heart.

I resolve to be more open and brave, to allow myself to make decisions rather than respond to someone else’s.

To do the scary things.

I resolve to inhabit this bag of skin and bones with love and light, passion and purpose.

To roll gleefully in the mud of life.

And lastly, I resolve to just be me. Remember her??

Hy all cozy

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

I have a boyfriend.

Kind of.

His name is Faisal.

He’s got four legs and a tail and actually “he” is three.

Three four-legged, furry, needy, loving, demanding, individual, pains in the ass who are always happy to see me. Even the cats.

They cuddle around me on cold nights and stretch long and lean like pelts laid out in the warm summer heat.

They give about as good as they get, which is to say a lot and nothing.

I feed and care for them, provide them with my body on which to lay and adventures for the dog and loving indifference for the cats.  They in turn withhold any longstanding urge to murder me and lick my face off.

I cannot imagine my life without them and their ceaseless demands for care and attention.

Sometimes I think they are the only things on the planet who care where I am and if I am alive because who else is going to feed them?

But more importantly, how else will they center their universe without me as their sun?

Shut up. I know there are a lot more suns than just me, but let me bask in this idea that to them I am integral to their happiness.

If only I knew a Faisal on two legs.

I’m never actually alone.

 

Sinful Sunday

Friday, December 29th, is Boobday!

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THE LAST BOOBDAY OF 2017!!  Should I even bother apologizing for late Boobday posts anymore??  Y’all know how I roll.

Thanks for loving me anyway.  My Internet Boyfriend is truly the best one I’ve ever had.

Today has been busy.  Work, more work, getting organized.  I raced out of the house before I could do the post and then I kind of forgot about it.  I’m not even sure it’s worth promising to be better at this in 2018.  Accepting myself for who and what I am and all that jazz.

One thing I will be working on the next few days, though, is my submission for the Eroticon anthology.  The theme is “truth,” which will be interesting since I have an odd relationship with it.  We’ll see what comes out of me under the deadline [which is Tuesday].

Love you guys!

xx

Hy

 

My tits:

Lucky…?

NOT my tits:

Don’t stare at Sandy… Ok, go ahead.

Quick lunchtime pic

::

All the blues on Annie.
Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine –
– Adrienne Rich

::

Meredith got a lil’ roughed up the other night.

 


I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I didn’t mention it, but I had my SIXTH blogging anniversary on December 17th.  It was 8 days later that I decided to post about an incredible Christmas night from the year before, the first time Troy and I met Jack.  It was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  Troy eventually got married and embarked on starting a family; his iPhone iMessages are now green texts whenever I reach out to say Hi.  He’s moved on.  Jack is still in my life in a sweet orbit.  We rarely see each other but when we do it’s beyond lovely.  He has a new fiancee. This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it today I barely recognize that woman.  My writing has improved exponentially as has my life changed.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  I love you all!!  xx Hy

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other. So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less). I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″.

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know. Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear. Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…” And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making. I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th). Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time. After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

e[lust] 101 #SOSS

CandySnatchReview for Elust 101
Photo courtesy of Candysnatch ReviewsWelcome to Elust 101

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #102 Start with the rules, come back January 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Email from my ex-boy

Geography

Two’s Company, Three’s A Crowd

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Why should we call ourselves sinners?
Repeated Patterns

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Fuck Yourself

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Fiction

The Red Chair ~ A Cuckold’s Story – Part 1
Caught Part 3: the punishment
Get up! Stand up!
Chastity Fiction: Aaron & Melissa

Body Talk and Sexual Health

The 39 Days
Do Not Delete

Thoughts and Advice on Kink & Fetish

Afflicted
Tooth and nail
Event Horizons
Bee’s wax

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Sex Q&A: An Adventure into Ass Play
She was poisoned by your utter indifference.
Orally Ambiguous

Poetry

-02.12.17_09:45-

Erotic Non-Fiction

Walk in, beat him, leave
What Is My Dream Trying to Tell Me?
Thought of Her
The Biter

Elust 88