I held him in my arms.

hy_tits_panties
The other morning.

Since our discussion about my fears regarding Peyton The Neighbor and I have been running like a finely tuned machine.  We sparkle and tango and fuck and laugh and glitter until our lashes meet our cheeks.  Something feels better.

Last night he came over wearing only silky basketball shorts and suggested we go lay down in my room “Just to cuddle,” he said.  I rose wearily, my men’s pajama bottoms fluttered loosely about my legs as I marched behind him quietly happy.  I loved this ritual of ours.

We lay down beside each other, assuming the position of a hundred nights before.  Me on the right, him on the left.  My ear pressed against his warm chest, his fingers tracing lines on my arm, my hand absent-mindedly stroking his soft bulge.

Our conversation included our day and our upcoming week.  We were both in good spirits and we each laughed robustly at each other’s little jokes.  One of his favorites is when I ask him what he’s thinking and he says something like, “Ants,” or, “Mountain blasting mining practices.”  Last night’s was particularly entertaining.

“Hy,” he said smiling, “Ask me what I’m thinking!”  I laughed knowing it was going to be something ridiculous.

“Ok, what are you thinking, TN?”

“How to light a match in zero G!”

Oh, the giggles on that one.

And then he was pinning me down with wrists and thighs because I was trying to pinch his tiny, sensitive nipples.  In my most authoritative voice I told him to stop, but the truth was I was enjoying it immensely and let him have the upper hand.

“C’mere,” he growled and he gently turned my face to his and he kissed me.

And then his erection caught my eye.

He loosened his grip on me and I ordered him to put his hands down to his sides.  He was afraid of exposing his little pink nubs, but I was going to show him I was trustworthy if he trusted me first.

Slowly his arms dropped to his side.

“Good.  Now take off your clothes,” I said firmly, smiling broadly.   His cock sprung free and I told him how pretty it was.  I gripped it gently, like he’s shown me, and moved my hand along the bone.

“Wait,” he said repositioning my hand so my knuckles lined up with the top of the ridge.  “Ok, go.”

I began to stroke again and his face split into an enormous grin.  “Holy shit!!  That feels like me!”  His smile went on for miles as he played with the idea that another’s hand could feel somehow familiar.  But my arm began to tire and my bicep cramp.

We reassembled.  This time with me sitting up with him wedged between my legs.  The blue fabric a modest contrast to his pink nakedness.

I tucked my arm under his and reached around, a first-person point of view, and peeked over his shoulder.  The glistening aperture of his cock winked at me as I pulled its short little turtle neck up to its head.

TN leaned against me, his weight pinning me to the bars of my headboard.  He leaned his head back on my shoulder and I kissed his neck.  My free hand splayed through the carpet of his chest hair.

He wrapped his paw around the outside of my fist and moved me faster.  I felt my pussy clench and my breath catch.  The rough cotton of my tank top pressed against my breasts smashed against his back.

Then I let go and he took over.

I bit and nibbled his neck, let my breath spill out like fog on his skin.  I dragged my fingertips across his taut belly and broad chest and clung to him with my thighs.

Every muscle in his body was flexed and pulsing in time with a long, slow thrust, though his hand was a Caucasian blur of pumping.

His balls bounced and flounced along like cans tied to the back of a wedding get-away car.

I closed my eyes and wished for him to cum.  Not for me, but for him, for his heart.  I whispered hotly in his ear, “You are so hot,” and nipped the lobe gently.

His voice began to catch and he crushed me into the headboard.  His breath came out in choked bursts then as thick, milky semen spurted out onto his belly and lay like snow on a bush.

He panted and went limp as I kissed along his neck and shoulder and squeezed him from behind with my entire body.  My cunt pulsed with what she’d witnessed.

“Good boy,” I said.  “That was fucking hot.”

He smiled and said it was progress.  My heart lurched a little.

I spread his cum around in little circles and he laughed at my ministrations.  I told him how turned on I was.  He suggested perhaps it was my turn, but I told him I was good.  For once, this was just about him and not me.

We lay there with me holding him for a while before he said he had to leave.  He redressed and came around and gave me two sweet, long kisses goodnight.

I am so proud of him.  In the light of the night we are indeed making some kinds of progress.

I don’t know how to dominate: When you hurt your submissive.

I said the wrong thing, the worst possible thing.

His eyes filled with tears and what had felt like a calm and gentle silence turned into something heavy and frowning.  A giant face of disappointment.  I had hurt him.  I had fucked up.

“Will you please untie me now?” he said quietly.

I sat up and quickly undid the Velcro cuff.

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” I whispered into his chest.

I clung to him, my naked body pressed against his, and listened to his heartbeat.  Candlelight flickered around us as I felt the occasional disturbance of his freed hand wiping away his silent tears.

“I’m so sorry,” I said tearfully again, “so, so sorry…” I trailed off wishing I could rewind the previous 2 and a half minutes.

“It’s ok,” he answered, squeezing me with the arm I was nestled against.  “I forgive you.  I’m just worried you think the entire night is ruined.”

“No,” I sniffed, “but I feel horrible.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t, but you did and I didn’t know you could…” now he trailed off into a still, yet distant space away from me, beneath my tear-soaked cheek, but safely away from my Dominant clumsiness.

The night had been an intercourse-free one, but layered thick with sexiness and debauchery.  I had him bucking and writhing below me as I lashed his buttocks with a heavy brown belt and clamped his tiny little nipples with my hair clips.  He begged me to stop, to make the pain go away and my answer had been a firm, but resounding NO.

I wanted him to feel it, to breathe through it, to suffer under my watchful guidance.  To break apart and let me put the pieces back together again.

He struggled and panted against his own desire to flee from me, but he was a good boy and remained.  I stroked him gently and purred to him to “Just breathe.”  He clenched his eyes shut and whimpered then finally begged and pleaded with a look in his eye that told me he’d turned the corner of submitting to me.  He believed it, the agony and hope on his face told me.  He finally believed it.

I removed the tiny claws and crooned to him and pet his pretty, scruffy face.  I kissed his mouth and his eyes, told him what a good boy he was.  He thanked me and thanked me and nibbled back on my lips.

I felt like I had finally done something right!  That he had cracked for me, just a little, and we had gone somewhere together!  It wasn’t just me rocketing off to the moon while he stood firmly planted on earth, this time he’d mingled with the stars beside me; his vice-like grip on himself  had slipped just ever so much and a little of his light had come beaming out at us.

It was then that I tied his hands above his head and turned my attention to the giant erection between his legs.  I sucked and squeezed and slurped, lavished attention on this magical appendage of his, then freed his right hand, his jerking-off hand.

I tied his right ankle to the footboard and, remembering his request of me from a few nights ago said, “Jerk off for me.  I want to see you cum on that beautiful black ribbon you’re wearing.”

This was new territory for us both, me telling him to cum.  I’ve asked for it multiple times, but had never in a dominating capacity told him to do it.  Before his blessing, before his trust in me to make such a decree, I had avoided the power it implied, the scenario it resembled to trauma.  I was afraid of hurting him.

But he had said it was ok, that he wanted me to do it, and so I did.

And with what I thought was great understanding of the power dynamic, the importance of consent, and an eye for a hopeful outcome, I loomed over him and laced the leather belt that had been dancing across his bottom around my own neck.

I lowered the free end to his face and told him to hold it between his teeth and pressed my Hitachi against my crotch then pulled gently away from him making the leather leash taught between us.

It was a sight to behold: his luminescence bound before me, his hand a fapping arc beating into his lap, the dark brown leather a physical representation of our bond.  I told him to release me then and he obediently expelled the leather. I stood straight and tall, my leg hiked up on the bed, and gyrated into the buzzing head.

I listened to his gasps and closed my eyes as I orgasmed, hoping that my direction, my order, and my show would help him find his always elusive release.

It did not.

Finally, he asked if he could stop and I said that he could.

I lay down beside him and stroked him as any obedient fellow should be.  Thoughts tumbled through my mind of dominance, submission, boundaries, and trauma.  Had I pushed him too far?  Was it too much stimulation?

As the bubble of our play began to wane I asked him as much.  Was me ordering him to masturbate, to perform in front of me, too much?

He froze.

I froze.

The bubble shattered into a million different pieces and came clanking down around us.

“No,” he whispered, “but can you do me a favor?”  I nodded into his chest.  “Please don’t ever mention that to me while I’m in this position,” he pulled against his restraints.  “Will you please untie me now??”

My tears, which had instantly sprung to my eyes when he froze, spilled over as I saw his own glisten in the candlelight and I watched, then felt, him wipe them away.  He took long moments between speaking and I held my breath not wanting to make my upset a focus.

I explained to him that dominating him was not a gimmick to me, it wasn’t just something to spice up our sex life.  It was an exploration of my own childhood trauma and a mechanism through which to rechannel it.  My feelings of helplessness as a girl are retold as I am a benevolent, yet demanding Dominant plugged into her submissive, someone who is choosing helplessness beneath her hand and watch.  It is a defiantly beautiful thing, a synchronous dance between two souls searching for release, balance, and love.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

But what had actually happened was that as he lay next to me, cracked open, vulnerable, and upset with himself for not being able to cum for me, I stumbled onto his most tender spot.  A silly, stupid girl with no business to be playing this game.

I had crushed us both.  The wound had been open to me and I could see it there pulsing before me, but I didn’t understand until it was too late that even to blow upon it would cause him harm.  I just didn’t know…

My heart is heavy and I miss him.  I want to go next door and cling to him and cry and beg him to forgive me, but I cannot.  This is his hurt and his to handle in whatever way he sees fit.  He said he wants to try this again tomorrow, but I am ashamed and afraid.  Terrified of both my proximity to his heart and my power to injure.  I have never felt so intimately close to someone as I do now pressed up to his pain. I see it now.  It’s been long suspected, but never confirmed.

I peeked into his dark place, his private island.  I am the worst kind of voyeur: I peeped and then I wasn’t careful with what I saw.  Yet, I am confused.  A part of my fear surrounded our complicit avoidance of his Dark Place.  I didn’t want to push him to spill over with me to submission without first knowing the landscape.  I’d felt blind, but now I feel blinded.

I am fucked, damned, lost.  I am nothing.

He gathered himself slowly, gave me my usual “T minus so-many-minutes till I leave,” heads up, and tried to assure me he was recovered.  I remained skeptical, obviously.

He said he appreciated my goal to understand his emotional boundaries, but that he was also surprised  by his reaction to my probing.  “I wonder why that happened?” he said.

“Well, you were cracked open,” I suggested referring to when he’d begged me make his physical pain stop. “You were open to feeling.”

He hmphed, thoughtful.  “Yeah, maybe.”

He fell into silence again and I squeezed him over and over as though it were my last night with him ever.  I ran my hand through his petal-soft chest hair and breathed him in.  Just breathe, I told myself.  I knew he would be leaving soon.

I whispered how sorry I was again and he kissed me and my tears.  “It’s ok,” he said holding my gaze.  “I’m ok.”

He rose and tucked me in and when he gave me a final kiss goodnight — so tenderly, so sweetly — my heart broke once more as my regret filled my unworthy, silly shell of a human body.  Oh, if only I were truly celestial and beyond misakes! 

I let my hand drag across his face as he stood up and disconnected.  He smiled down at the bed, his light blue eyes soft and warm upon me when they could have been hard and cold.

I didn’t mean to hurt him.  I only meant to cause him a little pain.

I whispered “I love you.”

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Don’t say I never share my pussy with you.

This is about three nights, not one. Three nights that held significant blows, sweet reparations, and hair pulling frustrations; bondage and spankings; cleaning and scrubbing; apologies from both; admissions I wished I’d never heard; strawberry fields forever.

Day One:

He was my houseboy. He wore my gun-metal grey boy shorts — which I find hilariously and ironically sexy on his thick, muscular boy ass — and vacuumed meticulously around the apartment while I finished lighting candles and such. The air was relaxed, though hummed with tension. He’d been reprimanded in a way he hates: I’d denied him my audience.

But he dutifully vacuumed and then climbed into my bathtub and got to work scrubbing.

It wasn’t about humiliating him. My back is injured and therefore I cannot get down into the grime of the tub floor like it needs; I needed his strength. Though, as I pondered the entire scene I realized that in a D/s relationship, I didn’t need to legitimize anything. It’s my right to tell him to do whatever it is I like. And he didn’t complain. Not until after the deed was done and I’d told him it was a true sign of submission, loyalty, and kindness and the very fact that he hated it turned me on.

Then we slipped into the shower and I rinsed him off and shaved his beautifully hanging balls and he carefully shaved my legs. A first for us both. In a loving haze I asked when the last time he’d showered with someone was and he said, “You don’t want to know.”

But I insisted he admit to it. It was with 4 am girl. And I pushed him to admit it because it was already there hanging between us, mooning me. It’s shitty little asshole winking at my own naiveté. And then I made it worse because he shut down about it, but I wanted us to be open, goddamnit. And I pushed for more, Why didn’t he want to talk about it ever??

“Because, it still hurts that she rejected me,” he said testily.

My heart screeched still. After all this motherfucking time, is he still hung up on her?? What the ever-loving fuck?

“So, why don’t you see if she’s changed her mind? Call her up?” my voice was smooth as butter, not a quiver to be found.

“Nah, she’s a lesbian anyway,” he said softer, eluding to her alcoholism, persistent unhappiness, and her coming onto me that one horrible, drunken night almost a year ago.

And then we limped on with our night, toweling ourselves off from our not-so-special-already-done-this-recently-with-someone-else shower.

I restrained him and sucked him until he was raw; my finger was stroked and squeezed like a snake by his tight little asshole; I climbed up onto his warm, furry body and sunk down on his erection; I came five brilliant times; I bid him not to touch me while I writhed under my Hitachi; and I screamed out and sobbed soul cracking cries, my insides alight with the question of worth and of deserving this kind of humanly pleasure.

And then I lay there with tears streaking my cheeks, so alone. He wasn’t there with me. We were off all night long so this made sense. It seemed he moved with reluctance, but I couldn’t be sure. He’d untied his ankles as I’d sobbed then scooted closer. He didn’t ask for permission. He saw me fall apart and assumed the game was over. No, I told myself, he’s not actually far away, he was literally restrained, but I didn’t say he could untie himself…

He pulled me in closer and held me, but I needed to be held forever and ever and he wanted to watch Game of Thrones. My top dropping brain saw his actions in refracted light: it all seemed too short, too abrupt. It didn’t fucking flow. It hurt.

I managed to say, “No, not yet. Please. You know how I get after an orgasm like that.” I couldn’t admit it was top drop or how I felt like such a failure that he didn’t need repairing or how badly I felt about our shower repartee. All I could say was that I needed him.

“Ok, but just so you know, it’s 12:30.” He’d come over at 9. It’d been a long, intense night.

We lay in each other’s arms for a few more minutes and then turned on the computer. It was still too soon for me and I was asleep in minutes only to be awoken 45 minutes later to him gently slapping my cheek. “Time to wake up. I gotta go,” he said as he slid out from under my cheek.

I was disoriented, horrified, angry, sad. How dare he slap me to wake me up! I mumbled something about what a stupid, ridiculous way that was to wake me up and he kissed me a quick apology and left. I rolled over feeling bereft and lonely and slipped off to sleep. Every wonderful thing that had transpired between us that night temporarily forgotten.

Day Two:

I woke up confused, still dropping. Naked, wrapped in a towel he’d used to wipe the juices off between my legs since I’d been too incoherent to attend to it myself. I assured myself this feeling would pass — though it felt as though it was glued to my goddamned soul. Don’t text anything stupid was my morning mantra. It worked and the drop faded to a more organized pile of shit as the day warmed up.

I texted him that I needed a cuddle later that night because we’d had a “bad dismount” the night before. He asked “Will there be breasts?”

“Yep. They kinda always tag along.”

When he tucked himself into my bed that night, Faisal, a raging maniac of fur and the no-longer-elusive kitty farts, contented himself with attacking us and doing gravity defying acrobatics. I snuggled in and laughed at my little clown… and the cat.

“So,” I started, “Last night. I didn’t like how it ended. I felt rushed after I came and I really didn’t like you slapping me awake.”

His initial response was of “What! I didn’t hit you that hard!” and my comeback was simple:

“I don’t care. Don’t ever hit me. There are, literally, an infinite number of other ways to wake me up: stroke my face, kiss me, suck my breast, finger me, roll me over…”

He quickly understood and apologized, promised he’d never do it again.

“And you rushed me, which you know you can’t do. I need more time than that.”

“Awww,” he crooned and pulled me to him and his warm, fruity scent. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again, either.”

It was no wonder he’d rushed me, though. It could have been a subtle way to get back at me for that shower conversation or for making him scrub the tub. Most times I feel he’s only playing at being submissive since I can’t seem to figure out the key to get him to go there, to really open up. More failure, more frustration.

But we cuddled and talked and laughed on Day Two and I felt as good as I could. When he left I whispered to the darkened doorway, “I love you,” and waited to hear him at the door, but instead he popped his head back in and just looked at me.

I felt the blood rush to my face. Holy shit. Had he heard me call out into the night that I love him like some dramatic teenager??

He just stood there looking at me — I thought expectantly — it was hard to tell without my contacts. The silence dragged on, I was not going to make the first sound in this exchange.

He opened his mouth to speak. My heart crashed about like a seizing bird in my chest and the heat rose to my face and prickled my scalp. Moment. Of. Truth.

“Can I have some ice cream??” He smiled big and boyishly at me.

And the sail that had filled with wind sagged dramatically both with relief and sadness.

“Yes, of course you can,” I smiled back at him.

“Thanks!” he chirped and I heard the freezer door open and shut and then the front door.

Day Three:

I got butt hurt because he didn’t acknowledge me when he left our team after we met to get our new shirts for our next season of softball. He’d looked everyone else in the eye, shook hands, waved, whatever, but then quietly turned on his heel and left. I felt ridiculous from every angle. How low could I stoop in the coolness department, anyway?

Butt hurt, yet laughing at myself all the same, I texted him vague things which got us talking. I admitted to my idiocy and then also that I was on my period. He was the one who’d noticed a sad pattern of my behavior over the last 18 months that we mostly “fight” whenever I’m on my period. I don’t know what happens to me that week of the month; it’s like all rationale leaves me and don’t you fucking dare point that shit out to me or I may kill you while laughing and crying at how stupid I am. It’s tons of fun, lemme tell you.

He came over as soon as Peyton was tucked in and read to and I explained to him why my feelings had been hurt. Of course it was tempered with my dumbassery, but I believe I have a point nonetheless. I’ve discovered over these many months of us growing closer and being monogamous that so long as I give up the big things such as sharing him with my family and really going all the way as a couple, the little things are that much more important to me.

It looks like this: you don’t want to introduce me to your best friend or really commit to me? Ok, but you better fucking acknowledge me in front of a bunch of people I don’t give a shit about. I think it’s a fair trade off.

And trust me when I say, I’d much MUCH rather not feel this way at all, but I’m not perfect in this. I foible all over the place.

We cuddled and I ran my fingers through the strawberry-scented carpet on his chest and stroked his sleeping cock absent-mindedly. “Just so you know,” he gently warned, “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” A sweet, loving gesture that he adopted months ago when I complained that I hated how he’d leave mid-sentence (mine or his) most nights.

“Ok,” I said. “And just so you know, I don’t really want to do it, but I kinda do just because I know it’ll make me feel a lot better. But just, like, for only 5 minutes.”

We bantered about that for a long minute, his cock growing rigid beneath my rubbing. “Just five minutes, eh?” he challenged me. “We never do it for only 5 minutes.”

“That’s your fault, not mine. You know I’m always down for a quickie. What about the other day in your apartment?” I remembered being bent over his ottoman, sunshine spilling into his apartment, his cock ramming into me and being seized by an orgasm.

“Yeah, that’s true…” he admitted. “Ok, but only five minutes!”

I was surprised and laughed as he reared up and removed our underpants, licked his hand and pushed his hot head at my entrance. I pulled my thighs further apart delighting in the movement and he slid in.

“It’s 10:25,” I said. “I’ll watch the clock.”

He laughed and began to thrust and soon I was filled with heat and a rumbling, sparkly wave down to my fingertips. He hitched my ankles up on his shoulders and drove deep inside of me, my bed whined its bitchy, crackling tune, and I came again, blooming sweetly below him.

Those five minutes with him inside of me changed my chemistry and when it was over, at 10:30 on the dot, we both smiled at each other like kids looking at a birthday cake.

“Told you,” I said breathlessly, righting my clothing.

“Yeah, that was a good idea.”

He kissed me then, long and hard, and then left, locking the front door behind him.

He is my whipping boy.

He jumped up off the bed as he saw my anger rise. My voice was louder than I intended, my grip on my control slipping.

I stood up, too, not sure what he was doing, then he began to unbuckle his pants.

I rolled my eyes. I was not in the mood to play — not even remotely — I was close to the edge of no return.

He shook his head as if to shake me off. “I have something that will make you feel better.” He had done this to me, it was his fault for pushing, pushing, pushing me.

He pushed his jeans down past his hips, his underwear, too, and leaned on his elbows on the pile of clean laundry. “Go ahead. This will make you feel better. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

My breath caught as I looked at his bright white bottom, curved and muscular before me. I smacked him hard twice, but it hurt me more than it did him. I wondered aloud where my belt was, but he quickly removed his and handed it to me.

And as I thrashed his bottom I vented about the true object of my disdain and dislike. The Neighbor writhed and bucked, my voice a strange accompaniment to the sounds of leather on skin.

The red bloom was large and growing beneath my attentions. He was nearly trying to crawl away. So I stopped, said, “One more,” hit him harder than ever before and added to the male authority figure currently in my life, “And that’s for reminding me of my father.”

I drooped a little, confused. Both turned on, filled with love for him, and neatly exorcised.

TN had riled me up and offered his body as a vessel to demonstrate my anger to my demons both present and past.

I felt like one of those color-swirled marbles.

I caressed his rear end and pressed a cool Topo Chico bottle to the redness. He stood up and kissed me, gave me a big hug.

When he pulled away I saw his erection.

He shoved me roughly onto the pile of clothes, ripped my panties down and shoved himself inside. Peyton was watching TV on the other side of the locked bedroom door as I was getting pummeled from the inside, my anger wisping away like a blown out match.

Then it was done. My insides blooming, my chest heaving, my anger vanished.

The pile of laundry remained.
 

[Don’t forget today is the last day for Boobday submissions!]

I hope my neighbors got a show.

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He loves underboob.

My eyes were tightly shut, my breasts swung, my hand gripped his giant, hot erection, and my mouth enveloped his lollipop cock.

I worked it like it was salvation. Nothing else mattered. He tensed and relaxed again and again. I sneaked my free hand around to lodge tightly in the V of his spread legs to support my upper body and press devilishly against the cool, broad glass face of the butt plug wedged neatly into his body.

His body quivered and I stilled. He’d stopped talking minutes ago when he began to tense. This was him losing it: a quiet release of control which is only observed by his silent yearning.

He will never whimper like I do. Tears will never streak his face or sobs wrack his body. His subspace is a stoic place. He will giggle and shake his hands. His body will tremble and I will feel its pull like a bowed line to a great, fighting fish.

He pulled against the restraints and gasped.

“Is it too much?” I asked peering up at him.

“Nearly so,” he amswered.

“Good,” I smiled, “I told you you’d have to beg me to stop.”

I ducked back down and slobbered all over him. He pleaded with me to lighten my touch on the head and I gently adjusted, softening my tongue as I sucked and pulled wetly on him.

He began to quake again and his shaft bulged with heat, but then it slipped away and I knew instinctively he’d had enough, but I was waiting for his voice.

I continued to press against the butt plug and he surged again to an inhuman stiffness, but it slipped through his fingers again. I let him rest for another beat then lapped at him, popped the helmet into my mouth like a sweet and massaged it with my mouth.

He swelled again. I began to worry about him, Gow much more could a man handle?? And then he began to talk in a rush, “Ok, ok, ok. Please, stop…”

“Are you begging?”

“Yes! Yes! I’m begging. I can’t take any more, Ma’am.”

Softly, ever so softly like a butterfly kiss, I held him in my mouth and then let go. I slowly crawled up to his bound wrist, his jerking-off hand, and unbound it while my lips played on his. “Will you please put your hand on my cock?” he asked.

I pulled back and looked into his darkened eyes. “No,” I said simply. “You do that.” I had denied him so many things that night, no blindfold, no sex, no to every request he had. He was about to be rewarded.

He nodded obediently and I heard the telltale fapping as I reached for my Hitachi. I stood on the floor and put one foot on the bed frame and switched it on.

I nearly doubled over as the vibration quaked through me. His hand, a peach-colored blur in the candlelight before me, walked me to the edge and shoved me off, down into a dark and sparkling mass of orgasm below.

Tears slipped down my cheeks as I crawled to my nook. His arm wrapped around me and pulled me close.

We talked some then, whispers and deep tones, giggles and kisses.

He said he’d lost it. I told him I knew.

My top drop was flat and mellow as I felt the magic of the D/s play cool like a dessert rock at night.

I smiled into his strawberry skin and listened to him tell me how he lives in a fantasy: a hot, big-breasted, lusty, older woman who lives next door and who likes to dominate him.

I think he lives in a fantasy, too.

The storm outside boomed loudly and threatened rain. He took my hand and dragged me to the balcony. I draped blankets over our shoulders to keep away the spring chill and knelt before him. The skies parted and lit up our naked bodies; I devoured his huge and hot cock with my hungry little mouth.

He pulled me up and pushed me against the railing and not so gently rammed into me, his cock fat and wet. He grabbed the nape of my neck and held me there.

I moaned and panted, hoping desperately another neighbor was out to see Nature’s theater, but was also treated to hear the most ancient and natural of sounds: two bodies rutting.

Eventually, we tired and he slowly slipped out. He pressed his warm, furry body against mine and kissed my neck, my top drop completely forgotten, my belly warm and my heart full.

The night sky continued to light up just for us as we stood pressed together three stories high and on a dream. He walked me back to my bed and tucked me, blew out the candles and left.

I turn to the Domme side.

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I wore my nerdy glasses and pinned my hair with a pencil. My white, eyelet panties peeked out from the bottom of the cardigan.

I am not an insecure woman.

I am bold and confident, believe my common sense will guide me through any uncertain circumstance, and feel that my instincts are correct 99% of the time. I consider myself luckier than most.

Therefore, it confounds me when I feel confused, lost, or otherwise discombobulated.

Discovering my dominant side and fanning its flames does just this. It discombobulates the fuck outta me.

Many years ago, in a faraway land called Dating, Marriage and [mostly] Vanilla Sex, I yearned to be dominated. I wanted to be cherished, worshiped, and taken care of. Pain wasn’t a part of my fantasy. It was about letting go and trusting my partner to think of everything. To my overwrought, SAHM (stay-at-home-mom), neglected brain the notion of being used and directed was heaven. Sweet and salty, not-a-care-in-the-world caramel heaven.

My journey to this side of myself has been accidental. I’ve been tying up my lovers for years, but it was just something I did, not a part of who I am. Long term boyfriends had the pleasure numerous times to be pinned down, dripped with wax, pinched with clothespins, tickled with feathers, pegged, blindfolded, and otherwise sensually tortured by me and I enjoyed myself. Immensely.

I went to a primal place within me; I was a sexual nerve. Forward thinking, empathetic, pushing, pushing, pushing. And then I would hit the wall of uncertainty: what to do next? My lovers and I never talked about D/s — what the fuck was that? We just liked things a little spicy. And so I delivered. To a point.

When I would come to the end of that teasing path I always handed back the reins. My bashfulness rose and my ignorance reigned supreme. Instead of keeping him beneath me I relinquished control and didn’t see the gift of his submission. I mistakenly believed that I could only receive pleasure from him if I was the receptacle. Soft, submissive, feminine. It was selfish, sexist, and completely silly of me.

The Neighbor and I stumbled onto my abilities much like I had come upon my kinky pleasures in the past: we had the gear and the imagination and shit just happened.

He’d been telling me for months that he’d had a lover in the past for 6 months — some honey he met off of FetLife –who dommed him, but I dismissed it. I didn’t let it stick, sink in, or otherwise digest into any part of my consciousness. It did not compute.

Men are bigger and stronger, I thought. I don’t want to be in charge. I’m tired and need relief.

Back then TN like to spank the fuck out of me. I walked away from our encounters with welts the size of his paw on my hip and flanks. He’d growl at me and toss me around and I reveled in what felt like his dominance, but it never went all the way. He didn’t domineer, direct, or control me. He inflicted his superior strength upon me. There’s a difference.

One is intellectual, the other is opportunistic.

Embracing my ability to control and hold the reins has called into question the decisions I made during my marriage. Could it have been saved if I had taken over in the bedroom?

In hindsight, I recall my sweet exhusband’s own wall present in most of our interactions. His own uncertainty and hesitations. I demanded that he break it down, but to no avail. We hovered in a place of love and longing and lots of miscommunication. It broke my heart like so many pieces of glass.

I’m trying not to think about it.

My dominance over TN excites me for my future and whatever lovers I may have. Seeing a man bend his will to mine, to curb his superior strength, and to give over to me his own sexual pleasure is a tender, wild gift. I must treat it with respect and delicate hands. Give it little puffs of love as I pant beneath it and moan about its beauty.

It is less about penetration than it is about obedience. I keep TN and I calibrated through our roles. When he behaves badly, he is punished. I am just and open. He tells me why he’s getting spanked even as the belt laps at his pale skin. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m sorry for not thinking you knew that. I’m sorry for being petulant. I’m sorry for being a dick,” and so on. Sweeter words never befell my ears.

Last week, I was desperate for a session. We had re-hashed the rules and boundaries of our relationship and fucked numerous times, but I was adrift and mildly angry at the world, perhaps at him, certainly at me.

When he arrived 3 minutes late he knew immediately he would be getting at least 3 lashes. He argued with me and I added 5. He huffed at me and I added another 5. He rolled his eyes and I added yet another 5.

My mind was lightening quick, my math smooth as butter, quick as my words. “That makes 18 and I haven’t even finished lighting all the candles. Want to go for more?”

He ducked his chin and looked at me remorsefully. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” I stood there in my grey cardigan and panties feeling 6 feet tall instead of 5′ 5″.

He walked over to the bedside table where I had pulled out our toys. Body markers, a pretty glass butt-plug, lube, blindfolds, straps, and a banana-yellow ruler. I wanted everything within reach, but didn’t have much of a plan.

As I watched him watch me and move against my moves I became more aroused. He was regarding me with eager eyes. He waited for my voice, my command.

I told him to lay on the bed and we talked and I played with his flaccid penis. I sketched an outline of it like a dead body and measured it. Four inches soft as a water balloon.

When the outline grew to 8″ I told him to flip over. His round, white ass high in the air bloomed red as I carefully painted him with his 18 lashes. Then another 5 simply because I could.

I kissed the bright red skin and pulled him up by the shoulder, leaned in and kissed him.

“Let’s go take a shower,” I said then. “I’m shaving your balls and you’re going to wash my pussy.”

A small universe away from that moment I lay with legs splayed and his dark head between my thighs. He made me soar, though I didn’t cum.

When his jaw began to hurt I laughed. “We need more practice, TN. Lots more!” He smiled gingerly rubbing his jaw and agreed, stood up and pulled my bottom closer to the edge of the bed and slipped in deep and long.

Later, in a four-point restraint he dangled in front of an orgasm for so long his body tingled and he writhed and panted and begged for me to stop. I took pity on him and untied him, curled up in his arms and let him stroke me.

He plunged his fingers deep inside of me and burst through my shell and I released a bucket of ejaculate onto my sheets. I saw stars and couldn’t speak.

Cuddled in his arms again he said he was hungry. I agreed. And as I entered the neighborhood diner, my breasts free behind a white t-shirt and my hair home to a little bird’s nest in the back, I felt tough and fine and I sincerely hoped everyone knew what we’d just been doing.

We drove back home under the stars and he gave me a long kiss goodnight at my doorstep. I staggered back to my room which was littered with the proof of our debauched night and flounced onto the bed with not a little drama. Faisal mewed and pounced on me and I put my arm around him and floated away with dreams of dominance and a new sense of my anchor deep down below me.

I have gone to a new side of Hyacinth and staked my flag high and bright. I’m a little nervous and still somewhat shaken, but I much prefer the view from here as opposed to over there. It’s a lot nicer on the Domme side.

He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

My eyes were heavy and my head stung; that irritating need to sleep pulled at me from a distance. The house was cleaned, the floors bare for him to do his chore, my room glowed with candles and I curled under my down comforter with a leg bent on top. He’d said 10 o’clock.

At 10 after 10, I sneaked under the blankets effectively hiding the curve of my thigh and my soft thigh-high socks. In addition to the sting of exhaustion, irritation joined the fray.

My eyes closed and I relaxed into the feathers. One spank for each minute, I thought. This is unacceptable. I contemplated calling off the night all together, but felt that would be more of a punishment for me than him. Spanks would have to suffice. And then a little torture.

At 10:13 he texted, “ETA 2 minutes.” I grinned at the thought of a nice round 15 lashes on his white bottom. I dared him to make it 20 and closed my eyes again willing my anger away.

When I opened my eyes 2 minutes later he was in my room, naked. I looked at him quietly and rolled over to face him. His expression was clear and open, curious as I observed him. “You said 10 o’clock,” I told him flatly.

He leaned over me, a hand on either side of me, “I went and worked out and –” I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“There’s only one thing I want to hear from you. I don’t care about any of that other stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Yes.”

“I’m very, very sorry, Ma’am.”

“I was on top of the covers waiting for you, but it got too cold.”

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

In the short time we’ve been exploring D/s I can’t quite figure him out. He is supple in my hands inside defined parameters, but occasionally he steps out and I am forced to step up. I assume this is the nature of D/s: he wants and needs to be corrected. And the more he steps out, I’m discovering, the easier it becomes to deal with the slight to my ego, my heart, my whatever because I have a fall-back system with which to deal with it: punishment, and an old standby: communication.

I am continually amazed by this dynamic, how safe it feels, how normal and natural. I routinely catch myself so languidly happy with “us” that I jerk awake and remind myself this isn’t entirely real, due to the nature of our relationship. It’s going to end in a non-traditional way and, most likely, come from left-fucking-field.

He pulled my shirt down to expose a breast and went for it with his mouth. “No, no, no,” I said stopping him with my hand on his face. “You haven’t earned the right to suck, yet.” His face fell.

Just then I stretched beneath him and noticed my sore legs from my earlier run. “Massage my leg,” I suggested. He jumped at the chance yo make amends.

He sat back and gripped my thigh with his hands and kneaded the skin. I moaned and closed my eyes. “Good, boy.”

For the next 10 minutes I writhed and moaned, and told him “harder,” “more,” and “do my knee again.” My bad mood sifted away like sands at high tide.

“I have a second part to your punishment,” I said, “but I can’t decide to do it before or after you vacuum.” He sighed audibly. “Do you want to go for 3 parts??” I asked incredulous.

His answer solved all the riddles. With my foot cradled in his hands and his face bathed in candlelight he said, “Maybe.”

That one word took me to a different sphere. He wanted me to discipline, to not back down, to demand he fall in line; he wanted to know where the invisible fence lay and feel the sting of the zap when he went beyond it. I was more than happy to fulfill his desire.

I pulled my pj shorts aside, licked my fingers, and flatly began to rub my flesh; my clit icy hot bulged like a little balloon. The Neighbor lay between my splayed legs and could only watch. I continued to stroke, letting him lick my fingers when necessary, my hand a little blur.

He kneeled between my legs, a question on his face. I looked down and his erection bobbed fiercely between us.

‘Ok, but just the tip,” I panted.

He eased himself in, even the tip big and filling. My fingers whizzed over my skin and I felt the orgasm gathering like a distant storm. With a devilish grin, his eyes locked on mine, he pushed in past the tip.

“You’re being very naughty,” I glared at him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied and pulled back further.

It was torture — pure motherfucking torture – to follow through on my directive, be consistent.

His little thrusts were more tantalizing, more sensual, more deliberate. He seemed utterly in control; I ached for him to plunge into me. “Ok,” I breathed finally, “You can go all the way in.”

He fell forward over me encasing me in his strawberry scent and kissed me as he squeezed fully into me… and held.

That hold, that pause, it’s the most magnificent part of sex. Better than cumming, better than sub-space/topping/swallowing/anything. It’s the moment my senses are alight and I am a nerve, a woman, human and pulsing. That thrust is everything.

He pulled back slowly and re-entered me, his lips soft and pliant on mine. He kissed my neck then and nibbled my shoulder as he thrust again, slowly. I grabbed his flanks and held him close again and with every ounce of self-control I could muster — I regained my position on top and pushed him away. “Assume the position, please,” I gently ordered.

My red leather belt made matching red marks on his lily white ass proffered to me like a virgin on the slab. He apologized for being late and for letting me get cold. Each loud smack was met with a grunt and an, “I’m sorry, Ma’am!” All my checked anger pooled in my cunt as I concentrated on hitting the same tender skin repeatedly; my arm felt like a sniper; my senses danced on pinpoints.

At 15 I kissed his red bottom and said, “Aren’t you glad you weren’t 16 minutes late?” and gave him the gift that he’d been begging to wear for 24 hours: The Oatmeal’s Hot Cock underpants.

He slipped them on, twirled about like a little boy with his new cowboy gear and went about cleaning my floors. I waited in my room, naked beneath the sheets.

When he was finished he peeled off the bright red shorts and climbed under the covers with me and I threaded my legs with his and nestled in his strawberry-patch chest. “I don’t know how you make strawberry so fucking sexy, but you do,” I murmured into his skin; his fingers traced lines on my arm.

I sat up then and threw the pillows off revealing black velcro wrist restraints that I’d gotten ready for him. He exclaimed happily and held still while I wrapped his wrists high where he couldn’t touch me. This was Part 3 of his punishment: a little torture.

I sat between his legs and kissed him and dragged my tender nipples along his thighs as I licked his shaft from balls to stern. He moaned and stretched beneath me and mumbled something ridiculous.

I crawled up his body and pushed the weight of my breasts into his face, not allowing my nipple to enter his mouth. He whimpered and rooted for one. He continued to babble despite my earlier warning to be quiet.

I pulled away abruptly and dug in my box of ties. “I warned you if you weren’t quiet I’d gag you. You’re much more appealing when you’re silent,” I said again. I tied a strip of green silk behind his head and, like a dutiful horse with a bit in his mouth, he was presented to me. He was magnificent.

Subdued, gloriously masculine for giving up his power and strength over me, muscled and broad, yet under my care and creativity. I was in total control by the look in his eyes. My heart raced and burst at the seams with love for him.

With the room nicely void of his musings I fell lustily on his cock, rabidly hard and impatient. I told him I was going to play with his beautiful little anus and that there was nothing he could do to stop me. He nodded.

I sucked and stroked with my mouth and hand and pushed tenderly at the pucker with my index finger. It flexed and withdrew from my touch like an anemone in the tide pools. I pushed gently in time with the motion of my head, never breaking the ring to his body.

I felt him begin to open beneath me, his passion taking him past embarrassment. I pulled away, stopped, dragged my breasts up to his face and pressed them into his eyes and against his closely shaven face.

He moaned and strained against the ties and I maneuvered a breast into a hand for a quick grab before I swung my left leg over him like I was mounting a saddle. I leaned forward to maneuver his cock inside of me, letting him see a wink of my own asshole. I sat back down, deeply, giving him a full view of my ample ass engulfing him.

He exclaimed around the gag as I moved slowly, exploring the sensation of his cock backwards inside of me. I moved faster and moaned uncontrollably. My chest and arms felt warm and heavy and I began to whimper when I heard a muffled, “Vibrator…” from behind me. I stopped and turned around. “Vibrator…” he said again.

I clicked it on and placed it on my tender skin. He twitched inside of me and I bucked against it as if scalded. I made noises I didn’t know I could make as the orgasm tore threw me and left me a quaking, shaking mess around his mischievous, twitching penis.

I pulled off of him, turned around and impaled my face on his erection and went back to his little ass-star. Happily, eagerly, and within seconds I felt him bear down on my finger. I slipped it just inside and pushed at the rim as I sucked.

As I felt him reopen to me I brought my breasts back to him, pausing my attention to his cock, and – finally – untied the gag. He suckled on my teats, greedy and ravenous.

I pulled away from his sweet mouth and returned to his delicious cock. He gasped and bucked as my finger went back to his hole and mouth continued to draw on him.

I heard velcro pop a little then, his sharp intake of breath, and held on as he arched into me spewing his seed into my hot little mouth. I tasted his tart, hot jizz and smiled around him. He shook and rattled to a stop and giggled and breathed jagged gulps of air.

I flopped down next to him and gently untied his hands. “Now your punishment is over.” We laughed and hugged each other.

He thanked me and kissed my temple. I lay in his arms for minutes more and we chatted about our night. “I love the three S’s”, he said, “Strawberries, sex, and submission.” I giggled and kissed his warm skin laced with sex and fruit. Then, it was time for him to go.

He tucked me in, thanked me for everything, and apologized again for being late.

“Thank you for saying that, but quite honestly, I’m glad you were late.”

“Me, too,” he said and left.

His penis is lemon-y.

I was trying to be cute and flirty by sending him a pic of his beautifully massive erection this morning.

He came over last night after Peyton was in bed to show me a sunburn, but ended up revealing my black lace panties beneath his shorts instead — and a boner to end all boners.

So, I snapped pics of his delicious bubble butt, our legs tangled, my hand on his ass, a rear view shot with his dangling nut sack falling out of the lace basket, and some with the cock itself bursting out of the top of the lace towards the camera lens. It was one of those I sent.

But autocorrect decided to reveal how dorky — and unsexy — I really am.

:: sigh ::

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He gets on his knees.

“Do you want me on my knees in front of the fireplace?” he asked sweetly.

“I’m not sure,” I answered, thoughtful. “I plan on being out late tonight and drinking.”

“Well, ok. Just let me know.” I gave him the customary swat out the door and clicked the lock behind him.

::

When I go back a year and read my posts, my yearning for something is palpable. I wanted connection, love, trust, passion. I was locked in a terrible embrace with fear of loss and all it entails and The Neighbor was a complicit partner.

He was uncommunicative and distant. He liked to taunt me, torture me and basically flog my ego until I would literally beg for parts of him, at which point he might deign to humor me. Or possibly not.

What I didn’t know then, that I’m beginning to understand now, is that my offered position of subservience kept him away and it never had the potential to draw him nearer like I hoped. He wanted me on top. Always. Somewhere near his marrow he is some kind of submissive.

He needs me to be in charge, confident and independent, not simpering and desperate for attention. He needs me to think of him and his pleasure first. I need his trust and for him to need me.

Since the sun has risen on this slumbering side of me I feel taller — I’m the tallest 5’5″ woman you know — and I am no longer scared of him walking off. Maybe I’ll walk off instead.

And now my stark, raving fear has gone away like the steam from a kettle. I am gentle. I am strong. I am changing. I make the decisions.

The shift isn’t perceptible to the outside. It’s a private contract we’ve signed between each other. When he calls me “Ma’am” in public I swell with pride and excitement. The rules are making themselves known with each step; I could never have laid them all out myself.

One thing is clear: I’m more in love with him than ever.

::

“I’m coming to get you. Text me the address,” he said, his deep voice clear and vibrant.

It hadn’t been the plan at all, but he’d been texting me all night asking my whereabouts and my ETA and things weren’t going according to plan.

Apparently, he was coming to rescue me from the hipster-clogged streets and over-extended taxis. I would soon be in his kneeling arms after all.

Thirty minutes later he pulled up in his dark luxury car at the end of the street and my friend and I hopped in, to be greeted by his boyish face dusted with whiskers and split with a smile.

We lavished thanks on him and he was gracious and kind as he dropped off my friend. When she was gone, the silent whisper of the car taunted me to rub the bulge between his legs. My white knight in a black car was aroused.

Moving shadows played across his face, his thick hands gripped the steering wheel, and I continued to make him grow.

We parked and climbed the stairs. He fondled my bottom and I giggled. A pat and a tickle. A love and a whisper.

A minute later, naked and pressed against him my body flexed and received him. Ever ready, always wet at the slightest glance, we both exclaimed as he pressed deep inside of me.

“I’m not going to look away,” I said, more to myself than him and my lashes fluttered.

His broad shoulders over me, his arms locked and flexed, his beautifully shadowed face nodded approval. Then he began to move.

The flower of my passion opened like the hussy that she is and I dug my nails into his flanks to draw him ever closer. His tempo increased and he hitched my ankles up to his shoulders and pile drove into me.

Bloom after bloom of little g-spot fireworks peppered me from the inside and I coasted for a minute like a rag doll. I begged him to stop, said I was going to die, but never truly cried uncle. The torture was too sweet.

I grabbed his head and pulled his face down to mine and kissed him passionately.

“Ok, stop. Stop for real,” I panted. He instantly stilled and waited. For me.

“Get on your knees,” I whispered. “I want your cum on my tits. Now.” He raised his eyebrows for a second, but didn’t hesitate. Slowly he pulled out and kneeled to my left. This wasn’t the kneeling man I’d envisioned earlier, but this was a beautiful man.

I leaned over and grabbed the Hitachi and the head buzzed noisily on my clit as his hand became a blur above me.

“Oh my god, you are so hot, Hy,” he gritted out. I closed my eyes to imagine the sight we made: a creamy and muscled man, with dark hair across his chest, his tree-trunk legs spread wide and kneeling, his hand fapping at his enormous erection like a teenager with a box of porn and me, a thickly curved woman on her back, breasts large and plump like domes of Jell-O, knees slightly splayed, breath heavy, eyes closed beneath her dark and staring lover.

My revery was broken by a lusty, “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum on your tits.”

“Cum on my face,” I offered.

He exploded and cried out and I closed my eyes as semen rained down on me, landing on my breasts, my jaw, and my cheek.

He fell forward and giggled a little. I pressed the wand down harder and concentrated as the jizz’s magic heat began to cool on my skin. He laid down beside me and made little patterns in it over the swells of my breasts and the flat stretch of my chest. He followed the trail up to my jaw and kissed some off of me.

My build jumped forward and I chuckled that a glob was under my eye. Carefully, he wiped it away and closed his mouth over mine. My pussy clenched and I inhaled the fragrance of his seed and remembered the look in his eyes moments before and I came long and hard in his arms and to his words of encouragement.

::

I am not the boss of him — I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t really want to do, but my loss of fear has opened me up to the possibility of being something else for a change: myself.

Dominance and submission, compersion via swinging, good old fashioned vanilla, a blowjob and a handjob. It doesn’t matter what I do so long as I’m real, so long as I’m me.

And me — I think — is a horny, self-esteemed, loving, curious, bashful schmuck who is no longer afraid of losing someone because she’s sorta found a little more of herself.

Fancy fucking that.

I have permission to fuck other men. I think.

photo(1)
Obama would approve, I’m certain.

I was at my kitchen table doing my secret sex blog stuff last night when I heard a faint knock at my door and saw The Neighbor’s head peek through.  The rest of him, clad in a towel, followed.  I knew he’d been in his tub and I’d told him I wished I was sitting on his toilet with a glass of wine shooting the shit, but he’d asked for a “TN night” and so I was content to do my own thing.

But, here he was.

He complimented me on my new dress and I complimented him on his giant, flaccid penis outlined by the white terry cloth.  “I’m not here to fuck.  I just wanted to hear about your interesting day.”  He carefully repositioned the towel exposing his flanks.  “C’mon, let’s go lay down.”

“Ok,” I agreed standing to follow him, “but I only said it was mildly interesting.”

I lit a candle and he crawled under the covers, losing the towel.  I sat demurely on top of the duvet, an arm’s reach away.  “Come in here,” he said and patted the spot beside him.  “Ok, so, your day.  What happened?”

“I had coffee with Jason.”

“Was that the guy who wanted to suck my dick?”

“He was one of them, yeah.  We struck up a chat a few weeks ago on Facebook and decided to catch up.  It was weird, but cool.  He was also the guy who gave me a C for dirty talk.”

“What a fucking asshole!”

“Yeah, well, anyway, it was ok.”

I lay in his arms and played with his chest hair idly, the two margaritas and two glasses of wine in me emboldened me to parlay this into a deeper conversation.  “How do you feel about me meeting him?”

He as quiet for a bit then said he didn’t mind.  “What if I’d fucked him?”

“Then I’d be disappointed.”  He paused here and thought.  “I think I’d want to approve of any old or new lover you hooked up with and I’d want you to tell me so we would start using condoms again.”

“So I have permission to fuck other people?”

“I’m not sure… I don’t have permission to fuck other people, though, do I?”

I sat up and looked at him, nuzzled his face and his chest with my lips.  “No, you don’t.  You said you didn’t want to back in January.  It doesn’t work that way. Have you changed your mind?”

Again, he was thoughtful.  “No.  No, I haven’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He grabbed my breasts and squeezed and I got up and kneeled between his knees, spread them slightly with my own.  His massive thighs bright white against the dark aubergine sheet.

“Suck my cock now,” he growled.  I grabbed his chubby cock and looked at him.

“No.  What do you say?” I asked him with a soft smile.

“Fucking suck it now, you dirty fucking slut!” he tried again.  My heart quickened and my smile grew.

But again, I said, “No.  More.”

And in a sweet, soft voice he asked, “Will you please suck my cock, Ma’am?” and without delay I fell on the cock that had become as rigid as a soldier.

My dress pooled around my legs and my tits fell out of the top and my tender nipples dragged on his flexed thighs.  I sucked and slurped and gripped and took little breaks to let his tension build.

When his erection was mighty, I didn’t want it in my mouth anymore and pulled my panties down.  He pushed me to my back and lifted up my skirts and drove into me, my ankles hiked over his shoulders like a knapsack.

He lit into me like a man possessed, I managed to stare at his shadow-cast face, so beautiful and masculine, staring down at me for several moments before the pounding knocked my eyes shut.  My pussy gushed and I squirted down my the crack of my bottom and moaned and gripped and clawed at him.  He didn’t want things to change, was all I could think.

He slammed into me a few more times then held still.  “I think I hurt my balls,” he winced.  I laughed and hugged him.

“Oh, honey, that’s awful!” I crooned and kissed his neck, his head hung down dejectedly.  He rolled off of me and disconnected.  I was still happy about sneaking in “honey” as I gently fondled his sack.  “We should put a pillow there or something next time!”

He chuckled.  “I have a fluffy sports headband I could use!”

As we chatted in each other’s arms I continued to stroke his erection, never letting it waiver.  “Do you think I could suck your cock?”

He nodded and I repositioned myself between his legs.  I sucked and paused, sucked and waited, stroked and moaned.  I told him how gorgeous his cock was, how much I loved sucking it.  He teased me that I had seduced him, that he hadn’t planned on fucking me at all and I pointed out he was the one who had demanded I suck his cock in the first place.  He giggled and I fell back down on him.

He burst into my mouth seconds later, his sweet laughter filled the darkened room.  He shook his hands like little meaty helicopters.

I laid in his arms again for a little while then massaged his back with the Hitachi and brought myself to a little standing orgasm in between causing him to yell, “Kelly Clarkson!” from the intense vibrations on his sore spots.

We laid together finally then and talked some more and I teased him about our next break up which is due in April if we are to keep our 90-day Hy-freaks-out schedule.  “Are we gonna break up and then get back together?” he asked, “or are we gonna break up break up?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to get back together.”

“Ok, then that’s what we’ll do.”  He got up to go and I felt silly and a little guilty for everything, the double standards, my emotional demands.  “Our relationship is an unconventional one, maybe we need unconventional maintenance, too,” I suggested.  He nodded agreement and I walked him to the door while slipping on my favorite Obama shirt and a pair of white panties.

He crossed the 4 feet to his door, looked around, and let the towel drop.  We smiled at each other and he walked into his apartment.

I need to say more, I think, let him know that I still love him.  Or maybe that’s a silly idea and I should keep my mouth shut and be happy with his continued interest and fidelity.

Fuck.

Love is not always the answer and anyone who tells you so is full of shit.  Love, sometimes, is the problem.

Hy and Obama
Just your average Tuesday morning photo shoot.