I support our troops.

Hy on her knees 3

Imagine me with him.

Or “troop” as the case may be.

Captain was tall, 6’2″ and broad-shouldered.  He hunkered a little, as if to dodge something from overhead.  His texting cadence was respectful and succinct.  He was in town visiting his family on a pre-deployment leave and was going stir crazy at home.  Would I be interested in meeting up for a drink?

His Tinder profile ached with a Marine’s loneliness: he’s never around long enough to put down roots, always looking to meet new people.  My heart cracked a little.

“Yes, I’d love to meet you for a drink.”

We sat in the horseshoe-shaped booth for hours.  I drank my wine, he sipped his beers with measured resolve.  “I command 50 18 year olds.  I don’t drink like they do,” he explained.  I drank like a 40 year old who’d taken a Lyft to the bar to meet a 26 year old Marine.

He’d been deployed more times than I could keep track of and he was weary.  He felt a 100 years old and heavy.  I made jokes about nothing and flirted with his old soul, tickling him out from under the weight of the world.

Drinks gone I asked if he wanted to catch a ride home with me.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Minutes later we stood in the dark dog park behind my building and I teased him about the length of his jeans.  “Aren’t your ankles cold?”

I walked up to him, a building light cast a dark shadow along the right side of his face.  I grabbed his hips and tilted my head up.  I smiled at him and lifted up on my toes; the light glimmered in his dark eyes.

He tasted of the coffee I’d made him to perk him up and his lips were pliant.  I wanted to give him the best fucking night of his life.

Hy on her knees 2

Is my writing less impactful because my tits are out?

On my couch he pounced.  Passionately, with wild abandon.  I encouraged him with little whispered yeses and moans.  He pulled my skirt and panties off and roughly shoved my knees apart.  His clean shaven face crushed down on me and I felt his purr against my plump folds .  For a moment I felt as though he had dived into a deep well — he wasn’t there, but beneath the surface.

I dragged him up to kiss me and his fingers replaced his mouth.  He hooked into me and he was tough in that perfectly delicious way.  I gushed around his hand and I felt him freeze on my mouth as he realized I’d just ejaculated into his hand.  I nodded to answer his silent question and kissed him more.  He slammed his hand into me again and I came once more, drenching the poor motherfucking couch.

The next few hours of my life were a daisy chain of orgasms and puddles and trembling limbs.  His cock, a manageable size, found its way buried deep in my ass.  A first for us both.

I stood on splayed legs scrutinizing the sensation, begged for more lube, and then came like a mare.  My juices dumped from above as if from a bucket.

He fucked me over the toilet as I went to toss a condom, he lifted my leg on the counter and I watched us in the mirror, my hands pressed greasily against the glass.  I rode his face, his cock; I rode him backwards and upside down.  He was inexhaustible and I was not going to give up on him.  Occasionally I pleaded for a break and it seemed like he’d count to 15 in his head and then come at me like a rocket all over again.

Condom after condom slipped away, wrappers strewed about my room, my bedding soaked with our sweat and my juices.

Near 4 am he climbed on top of me, a familiar position, his weight heavy and slick on top of me and he finally came in a long, low grunt.  I trembled and fell limp, my hands prickled, my eyes filled with stars.

It had been months, many months, since a lover found such delight between me and him.  Captain, starved from months of duty, lusted for the release that civilians take for granted.  He drank every ounce of the moment of his effect on me and me on him.

We lay together panting and I immediately drifted off; I had work less than a handful of hours later.  He stirred.

“Hy, I’m really sorry, but I have to go home…” he seemed heartbroken.  “Can I call you in November when I get back?”

“You better, Captain” I said.  “And it’s ok, honey.  I get it.” I could barely open my eyes.

“Yeah, I just really need to be in my own bed.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.  I’m ok.”

He got dressed and I staggered to my closet and put on my robe.

At the door I wrapped my arms around his waist and he stooped to kiss me.  Despite plans to see each other the following day I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.  This would likely be the last time I’d see him for quite some time, possibly forever.

He thanked me again and walked outside.

“Goodnight, Captain.  Be careful.”

“I will.”

I wondered if he’d meant to add a “Ma’am” at the end out of habit.

I didn’t get to see him again before he went back to base.

Hy on her knees 1

Fuck the haters.

 

When it’s easy, it’s easy.

It’s cold in my living room.  The dog is passed out on his end of the couch.  The rain is tapping and steady.  Two mugs of cold coffee sit near my slippered feet.  Bones left about 30 minutes ago, his gym bag over his shoulder, a little smirk under his beard.

We kissed chastely (morning breath avoidance) and I smacked his ass as he walked out the door.  “Have a good day,” I said.

“You, too.”

I shut the door and smiled, felt normal for a change.  This is so fucking easy I feel like it’s a trick.

Men don’t languish on my couch and tell me hilarious stories on cool, grey mornings.  I don’t sit with my legs on their laps or tell them childhood stories of triumph and trauma.  What I do is fuck then leave — run, really – as far away as I can get.  But I feel rooted to the spot with this man, like I’m watching a trail of ants traverse an obstacle in slow, but steady motion.

A week and a half ago he fucked the ever loving shit out of me and tore me apart.  I knew it was happening, grit my teeth against the pain, and let him fuck me to completion not caring at all at what was happening to me.  And I regret the decision with all my being since.

I’ve winced as I walked and sat down, have basically lived in hot baths with Epsom salts  and yesterday I spent the afternoon sitting on ice packs.  I’m getting better, but all that to say: I haven’t been able to fuck since.

The first day he came over after my injury I warned him of my situation.  He didn’t care.  We watched Netflix, our thighs touched, and I swat his straying hand away from my nipples from time to time.

“Do you need some attention?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

In my bed, in the candlelight, I gave him some.  I sucked and tugged on him until the back of my throat filled with his cum.  I lamented the fact that I couldn’t ride his pretty cock and he chuckled and stroked my temple.   I plugged in the Hitachi and draped the cold cord across his thighs and came when his mouth latched onto my nipple.

Friday night, we played Uno with his friends and he drove us home in my car.  In the soft morning light, I sucked and tugged on him again until he cried out and I guzzled him down.  I  came with the Hitachi, his meaty hands pinched my nipples in rhythm to my cries.

Last night he came for dinner and I learned I’m not the only one for whom this is all new.  He sat on the couch as I worked in the kitchen and I saw a small paperback clutched in his hand.

“No way!” I said incredulously.  “You are not going to read while I cook!  Get in here and talk to me!”

Sheepishly he put the book down.  “But you said you didn’t need any help!”

“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to sit here and talk to me!”  I laughed at the ridiculousness of it.  “I have never in my life invited someone over for dinner and they not talk to me while I cook us dinner.”

Apparently, the womenfolk in his world — such as his mother — kick all the men out of the kitchen.

Conversation with him doesn’t flow, except when it does.  He’s guarded, yet open, funny, but quietly so.  We talked about our days and I avoided grilling him with all the questions I have and instead choose the comfortable, yet long pauses that tend to fill the gaps between topics.

When dinner was ready he sat down and I gathered up bowls of shiny steamed mussels and scallops in white wine and butter broth.  I set them down in front of him and grabbed the baguette from the oven.

“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier,” he said.  “I don’t know how to be sometimes.  First dates, fine, second dates, ok, but third and more?  I don’t remember what to do.”

I sat down and wrestled with the piping hot bread, handed him some and laughed.  “So you’re saying you don’t remember your indoor manners?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

That admission seemed to unlock something and we giggled and joked and shared terrible stories about the terrible things we’d done in our past.  It seems I was not the most dissolute one at our table.

After dinner I quickly cleaned up and we sat touching on the couch.  I learned that he rarely, if ever, has interest in anyone after the second date.  I thought, I feel ya, dude, but said nothing.  I think last night was the dozenth time we’ve spent together.

Back in my room he stripped and lay looking at me, his head propped in his hand.  It reminded me of that Burt Reynolds nude and I laughed as I peeled of my clothes, all save for my panties.  I was still out of commission.  He said he figured as much.

I climbed up on his warm torso and dipped my mouth to his.  His lips nibbled and slid across mine, our tongues touched and flicked and his hands kneaded my breasts.  I raised up and filled his mouth with one and cupped his face to hold him there.

“Bite me,” I said.

I moaned as the pain hit me, offered him the other breast.  Rinse, repeat.

I slid down him, his cock hard and bobbing, and sucked and tugged again.  My finger pressed against the starfish of his ass, just a little pressure and he tensed and moaned.  I sucked and stroked and intermittently pressed his button until he shot his load down my throat.  I flopped down beside him and opened my eyes.  His outstretched hand held my Hitachi.

I came and fell asleep spooning his back upon his request.

A crack of thunder woke us both a short while later, I shook a little from fright.  The heavens opened up and the gods fought with mightly clashes.  I wished more than anything our bodies could be doing the same.

Instead we cuddled and moved about, the dog pinned me against Bones’ warm, furry legs.  We took turns draping an arm on each other until the storm stopped roaring in the sky and turned to a distant purr.  

My eyes closed and I dreamed about The Neighbor.  He told me he loved me and regretted everything he’d done to hurt me.  I was ambivalent, yet pleased about the revelation.  When I awoke, it wasn’t TN quietly sleeping next to me and I felt relief.  I knew he wasn’t going to get up and run out at first light.

Dawn rose grey and dreary and my room was still when he rolled onto his side and I felt his hardon on my hip.  We laughed that it had somehow magically found its way out of this boxers.  He moved to his back and began to stroke it, its thick crookedness silhouetted by the grey square of my window.  I watched, mesmerized.

“You can cum on my tits,” I said and smiled.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He straddled my chest and slid between my breasts as I pushed them together.  I opened my mouth and hit the head of his cock as he thrust.  He rose up and rubbed my nipple with his shaft and it spurted on my jaw and neck.

“You came?” I asked looking up at him.

“No!  I think that was precum!”  Neither of us had ever experienced that before.

My breasts glistened and jiggled and I pushed him off of me and climbed between his thighs.  I sucked and tugged and pressed again until he came.  He handed me my wand as I flopped beside him and helped me cum, too.  A familiar routine.

I lay on my back in my black panties and watched the ceiling fan in its circular blur.  He went to the bathroom to clean up and laid back beside me.  Our legs touched from ankle to hip, my hand rested on his muscular thigh, his on my temple.

“Want some coffee?” I got up and wrapped myself in my short white robe.

“Sure,” he replied.

I measured the coffee, threw in a cinnamon stick, and thought how strange this felt while simultaneously very normal.  He’d mentioned last night that sleeping over and hanging out was what you did when you slept with a girl if you liked her.  I’m only just now remembering he said that.  I guess he likes me??

We drank 2 and a half cups of coffee and I didn’t really want him to go, but, you know: jobs and such.  We made plans to see each other Saturday night.  Hopefully by then a blowjob will only be a side dish and not the main event.

Here’s to being normal again.

 

 

 

I’m reminded of him.

I should have been writing, but took pics instead.

The morning after.

As my heart and I move further away from The Neighbor I feel the loss of the most special thing we shared: our chemistry. 

Together, in the middle of a dark and swirling relationship the two of us shone bright.  We fucking sparkled like goddamned diamonds.  Noodle saw it first hand, as did all my real life friends even if not that up close and personal.

I re-read old posts of our times together and I think, That was me?  That was us?  We did that??  It almost doesn’t seem real.

I was so madly in love with the feelings I had when I was with him it’s hard to sort out if it was the man I loved or how he made me feel.  It’s irrelevant now, seeing as how we’ve been over for more than a year, but despite the countless hot as fuck encounters I’ve had since our breakup, none have connected to me on the cellular level like his energy did with me.  And I miss it like a motherfucking limb.

Missing it means I’m reminded of him when I come close to it.  Missing it means I’m reminded of him when it’s a far cry from what I remember.  The feelings I had with him are an ever-present spectre in my life and I am confused and sad.  It’s so hard to detangle the feelings from the man, from our stupid, sad “relationship” I constructed out of nothing but tenuous hope and sheer will power.

Bones came over for dinner last night.  I made us lobster risotto with a homemade lobster stock and an arugula salad tossed with olive oil, salt and toasted almond slivers.  We flirted in the kitchen and he was more open.  He grows funnier each time we see each other.  It was easy and sexy and he joked about the workout he’d give me later since I’d missed my morning class.

His willingness to come over and spend time with me is so different from most men, certainly from TN, that it pulls up the hurt I felt for years to spend time with the man I loved.  If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.  TN is long gone from my life and a happy, pleasant, eager man is right in front of me and who can I not help but think of??  It’s embarrassing, frankly.

On my couch, brownies eaten with guilty smiles, I leaned in for a kiss.  He is by far one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my life and I’ve never looked forward to a makeout session with anyone like I do with this short, muscled man with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Before long I was on his lap naked, save but for my black lace panties, and breasts shoved into his smiling face.  I unbuckled his pants and pulled his big cock out and pulled the crotch of my panties to the side and pushed him in and rode him like a mustang and goddamn it if the fucking couch didn’t make as much obnoxious noise as my bed.

We laughed and I panted and squirmed around the shaft in my middle.  He hit my thighs gingerly and I told him to hit me harder.  He did and I smiled, but it wasn’t hard enough, not like what he used to do.

I raised up off of him and his wet cock flopped on his belly.  “C’mon,” I said and pulled him up behind me and led him to my room and bent over the bed, feet wide.

He buried himself in me from behind as I gripped the bedding for purchase and locked my knees against the bed frame.  Stars burst up through my limbs and rolled over my shoulders and through my skull.  I lifted my feet off the ground and suspended myself on the edge of the frame, the perfect height to his as he slammed into me.  He wedged his thumb into my asshole, his moans of pleasure mixed with the squeaks of the bed and my cries.

I came again and little sobs tried to escape.  I held them back, the similarity to what I felt with him too much to bear in the moment.

I begged him to cum but he pummeled me instead.  I climbed up on the bed and he followed me.  Two bumping, humping pale figures serenaded by a rudely moaning bed.

I called him baby, moaned about his big cock, my orgasms, general nonsense.  My words incoherent at best, muffled groans at worst.  He pulled out and tipped me over and lay beside me.  I panted and closed my eyes.  My hands tingled like the were pressed on the tips of needles.

I pulled my Hitachi out from under my pillow and swung my legs over his.  “Come here,” I instructed and pulled him towards me, his cock bobbed in agreement.  His motions were confused.  He didn’t know what I wanted.  This was a favorite thing for me to do with TN and I hadn’t done it with anyone since him.

We reconnected and he pushed in deeply, thrust a few times for good measure.  I clicked the wand on and pressed it bare against my skin. He began to move and he lit me up from within as the wand drilled down from without.  I climbed and burst into flames in under a minute and his hips ground into me, so different from him whom I made hold still.

Sobs bubbled up and two tears, one from each eye, squeezed out and pooled in the shells of my ears.  I came dangerously close to the feelings I had come to seek with him every time we were together.

I threw the toy away and he swung my leg around him to nestle between my thighs.  His face was alight with a smile and I closed my eyes so as not to connect.  I never look into a lover’s eyes.  Just, never.  Even with him, I’d flutter my lashes and only peek at his intense, icy gaze.  It was no different with Bones’ dark blue stare, it was like peeking at the sun; I simply can’t bare it.

Still not writing.

Should have been writing about all of this.

His smile was the same, though.  That grin of total power when I began to toss my head from side to side as his gigantic cock filled me up and choked me from the inside of my belly.  He slowed his tempo when I begged him to speed up, just like TN would, and he watched with pleasure as I began to twitch and choke on sobs that refused to be kept at bay.

Legs over his shoulders, folded up under him, wrapped around him.  He murdered my pussy until I was a rag doll and tapped his shoulder for respite.  He stopped and rolled off.

“Are you going to cum?” I panted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will you jerk off on me?”

“I will certainly try.”

Again, so much like him.

He got up and found some lube and stood over me beside the bed.  I put the toy on me again and came quickly watching his hand make a dark blur of his groin.  Instead of finishing on me he climbed back on top of me and fucked me until we were exhausted.  Still no orgasm for him.

Unfazed — or deterred — I crawled between his legs and sucked and slobbered on him until I heard his voice tremble and his breathing jerk, his thighs tense.  He cried out as I gobbled down his cum and wiped my lips on my arm.  TN couldn’t do this for me for an entire year.

I climbed up and lowered down into his arms.  We kissed and smiled and fell asleep shortly after, comfortable in each other’s presence.  I didn’t have to say goodbye wrapped in a robe or see him slip out into the balmy night.  I got to fall asleep to the sounds of his breathing and feel his occasional twitch into slumber.

When the storm the weather men had predicted hit 3 hours later we awoke and moved closer to one another then fell back asleep.  When the dog cried to be let back in he got up and opened the door for him.  When we overslept we laughed and put pillows over our heads and slept for yet another hour together.

When the growling in my stomach forced me from bed I finally put on my robe and got up to make myself some coffee.  “Would you like some?” I asked not at all expecting him to say yes; he never did.

“Sure.  I’d love some.”

Then later, an almost sheepish request for me to make him an egg sandwich before he left for work.

We sat at my kitchen island drinking black coffee and sharing old pictures of ourselves from high school.  I didn’t particularly like that he was scrolling through his phone instead of talking to me, but I suppose it’s just more information to have about him.  He likes to check The Chive while he eats breakfast, apparently.  Maybe all men do this?  I have no frame of reference.

It was a little past 9 when he gathered up his things and kissed me goodbye.  My heart felt still, neutral.  Neither full, nor empty, just waiting.  As he passed around the corner into the morning light I thought about the clench in my chest every time The Neighbor would leave, the pull to wish him back into my arms for yet another minute, another hour, another night.  I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way about another man again.  I don’t know if I’m capable anymore, frankly.  Or maybe I’ll just never meet another man whose chemistry is such a match to mine.

Either way, the stillness makes me believe I am either healed or broken, both of which I’m ok with.  What continues to be a struggle is that feeling of loss, either of what we had or what I wanted to have.  It’s like the fading of a scar: eventually, I’ll have to squint to see it, but for now, it’s still visible — he’s still on my mind — and I don’t know how to make that stop except to keep moving forward without him.  Just keep on moving.  Without him.

 

Definitely not writing.  It's been harder for me lately for some reason.

e[lust] #79

Elust 79 headerPhoto courtesy of Marie Opens Up

Welcome to Elust #79

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 #80? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Joy of Sucking Cock

Making Porn

My Valentine

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The One

Midweek Fantasizing – The Portrait

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Marionette
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!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A kiss is just a kiss
Turning Corners
Another Day, Another Planned Parenthood Visit
My first vanilla date
Want, Need the Power of your Masculinity!
I don’t know how to date.

Erotic Fiction

Soft Lips
The Introduction
Erotic Fiction: “Words”
Darkness and the Rose
Taste
The Session That Went Wrong
Be Careful What You Wish For
Motivation
porn
The Tube

Erotic Non-Fiction

For You, It’s Always Yes
Gawan: Intro to Flogging
The Talker: An Introduction
My wildest fantasy: Ship slut
Marionette
Time for something quick…
Spread Legs and Open Mouth
My Girl in Havana
Let’s Watch some Porn

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

An Artist’s Story: Tails and Portholes
Sleeping With Our Future President
To Dude Who Was Offended By Lack of Escort
Try Love, Not Anger
Risky Sex
Why Cosmo is the worst (again!)

Writing about Writing

Condoms: fictional contraceptive of choice
Writing Fat Characters In Erotica

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Masochistic Mastermind
Take me to where I need to be.

 

ELust Site Badge

A ghost sneaked into my bed.

It’s been a little over one year to the day from when The Neighbor said he “didn’t want to do it anymore.  Meaning: date me.  I have never gone through such a brutal break up in my life; my divorce wasn’t this painful and I can’t quite figure out why.

Maybe it’s because I decided to trust an untrustworthy man.  Maybe it’s because I was truly me with him.  Maybe it’s because I loved him more.  I don’t know the answers.

The entire year of 2015 was spent working hard at healing and digging deep into my own psyche; what was wrong with me that I had allowed that to happen to me?  I had willfully ignored a frantic voice in me to end things with him the summer before he did.  I had been so desperate for it to be wrong I crushed any chance I had at listening to it.

Bereft and ashamed of myself I gave myself a couple of months to catch my breath before I began dating again.  I activated dating sites and met men with a clear idea of what I wanted: financially secure, smart, kind, funny, and hung.  Gee, Hy, would you also like a unicorn and mermaid with that perfect man??

It’s laughable only because it’s an impossible thing to look for, but I was intent nonetheless.  I believed with all my heart that he was out there and unless I put myself in front of him how else would I ever find him?

Tall men, short men, hung and average, smart to dim witted, I dated them all and even fucked a few, their differences from TN as much as a relief as it was a heartbreak.  Was he really so unique of a man??

Imagine my surprise then when Bones unbuckled his pants and I saw a penis much like my old love’s.  Same thickness, same length and the man attached to it is built in an eerily similar way.  Shorter and less stocky, but densely muscled and powerful all the same.

None of this registered in the heat of the moment as our clothes peeled off.  It wasn’t until he threw me down on the bed and pressed into me, his lead-like weight pinning me to the mattress and his giant dick entering me that I was reminded of what it used to feel like to fuck TN.

If Bones had somehow gotten his hands on some Chanel Blue for men and had a hairy-as -fuck chest I could have closed my eyes and thought it was The Neighbor.  But only for fleeting moments.  These two men don’t fuck the same, how could they?

TN knew every inch of me and Bones had only just touched me.  He didn’t know how to bring me to the heights TN did.

The second time he came over it was a similar experience and my sobriety only served to heighten the similarities until I looked at the whole picture.  Bones came over at 9:30 after Peyton fell asleep and stayed with me until the very last second he could.  The sun was barely up when he looked at me with puffy eyes and kissed me with his lips together to hide his morning breath.  “Bye, have a good day,” I said and then went and woke up my sleeping angel.

The third time he came over was after midnight on a Sunday.  He had been four states away for the entire week and wanted to see me, something about fucking the shit out of me.

He left in the afternoon, a little later than planned, and I was disappointed.  “You’re not going to be able to come over,” I texted.  “It’ll be too late!”

He told me he was coming over.

I don’t think I believed him until he called a little after midnight and woke me up.  I was groggy and discombobulated from a lucid dream.  “Hey, I’m on Cement Ave.  That’s near you, right?”

“Yeah, that’s really close,” I croaked.

“Are you ready to be fucked up against the wall?”

I woke up a little then and could hear his smile.  I laughed.

“How long have you been thinking about that?” I asked.

He paused, then, “Nine-hundred miles.”  We laughed together and I shuddered.  He was actually going to show up.  He made a promise and he was keeping it.  He seemed to understand the value of a woman willing to have sex with him.

There was a soft rap on my door a few minutes later and my heart skipped a beat.  I padded to the door.  He stood in the doorway with backpack and duffel bag and a crooked smile.  He kissed me, gum in his mouth, set his gear down, and turned to me.

I felt shy and awkward, makeup-less and sleepy.

We fell into each other’s arms and I was reminded of what an incredible kisser he is.  I got lost in his whiskers and lips and began to lead us to my candlelit room.

I kicked the animals out and shut the door and he pushed me against the wall and, just like he’d promised, fucked me up against it.  The cold sheet rock pressed against my warm palms as his hot hands twisted the flesh of my hips in his hands.

He slipped out and I ejaculated and moaned, ground back on him and writhed on my feet while he pumped into me.  He popped out again and again I squirted.  I needed something to grip and he turned me around to the footboard.  The bed immediately protested with loud squeaks.

His height was perfect for entering me from behind, not unlike TN’s.  I pinched my eyes shut and concentrated on the new man slamming his hips against the backs of my thighs.

On the bed he splayed my knees and slid inside, long and hard.  His arms were stiff beams on either side of me and the faster we clashed against one another the more my bed wailed.  Its screeching filled the room along with my pants and moans and cries for, “More baby, harder, faster, pleaaaaase…”

On my belly, my hands wrapped around the iron bars when I heard, “I’m gonna cum, baby!”  He pulled out and hot globs of jizz sizzled on my back.  TN didn’t do that for an entire year.

We slept comfortably in each other’s arms until our alarms began to chime.  His at 6 am on the dot, mine at 6:02.  We snoozed our phones and stretched into each other.  His warm, hairy arm flung over the dip in my waist.  The phones chimed again, this time one minute apart.  I felt a bump against my bottom, a little tap, tap.

I arched into the well of his hips and felt the fullness of his erection.  He squeezed a breast and pulled me closer as I reached behind me and stroked and squeezed him.  His hand slid down to my hip and buttock.  He lifted the meat so it would part for him and the tip of his cock found my hole.

He pushed in easily and the reverse curve of his cock hooked into me towards my belly button.  I groaned.  He thrust.

Morning sex is different.  I hesitate to call it special, per se, but it’s certainly nothing I’ve had much experience with in the last 5 years.  My lovers steal away in the middle of the night — or I do — and The Neighbor and I rarely fucked in the morning.  That would have meant he’d stayed the night and that was a rarity.  (Though, I would steal over to his apartment early in the quiet morning and suck on his monster cock until he awoke.)

He rolled me onto my belly and I raised my bottom to meet him.  He smacked my flanks and I fell back on him with all my might, the bed obnoxiously loud.  Faster, more furiously, more fiercely he pounded into me.  I came and twisted beneath him.  “I came, I came,” I panted.

He took it as his green light and came immediately himself and sprayed cum all over my back again.

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a towel and wiped me clean.  We lay sprawled next to each other, dazed and satiated.

Bones is a private man and rarely talks about himself.  Sometimes talking to him is an exercise in patience, but his energy is positive and he seems to be enjoying himself when we’re together.  He’s funny and distant, a combination I tend to like.  

It’ll be interesting to see just at what point the ghost of TN is completely exorcised from my bed because I know he still lingers in my heart as a smear of pain.  My reluctance to open up is evident every time I’m with someone; allowing Bones to come over and stay the night has caused me great panic and often regret at offering the invitation in the first place.  But his calm reserve and steady presence isn’t threatening and so I keep offering.

Also, there’s no fucking way I’m passing up time with this man.  I happen to be a big fan of unicorns and mermaids.

Golden wrappers mean golden moments.

Mid-date, I sent a message to my friends that went something like this:

Please oh please oh please oh please let Bones’ bone be huge!

And then a bunch of little prayer hands because I meant it.

I have shelved my eternal lust for giant cock and have found great pleasure in men less endowed than what I fantasize about, but I really wanted this man to have the kind of package that shoots me over the motherfucking moon.

He was dry and witty, culturally sensitive, intelligent, good looking.  Short.

This was our second date in 72 hours.  After he drove me home the first night and I leaned in for a kiss the archaeologist said, “You’re a really good kisser.”  I had similar thoughts and tucked back in against his full lips and scruffy beard.

It wasn’t passionate, exactly, but it was charged.  If we kissed this well, what else could that mean for us?

I ran up the stairs knowing his eyes followed.

When he arrived 5 minutes early to our second date my hair hung in long, wet ropes.  “I told you not to be early!” I laughed when I opened the door.  He immediately kissed me hello.

“I know, but you’ll live.”

I set him up with a beer and the dog and dried my hair.  We played Jenga and drank until it was time to head to the movies.  His heavy hand rested on my knee and he held my hand.  I leaned against him and smiled, stole more scruffy kisses.

Later, at the bowling alley, I shamelessly flirted to distract him at darts.  “You’re using your breasts for evil!” he accused.  I couldn’t argue.

At our lane there was an easy rivalry between us now since I had won at both Jenga and darts.  The alcohol flowed with the jabs and laughter.

We walked home and our clothes flew off.  I heard the jangle of his belt and the stiff slide of denim before I saw him jut out.  He was big – quite big.  It was if the emoji gods had heard me after all.

I had to scramble to find my Magnum condoms, long since hidden away from my time with The Neighbor.  He rolled one on and pushed into me and I felt that body-splitting hug from the inside out that I so crave.

We moved against each other like choreography and came in rushing rivers.  His dense weight upon me made the bed screech in protest and I was sure we were disturbing the peace.  But we didn’t care.

He pounded into me, flipped me over, pounded some more.  Hair wrapped around his hands like reins, my round ass impaling itself on him.  Our kisses were firecracker smacks now, not unlike his hand on my flanks.  His height perfect for slamming into me while latched onto a breast.  Candle light flickered against our pale skin and the fan whirred above while we tangled like the drunken heathens we were.

I fell asleep after he’d cum twice and me more than I could count.  His hand was in mine.

Some time before dawn he woke me up with warm, strong fingers touching me here and there.  We moved against, in, and around each other blindly.  He filled me up again, another golden wrapper ripped and rolled, dropped and forgotten like Gretel’s crumbs.

He ripped me apart this time, my own wetness no match for his size this time.  I moaned in pain and pleasure and begged him to cum even as my own orgasm washed through me like a long, low bay.   We fell back asleep entwined until it was time for the sun.

This time I played with his uncut sheath, licked and slid it under my grip.  He moaned and shivered and threw me off.  Rip, roll, drop again.

He bunched me up into a ball beneath him and drove deep.  I cried out as each thrust caused a ripple of stinging pain and swooping orgasm.  “I’m gonna cum!  I’m gonna cum!” he said and at the last second he pulled out and in one easy motion removed the condom and came all over my heaving belly.  He cleaned me up and laid back down beside me.

We closed our eyes and he appeared to fall asleep instantly, his steady breathing a far cry from the activity behind the blackness of my lids: this feels nice, a man is in my bed overnight!, he feels good, this is so comfortable, I’m freaking out a little, no – wait – not really, just relax, go to sleep.  Eventually, I shut down and slept for a few more hours with his warm body beside me.

When I awoke next he was tapping my nipples and poking my lips.  I swatted him away and he chuckled.  “I’m starving,” I said, “Do you want to have breakfast?”  He checked the time and said he should probably go, but he didn’t leave.  Instead he lingered and pestered me some more and we talked about nothing and just touched one another.  Finally, I said, “Well, I’m gonna make some bacon and scrambled eggs -”

“Ok, ok, I’ll stay,” he interrupted.

While I made breakfast he put on his jeans and lounged on the couch watching re-runs of Saturday Night Live.  He’d offered to help, but there was nothing for him to do.  It was odd to have him sprawled out so comfortably, the dog asleep at his feet, while I puttered in the kitchen.

We ate and he began to clean up then put his shirt on.  I wore a white t-shirt and some pajama pants to cook in and I sat next to him on the couch where he was putting on his socks, my long legs bare and my breasts visible beneath the thin material.

His devilish grin belied his words of imminent departure and we undressed each other quickly.  I was too tender for him to touch, but I was determined to push on.  A nice long blowjob and a  little K-Y jelly later and we were cumming together.  He pulled out, peeled off the rubber, and spurted hot globs of cum nearly to my chin.

I panted and put a pillow over my face.  It was all too much.  Too many orgasms, too much touching, too much fun.  My grin left a wet spot on the pillowcase.

He laid next to me and I told him how impressed I was with his pull-out-and-cum-all-over me move.  He said he’d seen it done once in porn.  Then we high-fived each other and he got up to leave for real.

After he left I walked gingerly to my room and laid down and that’s when I noticed the strip of golden wrappers at the foot of the bed.  Later I’d find wrappers on the dresser and by the bedside table, little shiny reminders of Mr. Bones’ big bone.

At last, we are reunited.

At last, we are reunited.

 

Click the lips below to see who else is being Sinful today!

Sinful Sunday

Four men, three days.

It’s not unlike what I imagine it’d feel to be warmly drunk on a carousel.  The melodies piping out of the organs in the middle, the slowly oscillating animals impaled on gilded poles, the streaks of light smearing across a park at night,  the captured smiles and snatched words as I slip past.

“You’re so beauti–”

“Yes, baby, that fe–”

“Can I kis–”

I returned from the mountains filled with the love of friends who’ve known me for half my life.  Who were there when my baby was born and when I left my husband.  Who knew me when I had just moved here, fresh-faced and intent on devouring the world.  They call me loving names and accept me for all that I am: ribald, intense, caring, loud, big, and dry when I’m not sloppy wet.

I let Petya go before the break.  We both agreed I deserved more than whatever hot mess it was that he was serving.  And though I haven’t made anything officially over with The Soldier, I’ve let him go, too.  Though because he is an injured soul, I figure the Universe might know what to do with the two of us.  “Happy New Year, you,” he’d replied after weeks of silence.

I don’t remember who else I was maybe kinda sorta talking to before I left, only the ones I’d met and touched: The bad Tuesday night lay who booty called me this weekend, but I was busy in bed with another man.  My old friend, Kevin, whose big, beautiful cock is attached to a guy who seems somewhat ambivalent about how he uses it; I was reminded of why we petered out before.  The fella who happens to be local, but knows me as Hy, and whom has a complicated entanglement.  Read: married.  We met on Instagram and decided we’d be assholes together, a roaring fire in a fancy hotel the backdrop of our first, chaste meeting.

And there were new men to look forward to.  Sex with one, lots of talk with two others, and an interesting combination of flirty, wicked-fast banter and some good ol’ fashioned titty-fucking with the fourth.  Thirty-two, 32, 26, 25.  My head spins even as everything around me is in sharp focus, the detail clear.

To my Saturday night date, the big burly fella with a dark beard and eyes to match, I explained that ultimately I was looking for a partner.  He misunderstood me.  “Hy, I might not be the man for you.  I’m not looking for a longterm relationship.”  I laughed and tossed my hair in that strategic way, pulled my boot-clad legs up under me a little more.  Clearly he had no idea who he was dealing with.

“No, that’s an ultimate goal, but I’m looking to have fun in the meantime, too.  I mean, how would you and I work, anyway?  You’re deathly allergic to cats.”

He laughed like I wanted him to and then he grabbed my face and kissed me passionately.

Later, in the dark, I awoke with his heavy arm flung over me.  The sex had been the kind of satisfactory that you might feel about the almost-fantastic massage you got that last time you went in for a treat.  I enjoyed myself.  I know he did considering his yells as I sucked him off and some kind words after I’d cum.

“Fuck, you’re fun to get off,” he whispered hotly into my ear, his hand filled with my ejaculate.

I’d rolled over drunkenly, sated, and fallen asleep, but now that I was wide awake I felt panicky.

I blamed the dog alone in my apartment for my pre-dawn escape, but truly it was because I don’t know how to have morning coffee with a man anymore.  Would he expect to have sex again?  Were we supposed to go to breakfast together?  Would he look at me expectantly to leave?  I couldn’t bear the unknown and so I dressed by the glow of his phone, kissed him warmly and promised to be in touch, and left.

Slipping through the dark, quiet city I wondered what I was running from.  The idea that he’d want to have breakfast with me or that he wouldn’t?  I couldn’t tell and ultimately decided it didn’t matter.  Both fucking sucked.

The next day, as yet un-showered, I met my complicated friend for ciders and to ostensibly watch football.  I stuffed my face with a hot BLT topped with an over easy egg.  I thought the yolk rolled between my fingers like cum.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

He couldn’t answer right away.  “Maybe I’m an asshole,” he finally said.  “Maybe I just need excitement in my life.  I don’t know.”

“Well I know why I’m here,” I said.  “Because you make me feel special and I appreciate the lengths you go to to see me and talk to me.”  I paused.  “But I’m still processing all this.”

He nodded.

He walked me to my car and the sun shone in my eyes.  I couldn’t see him as I leaned in and tilted my face up.  His beard scratched my face as he only pressed his lips against mine.  I smiled into his whiskers and pressed again.  We broke apart.

“I’m sorry.  I’m still not used to this,” he said needlessly.  Of course he isn’t.  He was an honest man before me.

I drove home, ran a hot bath and soaked away my sins.  The previous 18 hours tucked away on the other side of the carousel.

The blond man waiting for me at the bar was handsome.  I smiled and asked him what he was drinking.  “Club soda with lime.”  I suddenly remembered he didn’t drink.

I asked if he smoked and he said yes so we went outside where I watched him at once dance with the devil and fly with the angels.

With his sober recovery a binary lens for his life, he struggled to explain his feelings surrounding sexual relationships and intimacy since those are rarely black and white.  I smiled, adjusted my bosom to rest on the table top and forced myself to reveal my most newly realized and deep, dark secret: I have intimacy issues and I, too, struggle with managing it all.

His eyes twinkled and we high-fived over the table.  Oh, the irony to make a connection with a total stranger in under 2 hours.  I’m really good at those.

The truth is, there is a part of me that soars high above the fray.  The wind in my face, the ground below a beautiful patchwork of opportunity and hope.  I will find a partner some day, I think.  Then there is the other part of me, the one with no strategy whatsoever, the id which drives my daily search to have fun and be adventurous.  That seems like fucking fun.

The two coexist, they’re not mutually exclusive: I want a longterm, stable relationship.  I want to do whatever I want in the meantime.  Also, what if one of the “just for fun” men turns into the partner man??  I’ll never know unless I try.

He walked me to my car and we hugged.  I wasn’t sure how he’d fit into my life, what with his ambiguous feelings about pleasurable things — I need a man who can go all in with me and not pathologize the loss of control — but, because I am always open to surprises, I let him kiss me in the cold, night air.

He giggled and kept nibbling.  It was pleasant and sweetly intense.  His legs cut through the beams of my headlights as I watched him walk away.

The next day I met a different young man at the same bar.  He strongly resembled Clark Kent in one of his Tinder pics and I was a little disappointed he hadn’t worn his glasses.  Instead he had on a beanie and was painfully stylish.  All super hip kid, no nerdy Clark, but Clark was special in other ways.

Not only was he stupidly hot, but the banter I’d come to look forward to in our texts carried over seamlessly in person.  We parried zing for hilarious zing.  His Makers on ice impressed me for some reason and the fact that he was 25 made no difference whatsoever.

His legs lay in my lap by the time we finished our drinks and I traced his new forearm tattoo with a finger, though I wished it was my tongue.  “Wanna keep hanging out?” I asked.

“Yes.”

We had to park down by TN’s building and when Clark grabbed my hand to walk up the hill I wished with all my might we might be seen, but it was midnight on a Monday, a true pipe dream.  Instead I focused on a hot, intelligent, sexy boy grabbing my hand and my first reaction was to leave it there.

Clark was like me: he was open for anything in any form it might come.  “I don’t want to limit myself by having expectations.  I’m open to whatever happens.”  Hearing him say that after all the other limitations which had poured out of the other men’s mouths was like aloe on a burn.  Was I hearing him right??  Were we actually on the same page?

Back in my apartment, nervous, we fell into each other’s arms.  He peeled off my clothes, pulled me to my feet, and walked me to my room.  I grabbed a candle and set it down.  When I turned around he was naked and glowing, his muscles dark dips and bright swells of shadows and light.

I had the vague idea that I did not want to fuck him — not only was I emotionally exhausted, but I was bleeding — but I laid beneath his naked body and writhed and arched all the same.  I told him we couldn’t have sex and he bit my ear.  I pushed his head down to my breasts and coached him to suck and nibble until the pleasure ripped through me to my fingertips.

Instead of begging him to fuck me I said between pants, “Straddle my chest, please.”

He hopped up, smiling, and pinned me down in one smooth motion.  I took his cock in my hand and suckled and slurped, my other hand wrapped around and grabbed his bare ass and guided his thrusts into my open mouth.  He grew even more rock hard and I lost my shit.

“Titty fuck me,” I moaned.  “Please…”

He pulled back and grabbed, big, rough handfuls of my breasts and slipped between the mounds.  “Goddamn this is fucking hot,” he said.  I clawed his buttocks and closed my eyes and wished it was my pussy he was pile driving into.  He cried out and fell back.  The ceiling fan cooled the globs of hot cum pooled on my sternum.

He passed me a towel and I wiped my chest before he took me into his arms and held me.  We dozed in that peaceful place that two naked strangers share, the one where you don’t know each other’s last names — though, for the record, we knew each other’s names.

When we came to a little while later I tried to get him to stay, but it was 2 am on a school night.  It really wasn’t feasible.  I wrapped myself in a robe and watched him pick up the trail of his clothes.  Dressed and standing over me he pulled me in for a goodbye hug and kiss.  I staggered back to bed and slept through my second morning workout without regrets.

I always loved the carousel, the movement and motion, the streaks of color when you look out and the curiosities when you looked in, the rabbit with a saddle and the zebra with a bridle.  My life might seem like streaky chaos from the outside, but from my vantage point on my fiberglass steed it’s in motion, it’s twirling, it’s in a good place.  

The big difference between my life and the carousel — despite their many similarities — is that, like that scene in Mary Poppins where they break off the ride onto their own adventure, one day I trust mine will do the same.

And I have plans to see Clark again this Friday.

 

 

 

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A continuing holiday tradition

For the 4th year in a row I’m posting my magical Christmas night story.  It was the first time Troy and I met Jack and it was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  It was also the launch of my sex positive journey, a true freeing of a soul.  This was originally published 12/25/11.  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.

He covered my face with kisses.

I understand that this post may seem like a 180 from the last [two] I’ve posted, but you have to understand that I am a master at juggling balls.

I couldn’t tell you if I am better at it than most or if it’s just simply a part of being an adult, but just because one aspect of my life might be ripping me apart, it doesn’t mean it necessarily bleeds into the rest.

I contain the damage, so to speak, batten down the hatches, seal the leaks and live my life.  Maybe it’s being a mother that’s helped me hone the skill; I’m not allowed to wallow, I have a life to nurture and have to keep my shit together, goddamnit.

In any case, despite the crushing realization on Friday that TN had fed me lies about the man he was and I had gobbled them up like a hungry street urchin, I went on dates and I danced in gay bars and I laughed so hard my sides ached and I got the shit fucked out of me and I fell asleep cradled in a young man’s arms.

This man is a stranger in a strange land, he’s young, he’s an entrepreneur, English is not his second language, it’s his third, and though he speaks in a perfect American accent he says things like, “You make my blood go faster,” which is decidedly not an American thing to say.

I met him on Tinder 10 days ago and he dazzled me with his odd sayings and strange behavior, like sitting on his porch and looking at the stars instead of going out on a Friday night.  He sent me pictures of beautiful ceramics he’d spun and fired himself.

The next night I was unexpectedly child free and I invited him over to hang out.  He arrived tall, disheveled, and dressed like the 25-year-old that he is — he’s way hipper than me.

He stooped to hug me and I felt him giggle into my neck.  “I’m so happy to meet you!” he said and giggled again.

I felt overwhelmed that night by his boisterous enthusiasm.  He sat too close and spoke too long about things a stoned hippie might.

“Are you high?”

“Me?” – long pause – “No…”

“You sure??”

“Oh, yeah.  I’m not high.  I want to be on point to see your beautiful face.”

Ok…

His own momentum of emotion carried him to my lips and in between excited, smiling kisses I said, “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

He fell away from me and with an easy smile said, “Oh, I know.  I didn’t even bring condoms!” and he patted his apparently empty pockets for emphasis.

We killed a bottle of wine over the next four hours and I was shocked to see it was nearly 3 am when I finally thought to check.  He looked at me sheepishly then and said he should go.

He hugged me again and got me to commit to a dinner date on Monday night.  I’m pretty sure I scratched my head as I locked the door behind him.  I felt like I’d been mauled by an overly affectionate bear cub.

Petya came to the US when he was 17 on a baseball scholarship from Russian.  He came alone and was somehow wise enough to know how to use his natural physical talents to squeeze out athletic scholarship after athletic scholarship and his classes weren’t wasted.  In addition to leaving college debt-free, he also left with a blossoming business.

Eventually he needed a business partner and moved here to be close to him.  He hates the heat and thinks it’s unnatural.  “I’m Russian.  This is ridiculous.”  I actually couldn’t agree with him more.

He owns a house a little south of the city and has a dog named Winter.  He works out every day and eats everything in the house multiple times a day.  “I am a barely domesticated beast,” he texted me.

He was a little late picking me up on Monday night and we went to an awful chain restaurant.  I picked at my steak and hid bitefuls in my black napkin.  When the flirtatious waiter came to take my plate away he pushed me to admit I didn’t like it.  “It’s comp’ed!” he declared and sped off.  A manager came and apologized some more.  I said it really wasn’t a big deal.  Petya watched me closely.

“I liked that you were so polite and courteous.  Let’s go.”  And with that we left the crew to their vacuums at 9:30.

At home on my couch he was more relaxed and less philosophical.  He smelled good and was soon nuzzling my neck.  I was tired and hungry still, but couldn’t resist his inertia, his pure enjoyment of me.  I opened my mouth to him and his beard scraped my face.  He bit my lips and I grabbed his wrist and brought it to my breast.

He groaned against my mouth and squeezed roughly.  I moaned into him, arched my back, and redirected his hand under my shirt.

My breast, big and heavy, spilled out of its cup.  He switched from my lips to my nipple and latched on and it hurt exquisitely, intensely.  I don’t like it when it’s soft; I can’t feel it.  My nipples are utilitarian, meant to withstand the life-or-death sucking of an infant.  FUCKING SUCK ON THEM.

He stopped then and stood up on his knees over me.  “Look at what you’ve done to me.”  My eyes fell upon a lovely bulge inside his fashionable pants; it pointed towards his right hip.

I rubbed it with my palm and looked him squarely in the eyes.  “You wanna go fuck?”

His face cracked wide with a smile.  “Yes, I do.”

We stood and in one move he picked me up and carried me to my dark room.  I clung to him and wondered why all these men keep picking me up.  David, The Soldier, and now Petya.  Are they fucking crazy?!  I am not a small woman, but I’m not complaining.  It’s unbearably hot.

He set me down and I ripped his clothes off and he mine.  He was sure of himself, passionate, beautiful.  With his cock safely wrapped in latex he pushed into me, my knees spread, my breath caught, my heart still.  And then we fucked.

We fucked and moaned and kissed and bit and I clawed at his sweaty flanks.  Our bodies ignited and sweat gleamed off of him from the light in the hallway.  My pussy rained down around him and my orgasms passed through one end of my body to the other.  I died a hundred little glorious deaths as I followed his light into the pools of our coupling, a shimmering mess caused by pure exertion and inhibition.  He was lost to his thrusts and I to his punishing hips.

He came with a quiet roar as I held on to his young body then he stilled and rolled off of me.  I lay there and panted, stunned at what had just happened to me.  One minute I was chillin’ on my couch with a weird Russian kid, the next I was being fucked to death by a weird Russian kid.

He was as out of it as me and when I peeled the condom off of him and took him in my mouth he shuddered.  I sucked and slurped and choked a little on his pretty cock and watched with closed eyes his body climb to its peak and crash down into splintered Russian-y bits.  This was not a quiet roar, it was a proclamation.

When he’d caught his breath he said, “Holy shit, that was as powerful as the first time I ever masturbated; I’ve never had better in my life.”  Whether either of those things were true mattered none.  My lips tingled from his semen and my smile was genuine.

He pulled me into his arms and kissed my temples, my eyes, my nose and lips.  I smiled again because I didn’t mind.  It felt appropriate, this bear cub licking me like this.

“Tell me something in Russian,” I said and then listened to the guttural, rolling, wavy words spill from his mouth.  “What’d you say?”

“I recited a poem to you.  It’s about faith.”

When he left he promised to see me soon, his tone relaxed.  “Don’t worry, that’s what texting is for, to string together the real visits.”

The rest of the week was busy.  Work, parenting, life.  Friday night I had my meltdown that I had so naively believed TN when he’d said, “I’m not that guy.  I don’t do social media, I don’t go out, I don’t do fun stuff.  I prefer to be at home!”  And the very painful realization that I had settled for so very little when all along he was more than willing — and capable — of doing all of those things.  Just not with me.

Saturday I limped through my afternoon and listened to my own voice half a dozen times, went on a ridiculous Tinder date, got stood up by date #2 and ended my evening with my favorite gays in a leather bear bar downtown.

Petya had checked in Friday to say he was looking forward to seeing me on Sunday and that it would be the highlight of his weekend.  No one has ever has said something like that to me in my life.  None of my old boyfriends, not my husband, certainly not TN and as I nursed hangover #2 Sunday morning I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again, too.  It would likely be the highlight of my own long, strange weekend.  Except it, much like the entire weekend itself, wasn’t all smooth sailing.

He was late and my risotto didn’t survive.

His apology was more of a defensive retort and I struggled to separate the baggage of TN always being inexplicably late and this isolated event.  He didn’t even know what risotto was, so when I told him that was for dinner how could he possibly know it was so time sensitive?

But we were eating this goddamned dinner regardless so I accepted the weak apology and set before him a perfectly cooked rare filet with herbed-butter, half a lobster tail left over from Thanksgiving, roasted asparagus, gooey risotto and a glass of red wine.

He smiled at me exuberantly as he cut into his steak and he froze.  “This steak is like butter!”  He quickly cut through and put the piece in his mouth, closed his eyes and said, “One, I’m never cooking for you and two, no wonder you couldn’t eat that awful steak the other day!”  We laughed and ate and all my irritation disappeared as quickly as the food.

I cleared the table and walked over to him and stood between his knees, grabbed his head and pushed his bearded face into my breasts.  It was my way of saying all had been forgiven.  We pretended to watch a movie for about 35 seconds before we raced into the bedroom.

It was a brutal coupling of gnashing teeth and loins, of him begging me to kiss him as he buried himself into me, his declarations of pleasure and of me pulling taught his heavy silver necklace as if to steer his passion.

I came to his urgent voice rooting me on.  “Cum for me, Hy.  Cum for me.  I want to feel your orgasm!”  His words, foreign in a familiar tongue, cradled me as I burned from the inside out and I squirted like a fountain in a museum hallway.  “Yes!” he yelled.  “Yes, yes, yes!”

Slick from nose to toes he had to stop to rest and flopped onto my pillows.  I wasted no time to work on him and suck every drop of semen out of his fine, long body.  He tensed and yelled and arched and lost himself to the deep recesses of my throat.  I hungrily guzzled every drop and flopped next to him, happy.

He scooped me up in his arms, tucked his knees beneath my bottom and hooked my knees over his hips.  He began to kiss my face again.  My ears, my cheekbones, eyes, nose, lips and his words spilled out as quickly as his kisses.  “I am so sorry for being late.  That was so inconsiderate of me!  You had this beautiful dinner planned and I was late and you had done so much!  I’m so, so sorry!”

I laughed, happy he had seen the light to a proper apology, satisfied that he certainly seemed to deserve more of my time.

I hugged him back and kissed his temples and forehead and he pressed his face to my warm, damp skin and kissed my breasts.  We lay like this for a little while until I found his sleeping cock and stroked it gently.  “Do you want to watch me masturbate?” I asked.

He handed me my Hitachi and suckled my breast and played his hands across the swells of my body.  I came quickly and hard.  He scooped me back up into the curve of his body, told me how hot and amazing I was, and then the candlelight faded into his even breathing and we fell asleep.

Minutes passed and we awoke together, surprised.  Almost simultaneously we said, “I never fall asleep with someone.”  And then we promptly fell asleep again.

The second time we awoke he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed.  “I have to get up at 6,” he explained.  “I wish I could stay.”

We hugged and kissed again before I let him slip out into the cold, dark night.  His hoodie pulled up over his head, his bear cub smile just barely visible.

I staggered back to bed and slept on my wet spot.

 

 

Nooners are important for busy people.

I set my car in park and my heart raced.  His truck sat a few spaces away.  He had beaten me home.

I gathered my work bag bag and purse, my phone, and climbed out.  Where was he?

I wore brown boots, lacy tights, a short jersey skirt, and my trademark v-neck under a cardigan.  I imagine all I was missing was a pencil behind my ear and I could have passed for a sexy librarian.

I smiled thinking of him standing by my front door and climbed the stairs with a spring in my step.  Then I saw him, sitting on the next level of steps to the third floor.

“Well isn’t this a great thing to come home to,” I called out.

“Hey you,” he drawled.

I was at the top quickly and he followed me to the front door where I fumbled with my keys.  I was nervous and could feel him looming behind me.  We only had minutes with each other.

I opened the door and walked into the kitchen.  I had planned on leaving some condoms on the kitchen island and some by the bed, but there was no time for that.

I set my things down as he sat on the couch and I shooed away the wriggling dog between his legs.

“Hi,” I said again as I wedged myself between his open knees.  I took his face in my hands and bent down to kiss him.  He smelled like man and peppermint gum.

He grabbed my waist and without breaking our kiss stood and picked me up.  I worried my head might hit the ceiling fan.

I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist and reveled in his strength as we kissed and kissed and kissed.  His hands held my ass as my thighs held him.

He sat back down and pulled my shirt and skirt up and over my head.  I was dressed only in my tights and boots, my breasts stuffed in his mouth, the afternoon over his shoulder and a million miles away.

I climbed off and pulled him to standing.  “You’re wearing a different belt!” I said.  This one had one latch I could easily master.   I split the top of his fatigues and pushed them down to his hips.  “Wait, your boots…”  They were completely unlaced.

He smiled wickedly.  “I beat you here so had time to kill.”

He slipped out of his shoes and shed his shirt and pants, took my hand and led me to the island.  I knew exactly what he had in mind.

A couple of weeks before I’d sent him a series of photos of me bent over in my kitchen, my clothes pulled down or off.  It’d sparked a chat about the sad fact that I have only ever fucked in my bed in this apartment.  “That is a travesty,” he’d said.  “I’ll have to fix that for you.”

He pushed me roughly down on the cold counter and pulled my tights down below my bottom.  His big hand spread my lips and pet me.  Once, twice, three times.  I felt his stiff cock bob against me and wondered if he was going to push into me unprotected.  Thoughts raced.  Did I care?  Was this smart?  I hadn’t answered my own questions before he walked back to the khaki colored pile of clothes and retrieved a condom.

Seconds later he was inside, hard and hot as ever.

I pushed my purse and bag off the edge and held on as his hips slammed me against my kitchen gadget drawer.  I came and grinned and thought this was far better than eating lunch.

He wrapped his hand in my hair and pulled me up and walked me to the couch.  He struggled with my boots and gave up and settled me on my hands and knees, still boot-clad.  I felt like a mare and he was my stallion as he mounted me from behind, my hair golden reins.

He rammed into me faster and faster, a beautiful beast of man fucking his special lady friend in the bright glow of 12:23 pm.  He grunted and moans escaped as he got closer.

“Fucking do whatever you want to me,” I hissed.  “Hit me, fuck me, anything.”  He groaned loudly and shivered into me, his hands gripped my hips painfully, perfectly.

He held my ass to him for a handful of moments then carefully pulled out holding the condom to him.  I pulled my tights up and took off my boots while he washed up at the kitchen sink.

The pile of laundry I hadn’t had the chance to put away mocked me.  I plucked a plaid flannel from the top, put it on, and sat on the whole damn thing and watched The Soldier redress while a continuous string of apologies spilled out of his mouth.

“Really, it’s ok.  We’re busy people!  I’m just glad you could come.”

“Me, too.”

“One of these days we’ll have to hang out for real so we can fuck a whole lot at our leisure.”

“That’d be nice,” he replied.

He was tucked back in, his dick quiet, his face serene.

He came over and kissed me goodbye atop my pile of laundry.  He still smelled like peppermint.

Hy in flannel 2