I don’t know how to be happy.

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I blinked in the sunlight that streamed through my windows and stretched like the cat who lay on my pillow purring like a crazed motorboat.  He’ll be here soon, I thought, and as if on cue, I heard the front door open and close and the cat tore off to greet our visitor.

“Good morning, TN!” I called.

“Good morning, Hyacinth!” he called back.

I fixed  my eyes on the doorway and let him fill my view as he sauntered in, sheet marks pressed into his skin and his eyes puffy, but his cock enormous and jutting out against his shiny black basketball shorts.

I giggled at the image of his exhaustion mingled with a giant erection.

He walked up to the side of the bed and pulled himself free of his shorts, his taut, pink skin a slightly curved appendage for my viewing pleasure.

I wrapped my hand around it.  “Mmm,” I said and stood up.  “I have to pee.  I’ll be right back!”

When I came back out he pushed me roughly down onto the bed and licked his hand.  “I doubt I needed to do this.  Hmm, let’s see.  Could Hyacinth be wet already?”

“It’s possible,” I answered looking up at him.  “You wake up with that monster between your legs everyday.  I happen to wake up wet everyday.”  He pushed at my opening and sure enough he slid right in.

We moved together in the sunlight, carefully avoiding each other’s morning breath and hugged and humped and clutched and climaxed.  He pinned my legs onto his shoulders and moved until I was begging him to stop and then with a puffy-eyed grin kept going.

We were done relatively quickly, it being the morning and all.  He gently removed himself from me and lay beside me.  “Hang on,” I said and rolled over and grabbed my phone, something I’d done alone for so long.

I began taking pictures of us freshly post-coital.  It felt intimate and odd, like a salty candy that gives you two flavors at once.

He left shortly after to go to work and I smiled, stupidly happy.

And then I realized how uncomfortable I am with happiness and how I am doing my best to destroy what little peace I’ve finally managed to accomplish with him: I suggested that he fuck other women. 

The night I came up with this grand plan I had just met his parents.  Over the course of roughly 4 and a half hours I’d had a glass of white wine while getting dressed, a glass of Prosecco before dinner, and a glass of Rosé with my scallops, but when I’d suggested it to him he seriously wondered if I were drunk.

“I trust you, TN, I really do.  And I’m proud of you and I think you’re amazing in bed.  I want you to be able to go out and have fun.”

He just looked at me, dumbfounded as I blithely continued.  “No, really.  I’m so happy with you, I want you to be happy, too.”

“Ok…” he said, incredulous.  “But why the change of heart?  You’ve never felt this way before.”

“It’s because you told me you loved me and I feel safe with you, content.  I really feel like I could handle it.”

I’d dozed off then on his warm, furry chest and forgotten all about it.  But he hadn’t.

The following day he brought it up again.  “So, what you said the other night.  Do you still mean it?  Or were you just drunk?”

It all came rushing back to me: the warm glow of acceptance, the sense of safety, this ridiculous drive to prove I were invincibly in love with him.  What.the.fuck.  But I was too embarrassed to back out.  “No, really, I do,” I replied and then began that weird dance that people in open relationships do wherein they try to think of every possible thing they can’t handle: no two dates with the same woman, no threesomes without me, no lies, everything has to be transparent to me.  Then, of course I asked if he’d care if I slept around.

He was thoughtful, then said he’d be ok with me and another couple, but not with another man.  I told him I couldn’t imagine fucking another man anyway, I already had my unicorn firmly in my grasp.  He’d smiled at that and then I felt a twinge of something, like a tiny splinter: why would he want to fuck another woman? aren’t I good enough? the best?  And that’s when I knew I was full of shit and actively trying to sabotage my own happiness.

The next night, after the sweet, yet brief morning love session, I came to him with hat in hand, sheepish and utterly embarrassed.  “You’re right, TN.  I can’t handle it.  I think I’m just really uncomfortable with how happy I am.  I mean, look, we’ve only been this kind of happy for 3 months and I’m already looking to inject it with chaos.”

He pulled me into his nook and stroked my arm.  “I thought so,” he said.  “Besides, I’m not a player.  I’m really not that interested in opening this up.”

I’m almost 40 years old and this is a humiliating moment for me.  I left a marriage that was safe, yet passionless, and embarked on a wild year or two of no safety whatsoever, but chocked full of passion.  I manage to cultivate a passionate — and safe — relationship and the first thing I try to do is dismantle it.

After everything we’ve been through — 4 am girl, my secret sex blog, his resistance, my anger — we’ve made it.  He wants me and my entire life and I am inexplicably uncomfortable with his unconditional regard despite my longing for just this very thing.  I am a stupid bastard.

So for now we have agreed to just be happy with each other and I’ve vowed to immerse myself in this new sensation called happiness.  It’s strange and terrifying, but I happen to like salty candy so I’m going to keep chewing.

I take the plunge.

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I wake up with feelings.

In the blustering storm that is life, where all the leaves are bills and worries and exes and money and illness and the bright sky and warm sunshine are jubilation and health and bonds and friendship, there is always a center.  It’s our soul, our heart, and it can be found in purpose.

My center is Peyton, which equates to love; I am anchored by a precocious, sensitive little person who has a wee lisp and a wild imagination just like the mama in the story, me.  And my other center is The Neighbor, a different kind of purpose and love, a grown up, complicated, left-of-center, warm, sloppy, and wanting love.  Between the two of them, I am filled to the brim with sunshine even as the leaves twist and flip about me.

On the 21st of December TN and I had our Christmas.  One of my gifts was going to be my declaration of love, but I was nervous.  We lit a fire and I cooked for us — filet mignon with a wine reduction sauce, fried Brussels sprouts and roasted acorn squash with brown sugar.  We drank wine and talked, opened many wonderful, thoughtful, loving gifts (I gave him a shirt I made that said, “Logically Logical,” a throwback to an inside joke).

We held hands as we stumbled into my bedroom and undressed each other in the candlelight.  We kissed with soft, wet tongues and beating hearts.  He pounded into me and I arched back into him, the words so close on my lips, yet held tight behind a seal.

I came and came and my heart melted then blew into glittering bits.  He was business as usual, ignorant and blissfully so.  We lay in each other’s arms and I thought to myself, “Now is the time.  Now,” but I couldn’t bring myself to be so vulnerable.  There was every chance that he would be angry, that he wouldn’t return the words, that we might even break up.

TN has always been reluctant when it comes to me, in his words, at least.  He’s called Peyton “6 strikes against” me. he’s said he never wanted to date a divorcee, a mother, or someone this much older than him, that I’ve read too much into his actions, and that he takes me for granted.  He’s said such terrible things in an attempt to keep a distance between us and I’ve believed him intellectually, but in my heart I always believed otherwise, miraculously so.  Such a tangled dance we did for almost two years and here I was on the cusp of tipping my hand completely; giving it all away.

I took a deep breath and splayed my fingers through his chest hair and trailed my fingers down between his legs and squeezed his wet, thick cock.  “You know I love more than just this about you, right?”  It was all I could do.

He nodded and said he knew.  I quietly chastised myself, so weak, so scared.  He was leaving in two days to go home for Christmas.  This was the moment.

While he was gone shit hit the fan with my ex.  I found out via social media once removed that he was getting remarried (“once removed” would mean that a friend texted me about my ex’s relationship status change) and that he was keeping it secret from Peyton for some reason.  Between my head exploding in rage and the barrenness I felt due to our physical distance, I felt more than ever the urge to tell him how I felt.  It wasn’t because of the news, but in spite of it.

Life is short and I love him.  He has the right to know.

His flight arrived late the day after Christmas, about the same time Peyton and I pulled up in front of our apartment from a quick out-of-town trip to see friends.  “The eagle has landed!” he texted.

I tucked in my baby and rehearsed what I’d say to TN.  My plan was to just blurt it out the second I saw him.  “Hi, TN!  I love you!” and just see what happened.  But when the time came, I was seized with nerves again.  We hugged and playfully sobbed into each other’s arms over our stressful family holidays.

I took a deep breath, “I have to talk to you.  I have good news and I have bad news.”  He looked alarmed as I led him to my room and sat down on the bed.  “Which do you want to hear?”

“The bad news first.”  I sighed with relief.

“The bad news is, Exhusband and Kathy got engaged Christmas Eve, I found out via Facebook, and he still hasn’t told me about it.”  TN knows that whenever my ex does stupid shit, it can affect my moods and my feelings about our relationship, in particular.  “And the good news has no connection to this bad news whatsoever.”

“Ok..” he said speculatively.

“You know how I feel about you, right?” he slumped down and covered his face with a sheet.  I felt every element of oxygen enter and leave my lungs.  “I love you.”

He dropped the sheet and looked at me.  “And I always feel it more when you’re away and we’re apart and my friends are asking about you.  I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you and you never heard the words from me.”

He looked at me for long moments, blinking.  He thanked me.

I didn’t fall apart because it was what I expected, but when he asked for me to lay down with him, I refused.  “No, thank you.  I don’t feel like it right now.”  I sat against his thighs, my arm straddling him, but the last thing I wanted to do was lay down with a man who didn’t return my love.

We talked about I don’t know what for a long while until finally, for some reason, he suddenly said, “Of course I love you, too.”

I sucked in my breath and looked at him intently.  “Really??”

“Yes, really.  I’ve known I’ve loved you since we broke up before 4 am girl.”

“What?!” I said incredulously.  All those stupid, wasted weeks of torture and tears could have been avoided.  “Then why did you date her?!”

“I don’t know,” he said simply.  I let the silence hang between us and my heart softened towards the man who couldn’t help himself but love me.  I quietly laid down into his nook.

“So I tell you I love you and now you want to be close?” he asked, not without sarcasm.

“Yes, pretty much.  I didn’t feel close to you before.  Now I do.  It’s simple.”  He squeezed me and I sighed into him.  “I really do love you.  I’m sorry.”  He cringed and my heart broke for him a little knowing that this complicated things in a way he’d been athletically avoiding for at least 18  months.  “At least you’ll have a lot to talk about with your therapist: ‘Theresa!  It’s terrible!  Hyacinth admitted she loved me and I told her I loved her, too!'”

He chuckled at my dry humor and said it was true.  I felt simultaneously angry, relieved, and blessed.  And royally fucked.

When he left that night I said the words I’d wanted to say so many times before as he headed for my bedroom door, “Goodnight, I love you, TN.”  He paused and turned with a twinkle in his eye and through a tight smile said, “I love you, too, Hy.”  And then he was gone from my doorway, still my center, but also still somehow a new leaf.

I had tears in my ears.

On a bright spring afternoon in March we met The Greens.  He was tall and dynamic, she was short and vibrant with a sheet of shiny brown hair to her waist.  The Neighbor and I arrived first, ordered our cheap beers and picked a spot facing the door.  I was nervous and excited.

That afternoon I flirted with a taken man and watched TN flirt with another woman.  He and I sat shoulder to shoulder as he animatedly discussed Crossfit with her.  Her partner and I rolled our eyes at their workout comparisons and smoked his hand-rolled cigarettes.

I couldn’t tell if I was doing any of it right.  I felt at once natural with Mr. Green and also highly unbalanced with TN.  Watching him engage with another woman and to show interest while theoretically ok with me wasn’t going down as sweetly in reality. Then I felt his leg press against my thigh and with it a swell of assurance; the grip of worry I’d begun to feel relaxed and I was able again to wonder what this new man would feel like between my thighs.

We all ordered another round and kept talking until TN and I had to leave to catch a flick.  We hugged, said we wanted to see each other again, and made tentative plans in a few weeks.

In the car TN fondled my breasts as we raced down the highway.  I told him how confusing it was to see him flirt with another woman, but how I wanted it to happen, how it needed to happen in order for this whole thing to leave the ground.  Mrs. Green was the wildcard in the group, mercurial and sensitive, and she would require a lot of attention from TN.  And I would have to be ok with that.

TN told me how proud of me he was, how beautiful and awesome he found me.  He said things men should never say if don’t intend to stay.  “You will always be preferred, Hy.  Forever.”

After the movie, we went home, to my home, and peeled off our clothes, found each other in the darkness, and flew away on the wings of his giant, magical cock.  He mounted me like a rutting animal and pinned me to the mattress until my head swam with many orgasmic fireflies.  “You’re such a good girl, Hy,” he growled.

My heart burst and I came under his tutelage and my angry Hitachi and sobs ripped through me.  How is it, I wondered, I continue to be stuck in this lovely purgatory with him?  How can I get us out?  I cried and cried as pleasure swept through me like an asshole, as if to say, This is why.  You are weak and can’t give this up.

Not yet recovered he demanded I have another one.  He hooked his fingers inside of me and I burst around his hand like a berry.  Dazed and confused with lust I felt him press the wand back into my hands.  I shook my head, but he nuzzled my neck and said, “Yes.”

I flipped the switch on and bucked under the vibration.  When it ripped through me my heart ached again in equal measures and I cried more fat tears which pooled in my ears like little petals catching morning dew.

I lay there and heaved, clawed for composure, and thought about this strange relationship I’ve built around our fears: his fear of my life, my fear of being left.  If I keep it like this, just outside of real, then when it goes away it won’t matter as much, right?  If I offer him everything he could ever want, it won’t be personal when it ends.  I cried some more at my own sad cognitive acrobatics.

We hung out with the Greens once more after that; they made us dinner.  TN got high for the first time and I watched the night go from next to nothing to completely nothing.  True to form, Mrs. Green was the deciding factor and I knew the second I laid eyes on her that night that nothing was going to happen between all of us.  Mr. Green and I watched it flicker away despite our efforts and chemistry, and the kiss he gave me on the corner of my mouth was a sweet farewell.

I’m still looking for something more with TN.  More commitment, more spice, more sex, more partners, more everything.  Without it all, it’s easy to keep wanting it.

We’re having pork tacos and fucking a couple tonight.

Well, maybe.

The tacos are a for sure thing, though.

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Soaking my nerves because this is a totally normal Friday night.

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 want to fuck another couple.

The Neighbor and I are headed out to meet a couple, the Greens, for drinks tonight. Soft or hard swap, multi-swap, all-way, one-way, whatever and who knows. I don’t even know all the lingo — it’s its own language. A separate sex vocabulary.

The grey sky will blanket us all, drinks will warm our bellies, chemistry — if there — will do the rest with the help of my butterflies’ muscles.

So far, and happily, down the rabbit hole that I’ve forgotten what a sunrise looks like.

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His cock will be in me at midnight.

My malaise is somewhat percolating below the surface whenever we are apart; when we are together, it’s blown away like a cloud of gnats.

The Saturday before Christmas — after buying him a winter coat — The Neighbor gave me my first Christmas gift: a purple Rabbit.  Its cool, beaded  body sunk into me while his face latched onto my breasts.  It was overwhelming and my body rejected its ministrations.  It felt like a cold, little cucumber with hiccups.

So, his cock took over and he fucked me until I cried, pinned me on my back and stared deeply into my eyes as the daylight poured in through my bedroom windows.

He left me in a puddle and came back at 8, his handsome, boyish face plastered with a smile and his big paws holding one of those round fruitcake tins.  “It’s your second gift!” he said beaming.  I opened the lid and it was a gorgeous, 9 inch dildo.

“TN!!  It looks just like you!!”

We laughed and giggled at the likeness and he bent over my chair behind me and kissed my neck and nuzzled my cheek as I covered my face, overcome with emotion and bashfulness.

“Let’s watch a movie tonight,” he suggested.  I gathered up my cigarettes, a bottle of wine, popcorn, and of course the dildo, and marched next door.  I was quite literally vices on two legs.

I stuck the dildo on the coffee table and it stood guard as we snuggled down into each other to watch Tom Cruise do some impossible mission.  Half way through the movie, his cock distracted me and he tugged me back next door with his doppelgänger cock tucked under his arm.

“Why don’t we just fuck in your bed?” I wondered as I followed.

“The vibrator is here,” he replied simply.

Clothes flew off, a candle was lit, his mouth found its way between my legs.  His tongue hot, soft and pliant tucked inside of my folds and his five o’clock shadow scrubbed my soft inner thighs.  Cock in cunt, plundered.  Kisses, sighs, words of beauty.  Then two cocks inside of me.  I cried out as it burned and I stretched.

I relaxed and breathed around them both.  His eyes lit up as he began to move.  I drenched the man and the imposter and cried and shook as I sucked them both deep inside.

“Jesus Christ, that’s so tight,” he moaned.  I whimpered back and guided his hips to the smallest of thrusts.  Too much, too tight.  I felt womanly and proud.  A baby came through there.  I gave life and now I was giving pleasure, showing him something new and wondrous we could do with our  bodies.

My tears leaked down my face and he kissed them away and I pushed out and around and then he was alone inside of me.  He bucked into me hard and fast and I cried and I felt my ejaculate slip down the crack of my bottom and pool beneath me.

Vibrator and orgasm, hooked fingers, a wriggling, helpless fish I was.  I bawled and sobbed and couldn’t think, couldn’t see but for the stars.  He hushed me and pet me, made fun of me.  I managed to garble out a chastisement of my own, “If you’re going to make me lose my shit all the time, then you are not allowed to tease me.  You must only be kind to me.”

He chuckled and agreed and pulled me closer while I returned to my body.

Then, he left town the next dawn and with his absence the cloud of gnats returned.  I felt alone and adrift, heard little from him while he was gone, but, I know, more than anyone else got from him.

When he returned the day after Christmas I had Peyton and was slumped with sadness.  He’d been texting me from the airports, keeping me apprised of his whereabouts.  At approximately the time I’d guessed he’d be home I heard a thud of a neighbor’s door.  Five minutes later there was a knock on my door.

“Hi!” he said, coolly, handsome in his new pea coat.  “I have your last gift!”  I’d forgotten he’d told me there’d be three.  He brought his hand out from behind his back and handed me a small, white box.

“What is it??  I can’t open this if this is of an adult nature.  I have Peyton.”

“Ok, just look at the return address.”  It said something, something Hitachi.

My eyes flew open and I looked at him and squealed.  “Attachments?!”

He nodded and walked inside and covertly opened the box for me while Peyton told him all about the Christmas haul.  I hugged him and thanked him and welcomed him home.

He stole over later that night when sugar plums were dancing in the room next door and pounded me with his fat, glorious cock and held me and told me all about his awful holiday.  We spoke more about the sex party we were planning on going to the upcoming weekend and I continued to feel together, yet separate.  Happy and sad.  My life is sweet and savory.

Thursday night he visited again, and again I cried and l clung and sucked him dry.

The landscape, the season, the emotional canvas I have with him is not unlike how two magnets work.  They’re only drawn to one another when in proximity.  When I am separated from him I am filled with doubt about what it is I’m doing with him.  Can I handle this?  Am I tough enough?  Do I want to be?  My exhusband thinks I’m wasting time  — well, as does everyone else — but he doesn’t know what I get from this.  I’m still not sure, entirely.

No wait.  I guess I get a sex party.

I also get a sex party pre-party where he fucks me up one side and down the other in our hotel room; I get to hear how beautiful and sexy and awesome he thinks I am; I get to travel with him to distant cities; I get to share his unique sexiness with a wonderful friend and be ourselves; I get to suck on his glorious cock and be taken to physical heights I never knew existed; I get to blow him in a room filled with people where a pile of girls are making love behind me; I get to suck his cock and then let two other girls suck him off as I slobber on their men around a campfire; I get to take a couple back to our room and fuck him while she and I hold hands and our men stuff our pussies; I get to have him devour one breast while she laps the other — soft and sweet on the left, harsh and demanding on the right; and lastly, I get to hear him tell me that he will look back on our time together with nothing but fondness when it ends because, “Before you, I was nothing.  I was no where.  You made me somewhere and something.  I stabilized you, but you made me be something.”

And this afternoon I got to try out what I’m calling the Gonzo Hitachi attachment and when I was spent and my body done quaking I took a picture of it and sent it to him not knowing he was next door.  But soon his cock was shoved down my throat and Gonzo was buried back deep inside of me as he told me what a good girl I was.  His fingers hooked back inside of me after I came again and he brought me a warm g-spot climax and then left to return to the office.

I am alone for the next two hours until he comes back to me after visiting two of his friends’ parties.  I was not invited.  I wrestle with how that makes me feel, but then again, I get him for the rest of the night and our plan is to have him buried deep inside of me at midnight with champagne cascading down the swells of my breasts and the tips of my nipples little bubbly shooters to his open, eager mouth.  Shrooms will be laced in our tea and we will be on a different plane of being, full, vulnerable and determined to never forget each other for the next several hours.  And certainly the rest of our lives.

Happy New Year, Internet Boyfriend.  Be safe, love big, and I hope everyone gets their rocks off in glorious fashion tonight.

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Tits and bubbles.