Category Archives: The Neighbor

I whispered “I love you.”

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

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

Day One:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Two:

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

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

“Yep. They kinda always tag along.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Three:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, that was a good idea.”

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

I had tears in my ears.

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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.

He is my whipping boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt like one of those color-swirled marbles.

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

When he pulled away I saw his erection.

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

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

The pile of laundry remained.
 

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

I hope my neighbors got a show.

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He loves underboob.

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

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

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

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

He pulled against the restraints and gasped.

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

“Nearly so,” he amswered.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you begging?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think he lives in a fantasy, too.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s left his mark on me.

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This mark punctuated a long weekend of play, tears, and secrets revealed. We continue to grind on our arrangement: I am clear as a mountain lake, he is confused and murky.

He is a lost young man unable to figure us out because we are inexplicable to his own logic. We defy his long held conventions, yet he is stubbornly unwilling to let me go.

He may move away soon. Things will happen then. Big things, not little. We will either have to make a big effort to stay together or a big effort to end it.

I wish these marks on my bottom would last forever, like those already branding my heart. Like my memories.

I close my eyes and see the blur of his hand on his erection as my orgasm collapses down into me; I feel his cock deep inside of me and my orgasm folding in around us, washing over me like warm, sparkling bath water.

The handprint will fade, but the others are mine — always and forever — regardless of how this ends, clear or murky.