Tag Archives: amazing sex

I get fucked for days.

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I bought some hyacinths the other day.

Last weekend I lay wrapped in the cocoon of my lover’s arms. It was Sunday, the last night I had Peyton with me and my babe slept soundly in the room across the hall. With a warm body beneath me and an orgasm or two under my belt I sighed into the wavy love beams emanating from The Neighbor.

“If you’re ever up for it, I’d really like to cross something off my Sexual Bucket List.”

“Mmmhmm,” he said, his hands on my skin traced secret letters.

“Yeah, I’d like to have sex every day for a week.” He looked over at me, intrigued. “I’ve never done that before.”

His answer was immediate, “Ok. Wanna start now? Does tonight count as 1 or 0?”

“Zero!” I laughed back, not quite believing my ears. I never thought my wishful week would start right away. But it did.

Like Heidi on her mountainside I played with my neighbor — the man I love — and floated on meadows of orgasms and drank from ejaculating streams. The sun bore down on me and my sexual heart and we became golden and gleamed together like a setting sun into the ocean. Passersby could see my sparkle from a distance and wondered over the happy little beauty smiling into trees and whispering to butterflies as if she were a winged creature herself.

Each night he came to me, no matter how exhausted we were, and we capped off our labors with a labor of love. Me loving him. Him loving me. Our bodies locked together.

My darker moments were spent in the shadow of disbelief. This couldn’t really be happening to me. I knew how badly he needed to be alone, to recharge. Yet there he was, every night. Day 4, Day 5, Day 6…

This flippant goal of mine to connect with another body every day for a week transformed us like a spell. We weren’t TN and Hy. We were Him and Her, a couple. A real live couple. Geppetto would have cried fat salty tears as he saw our hearts pound together and our breaths mingle into each others’ mouths and organs.

Friday, Day 5, I made dinner for him and my girlfriend — asparagus soup and roasted red-pepper and sun-dried tomato pasta. We laughed and drank and wore my grandmother’s aprons. Downstairs Neighbor soon joined us and the four of us lay on the floor like school children and played The Book of Questions.

Someone asked a question wherein I revealed some of my dusty insecurities at not being slender. “I have never been slim a day of my life,” I explained. “Even when I was my fittest my thighs touched and I looked robust.”

My friends misunderstood me and thought I was feeling badly about my shape; they all leapt to my defense. They told me how beautiful I was, how unbelievably sexy, how shapely I was. TN’s voice was clear and strong when he said, “Hy, you are by the far the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever dated or been with. You’re better looking than Anna, my exgirlfriend, and better looking than 4 am girl.” He turned to our friends and added, “And she kills it in the sack.”

That night he invited me to stay the night and we made sure that my friend and DN could hear us down below. In the morning we awoke to dreadful hangovers and TN triumphantly declared, “See! Staying the night isn’t a thing anymore!!”

Day 6 we donned our running gear and did a fun run 5k. We painted our faces and raced through the crowds laughing and panting. Through the finish line we went and tumbled into a dance party of runners and strobe lights. The room pulsed with music and lights were softened by human steam.

I beamed at him and we kissed, covered in sweat and surrounded by thousands. I was a beacon of unadulterated happiness. I was a real boy.

We drove home and tangled ourselves into each other, scrubbed clean; shiny, happy people living a dream. Too tired for anything vigorous, I suggested he “slip it in and hold still.”

He began to protest until I dropped my voice and told him to listen — really listen — to what he was saying. He giggled at his own absurdity and I felt the helmet of his giant erection butt against my warm, plump skin.

He slipped in and held there. I lay still on my side, his arm on my hip. He moved just a little and I told him not to. He didn’t listen.

He pulled out and slid back in and I felt every millimeter, like a carrot in my hands it felt abrasive, alive and stiff.

He thrust deeply into my core and I gasped and pushed onto on him. With minimal movement we felt each other as though we were on a deep space odyssey; every instrument tuned to the outside, plugged into the inside.

Eight, 10, 12 more thrusts and he stopped, told me to grab my vibrator. Soon, with his magical penis buried deep inside my equally magical cunt, I came like a banshee and quivered down around him.

And as I caught my breath I felt the animal between us alight with passion. He hammered into me with a methodical rhythm, deliberate and punishing, slow.

His breath caught in his throat and 15 seconds later he was crying out and dumping his seed inside of me. Our cumless streak was broken. “We’ll have to resent the calendar with that one,” he chuckled as I rolled over to nestle in his nook.

And on the 7th day, he invited me to his friend’s BBQ. We found ourselves in Stepford playing the “Who do you think is kinky?” game and surreptitiously rubbing each others’ fun parts. I decided the man in his late thirties wearing plaid shorts, flip-flops, and an unbuttoned Polo shirt was a dirty motherfucker. He thought it was the woman in a navy blue Polo dress who had a look in her eye that liked to get naughty.

We both agreed we were likely the only two people there who were so perfectly sexually matched. We were also the only couple there who wasn’t “together.”

We left early to our host’s dismay and I stroked him as his car purred home in the sunshine.

We climbed the stairs and he sneaked inside his apartment and I went to mine. I peeled off my clothes and slipped on a figure-hugging negligee. I felt silly and awkward and all too deliberate.

I wrapped myself like a piece of melted candy in a lemon-drop robe and waited. He waltzed in wrapped in marshmallow white, naked as the day he was born beneath the terrycloth.

We both exclaimed at our little gifts to one another and touched and fondled our treats.

He tugged me back into my room and he told me over and over how hot I was in my lingerie, his cock buried deep inside of me, my heart clearly on my sleeve.

When we were done, we both agreed we were having more fun than anyone else back at the Stepford BBQ.

In all, Day 7 was really Day 8 if we renumbered Day 0 to be 1. It was the most glorious 8 days with any lover/partner/boyfriend/fuckbuddy/whatever of my life. I felt desirable and wanted. Above all else, I felt accepted.

Underneath it all, I was keenly aware that it was a blip on the radar, unsustainable. He was faltering under the strain of daily and/or nightly contact; he needed his space to recoup. But he was a trouper and for that I am eternally grateful. We did something spectacular together.

This wasn’t his first week of continuous sex (his exgirlfriend, Anna, was “a nympho” when they first got together), but it was the first week with him where I got to see his boyfriend side, the side that puts my needs first and who goes out of his way to show how much he cares.

Today, two days after the life raft of sex in a sea of uncertainty, he has retreated and is licking the wounds incurred by contact to such constant, bright sunlight: me. He’s earned it.

I have never been happier with anyone in my life. Not my exhusband, not any old boyfriend. They all professed to love me and they committed their lives to me, yet they all failed to make me feel as special, needed, and desired as this man, The Neighbor, does.

So, I’ve come to terms — again — with my life with him. I will forgo holding hands in return for his acceptance of me . I will give up introducing him as my partner in exchange for the knowledge that he prefers my company above all others’. I will give up waking up in his arms for the dozens of little kindnesses he does for me in a week. And I will let go of hearing I love you because I know in my marrow that he treats me as one treats a love, a true love, and I can live with that.

The “nature of our relationship” is predicated on the idea that it could suddenly end. I am beginning to view this just one of many different approaches to affairs of the heart. Indeed, any relationship can end at a moment’s notice despite proclamations of devotion and loyalty. Perhaps knowing I am borrowing him makes our life together that much sweeter.

I don’t know if I want him in my life long-term, but for now he makes me happier than anyone ever has before and so he has earned a spot in my Today. What Tomorrow holds, I don’t know, but hopefully it’s another 8 days.

He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Yes.”

“I’m very, very sorry, Ma’am.”

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

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Ok, but just the tip,” I panted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me, too,” he said and left.

Old lovers are a dime a dozen, new ones are a million bucks.

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Jason poked me on Facebook. I didn’t even realize it was happening until one day I finally did, like noticing that chip in your windshield.

We struck up a chat and he asked if we could get together to “catch up.” Curious, I agreed.

Jason is ten years my junior, a PhD student, and bisexual. We met on a steamy September afternoon in 2011 and spent that night naked and bathed in sweat, his fat black cat bored and staring in the corner. He made me feel smart and funny and I liked that he was into men. He liked my supportive, open-minded nature. However, our honeymoon was short-lived.

He was also flaky and unresponsive, had a delusional belief that he was hung like a horse, when he was a regular dude, and he demanded obscene amounts of my attention while he bounced dissertation issues off of me due to my academic background while then deluging me with ex-girlfriend horror stories. He feigned interest in what I had to say, but couldn’t wait to get the conversation back to either his writings or that other crazy, fucked up thing his ex-girlfriend had done to him. I felt used by him — and ignored — and what was at first very promising, soon only served to irritate me.

He was one of the original men in my life when I started this blog — it was him, Phillip, Kevin, and The Neighbor — and as I came back down to earth and realized I was fracturing myself from use of random cock, I froze the dating to the four of them, and told them all I was trying to piece myself back together.

At some point later that fall, Jason suggested we stop using condoms — we’d go get tested and only go bareback with each other. I agreed because on some 16-year-old girl level, it felt sweet, and I felt extra special. It was the perfect agreement until I met Phillip for our third “date.”

I’d fucked Phillip once before I’d met Jason, and without a condom. He was cautious with his lovers, apparently, and didn’t “presume” that we’d have sex that night, so he had no protection. Same story for our next tryst. His strong hands kneaded my back and slid my panties down, he massaged my pussy lips, too and I pushed my bottom up into his hand. I had no will power when I discovered we were condom-less once again and I saw his gigantic erection spring away from his boxers. I never told Jason I’d cheated on him.

But then again, he was flaky and I was pissed, and I trusted Phillip. It all turned out fine in the end. By March, Jason and I had died on the vine anyway, TN and I had stopped using condoms, and I never heard from Phillip again once I told him we would have to use protection going forward. Kevin was always peripherally in the picture – where he continues to lurk – but at a distance.

So my affair with Jason was braided in with this blog and with those three other men, with promises of fluid fidelity, and with my growing feelings for TN. Today, we finally saw each other after nearly a year.

“Why did we stop seeing each other?” he asked me, his bright blue eyes accented by his blue shirt.

“I’m not sure, really. We just did. You got a girlfriend. At least that’s what all the Internet cats on your Facebook wall told me.”

He laughed and said yes, then we caught up. I filled him in on my life and my love, told him the condensed version of the Hy-TN saga. “God, he’s such an idiot!” he laughed more than once when I shared with him some of TN’s more famous, stupid words. He filled me in on his, his girlfriend’s hangups about bi men and such, more of his dissertation stresses.

I enjoyed my coffee with him. I know I looked particularly fetching today – not a way I generally feel. My eyes framed with just the right amount of dark eye-makeup and mascara were a shade of blue I feel particularly lucky to have. My breasts, full and round, peaked out over my topless sundress, my arms covered in a casual grey cardigan. He wants me to meet his girlfriend — Internet cats girl — because he thinks she can do some work for me. I was reminded to not mention his secret proclivities for men to her, but apparently she knows “all about me,” whatever that means. I didn’t bother to ask.

I went to meet him not sure what he wanted from me. Was he single again? Did he want me to join them? What would I do if propositioned? I honestly can’t remember if I am committed to TN or not. How is that even possible? And I’m afraid to ask him because I’m loving this bubble we’re currently in.

I feel safe, loved, committed to, and cared about 90% of the time. Maybe 85%. Even a handful of months ago I didn’t feel loved at all, but now I do. He hugs me, talks to me, talks me down away from the edge. He pays for everything he can for me to help ease my financial burdens and is going to pay me to sell his car for him. I think if he could pay me for sex, he would.

He loves me, I’m more sure of it than ever, yet this knowledge doesn’t stop me from wanting other men almost to spite him for not saying the magic words. Seeing Jason today kicked the sleeping dragon awake. And I feel like an asshole. This is why even though I’ve been stable and faithful, I still feel my dissoluteness deep down, coursing through my blood. It’s part of why I want to fuck another couple.

I can never make him say, “I love you, Hyacinth,” but I sure as hell can spread my legs to someone else.

He kissed me and there we were.

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Friday night Tina turned to her boyfriend, Chuckles, and their lips puckered and connected.  The girl with the faux-hawk behind them tossed a dirty look their way and I looked at The Neighbor surrounded by 20-somethings clad in ugly glasses, leather jackets, and skinny jeans, a mostly ignored Lone Star beer in his hand.  He was a rose in a field of grass.

“We can’t let them win,” he said and grabbed me and pulled me against his pea coat.  My lips parted in surprise as his icy blue eyes locked on mine and his own lips parted and came to crush down on mine.  He held me to him, his 5 o’clock shadow rough on my face.  The hum of the crowd disappeared under the cheers of my heart and the soft stroking of his warm tongue on my own.

I heard my friends gasp drunkenly behind me as they saw me embraced by the man they know I love, lost in the moment and shining like a fallen star among the ignorant hipster drunks trying to be cooler than their friends.

We pulled apart, but he kept me close.  I smiled and laughed like everything was normal, like I hadn’t just been molecularly modified by his lips on mine under the stars and many prying eyes.  Something shifted further away from safe and much closer to terror.

We’d spent a wonderful week together; night after night he came over after Peyton was in bed and we’d cuddle and kiss, fondle the warm fleshy bits and suck and nuzzle the protruding ones.   His cock lost its treasure to my hungry mouth as easily as my heart lost its treasure to him.  His warm, loving, incredible, sweet, smart, worried, supportive, sexy, funny self.

He has been supple under my steady hand and as I learn to exercise my dominance over him, subtle and consistent as it is, he bends and collects himself; self-corrects and shows a beauty I didn’t know a single man could possess. He catches himself and apologizes, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he’ll say with a tuck of his chin and a twinkle in his eye.  He’ll say it as many times as I require in front of anyone; it’s a secret code that only we know about.  To others, he’s being contrite, to me he’s being submissive and delectable.

Every night when the coast was clear I texted, “Come over.”  Moments later he would be in my room, stretched out on my bed with my hand on his fleecy chest.  He is a cat to the core: quirky in his solitude requirements, fiercely affectionate to those he trusts, demanding of attention on his private terms.  His words have spilled out, the most beautiful I have ever heard in my life.

“Hy, you are so fucking gorgeous.  I love your body.  You are so sexy,” he said to me Thursday night as we lay entwined after our first softball victory.  “I am so lucky.”  I cuddled into him, wishing I could stay there for hours.

“Thank you for saying that.  That means a lot to me.”

“Well, I mean it.”

It’s hard for me to imagine my life without him.  I know I am going to be devastated.  I can’t understand how he can be the best boyfriend I’ve never fucking had.  How is that even possible??  What kind of life was I living prior to not dating him?  Who was I choosing to love and spend my time with?  Even my ex-husband never made me feel so desirable, so smart, so special, so wanted and he pledged himself to me!

TN denies wanting me and yet… and yet none of that noise from his mouth matters to me right now.  What matters to me is that his bloody, beating heart is drawn to me and he is helpless to stop it and he has stopped trying to hide it.  From me, from anyone.  That kiss at the bar — in front of our friends — was more than just a kiss.  It was compliance, a real dip into submitting to what I want from him, love.

He loves me.  I am sure of it.  And it makes my heart burst with rainbows and glitter and all kinds of sparkly shit on the LUB and freeze and shiver and stop on the DUB.  But I’m used to it now.  Nothing will change — nothing has changed — but I feel loved now.  That’s fucking new.

Valentine’s Day found me busier than usual.  I had dinner with a friend of mine whom I don’t know super well (she dated my exhusband right after we split) and three other women I’d never met before, but it was lovely beyond words.  Roasted cauliflower, Brussels sprouts-stuffed pork tenderloin, kale salad, wine and cigarettes, connections made.

At 8:30 my phone lit up.  “What are you doing?” it read.  I texted him back that I was at a dinner party.  “When will you be back?”  I smiled and said around 10.  He liked that idea.

The wine flowed and the conversation improved by the minute.  At 10:30 my phone lit up again.  “Oh shit!” I told my dinner companions.  “I have to go!  I have to go get laid!”  They’d been curious about my arrangement with TN and I’d filled them in on the basics.  As I was getting sucked back into conversations my phone interrupted again, “I’m naked and in your bed.”  This time I was serious.

“Ok, ladies.  I’m so sorry, but I truly must leave.  I have a naked man in my bed.”  They all laughed and whistled at me as I ran through hugs and out the door.  What I hadn’t told them was he was following orders like a good boy.

I parked and flew up my stairs, tossed down my things and headed straight to my room.  Out of the darkness he said hello.  I felt blindly for him and he pulled back the covers and pulled me down to him for a kiss.  I lit a candle and undressed under his appraising eyes.

I preened and pushed out my breasts proudly.  “Before we start tonight,” I said quietly kneeling beside him, his hand resting on my bottom, “I owe you some spanks.”  He pretended to be surprised, but he’d known they were coming for days.  He got up and planted his feet on the floor and fell forward.

I cracked my red leather belt across the soft, round mounds of his bottom until he began to react.  Each flinch and stifled cry washed over me like bath water; his increasingly red bottom whet my core.

Instead of the promised 5, he got 35.  I needed to warm up with a few, then he was adorably impertinent, then I was just enjoying myself.  When I felt one more would be too much I stopped and kissed the warm skin, gently caressed his thick, muscular thighs.

I tied him up then sucked on his massive cock until he writhed helplessly beneath me, his hands bound above his head, and his semen spurting on the back of my throat.  When he’d stopped giggling and smiling, I crawled up to his face and carefully engulfed his nose and mouth with my cunt and gripped the iron bars of my headboard so as not to kill him with my passion.

I eased back down his torso and let his erection split me like a toothpick in a grape.  “Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” he moaned.

Eventually, I took pity on him and released his hands.  We tumbled and fucked.  I cried and let him spank me and pull my hair like a wild beast.  His cock twitched and throbbed inside me as the Hitachi did the work of 100 men and their talented tongues and he held me in his arms until I uncharacteristically fell asleep in them, tears drying on my cheeks.

As he opens up this beautiful, submissive side to me and I respond to it so viscerally and powerfully, I find myself in a strange predicament.  I am the embodiment of our very relationship: I am yes and I am no.  I want to feel this happiness and love, yet I am terrified of its abandonment and actually hate it a little like hating to comb out a tangle.  He’s such a terrible puppet, you know: he won’t do everything I want him to.  Just most of it.

I see the changes in him towards me, the love, but I want more.  The more I love him the more impossible I find it to not want more. I feel guilty and greedy and attempt to temper my wanton desires with reality, but I struggle.  He still refuses to sleep with me and when I boldly asked him one night his refusal was swift and permanent.

“But you slept with 4 am girl and your exgirlfriend all the time,” I said petulantly.

“That was different.  I was trying to have a different kind of relationship with them.  They were my girlfriend.“

The words stole my breath away and I slunk down in the passenger seat wishing we were home already.  I couldn’t rally; I was crushed.

He tried to repair the matter with silly jokes, but I couldn’t pretend.  I solemnly climbed the stairs behind him, thanked him for a fun night and entered my apartment and had a small fit which might have included going back to the front door and slamming it as hard as I could.

In the morning I woke and asked to see him.  He came over immediately and I apologized for ending the night in a huff, but explained that my feelings were deeply  hurt by the fact that I’m not as special as fucking 4 am girl.  If ever I wished a D/s relationship could sway a person’s wants it would be with this.

“I don’t like sleeping with anyone, Hy and you’re looking at this all wrong.  You are so much more special to me than they ever were or will be.  I’ll still know you in 5 or 10 years and I don’t even talk to them anymore.  But I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.  I really am, but I promise you you are 100 times more special to me than they ever were.”

I told him his reasoning was bullshit, but that I would agree to believe his words for both our sakes.

It’s that reckless and random pain that awaits me whenever I want to close the gap between us that clutches at my throat on the DUB.  I cannot be without it.  I’d be an idiot to pretend it wasn’t there.  Even though we seem to have moved forward we are still in shadow.  Half my friends don’t know we are lovers, my family certainly has no idea I’m in love with someone new, and sweet Peyton only knows Mommy and TN are neighbors.

I’m happier than I’ve been in months, possibly even ever, but I am scared and sad, too.  I wish he’d kiss me in front of everyone all of the time.  Not just when the stars are out and the moon is bright, but in the light of day as a man in love should.  If, indeed, he really is a man in love.

I know how to squirt.

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A lot of women want to know how it is I squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.

Making G-spot Contact

The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 12 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.

This particular night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.

I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was small that was basically like feeling nothing, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.

So, naturally, I applied my new method with this bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra. And it felt big and blossoming, but distinctly different from an orgasm.

That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased about it. And then we kept going.

Looking back on it, it’s my first experience with my g-spot.

Size Can Matter

I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (I’ll have to share that story some time – it was goddamned epic) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.

Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply don’t. Until I learned some new tricks…

Head Space – What I do

Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.

When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential cunt. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.

When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.

Skills – What He Does

There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.

With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.

With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.

The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well, but she squirted with an orgasm at the end of his ministrations, whereas I squirted almost as soon as he put his hand on me and couldn’t stop until he stopped. And again, for me, squirting – or cumming as I sometimes refer to it – is very different from my orgasms, though extremely and overwhelmingly pleasurable. I am left deeply moved and affected; I feel done and relaxed and highly emotional.

Letting Go – It’s Not Pee

I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.

And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.

We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.

Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly of musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor  never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.

Go For It

And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!

I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!

And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:

Make Her Ejaculate

Female Ejaculation

Shejaculation: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Gush

Originally published 2/18/12.