I love big dicks and I cannot lie.

I talk about cock size a lot.  When I was on Tinder it was in my profile under something coy like, “I prefer gold wrappers,” or some such.  On Adult Friend Finder I’m explicit with my fantasy penis.  I want a guy who’s at least 7″ and girthy, like 5″+ around.

I’ve been called childish and rude and told I’m missing out on what a smaller guy can do for me.  The men who meet my preferences give me high fives and thank me for my honesty.  They like a woman who knows what she wants.

So why do I like them bigger? 

I find big cocks hot as fuck

I don’t know if I’m a product of the current state of society which seems to laud hung men or if I come by it naturally, but I am in love with big dicks.

They titillate and challenge me, they make me feel proud that I get to have it and that I can take it; I feel overwhelmed with desire when I see it jut at me, throbbing and bulging with veins so beautiful I want to cry for want of it.

When my hand wraps around it and my fingertips can only just barely touch my pussy pulses and my heart quickens.  I cannot help my physical response to a big cock — I simply cannot — and it feels good, oh so good.  Just the response, I’m not even talking about how it feels in me.

For many years I wasn’t cognizant of my preference.  I knew smaller ones felt different and often would think, “I wish I felt… more,” but couldn’t put my finger on it.  Then one day the stars aligned: I met Troy.

We lay in his bright living room the first Monday we ever knew one another and as I knelt at his feet and deftly unbuckled his pants he sprung out and my eyes widened.  “What?” he said.

“Um… you’re really big,” I said and fell onto him with my eager mouth.  I was old enough to know the difference and sexually awake enough to appreciate it.

He’d never cum from a blowjob until that day.  He didn’t know he was hung until that day.  It was a turning point for the both of us.

Size Queens

Troy had his own preferences and introduced me to the term “size queen.”   He launched a search for men on AFF to play with us who were bigger than him.  He’d watch me get fucked by these fellas and impatiently wait his turn to suck my juices off their long, engorged members.  Troy was a master at deepthroat and I’d watch in awe as the men would disappear down his throat like a sword.   Jack, Ryan, Max.  When he and I were over I knew I had a thing.  I was a size queen, too.

The Neighbor was bigger than Troy and even more talented with it.  I squirmed with glee when I noticed his bulge hardening under his silky basketball shorts, from the feel of his heat in my hand.  I loved that it made his jeans fit funny and that he couldn’t hide his size from the world, as if to say, Fuck you. I’ve got a huge cock.

I know lots of women — a majority, actually — who don’t care about dick size and prefer smaller and thinner penises inside of them than I do.   Big ones intimidate them or hurt once inside.  I don’t have either of those problems.

I’m built for big cock

Five years ago, at the tender age of 35 I was set loose on the world of men with a broken heart and a raging sexual appetite.  Together, Troy and I discovered the wonders of my body and I became a wet and willing partner at the drop of a hat.  His hands, his kiss, his breath on my neck.  It didn’t take much and my pussy would be soaking and he’d slip right in.  I eschewed lube and we never used it.  Instead I savored the stretch until he slipped around inside of me as I came and squirted around him, ruining our beds, rugs, blankets, and couches in the process.

After Troy there was Phillip who was a monster.  He’s the first man whose cock made me a little afraid, but I trusted him and it was spectacular.  He called me his dirty little Girl Scout and I came from the filthy words and being hung up on his staff.  The man barely had to move and I was writhing.  With Kent, it was different.  He was enormous, too, but the curve of his cock also hit my G-spot and I just sobbed into my pillows as he rode me to his climax.   And I could feel The Neighbor in my throat and skull through my pussy as he’d fill me up and take me to faraway places attached to his thrusting hips.

The thing with all of them was I got wickedly wet and lost my goddamned mind and if it weren’t for their size they would have been lost to me completely.  Physiologically, as a woman becomes more aroused, her vagina expands and cervix lifts up and out of the way essentially expanding rather than constricting.  I don’t know if I have some giant hallway-sized pussy or something, all I know is that my intense wetness creates a severe loss of sensation for me, so unless his cock is big, I’m not feeling him.  I’m told my pussy feels amazing.  I’m glad they can feel something while I’m lost in sloppy pussy outer space.

In addition to wetness, there’s also vagina depth.  The average is 3-4 inches in length unaroused, aroused it can nearly double.  I must have a deeper one than most if a man who’s 10″+ can fit in there with little to no pain.  Just the thought of taking in something that huge turns me on and, whether it’s true or not, it makes me feel special.

Size has nothing to do with character

How a man reacts to my size preferences, however, does speak to his character and self-esteem.  Calling me names and telling me I’m short-sighted is more about the man than it is about me.  I know what I want and I want it to be amazing for the both of us.  I want him to be excited by my excitement and for him to see the lust in my eyes, not veiled disappointment because I was told to expect something different. I want to feel him in me — I’m naturally desperate for it during the act of sex — and a man with a baby arm between his legs rockets me off the planet like no other.

When a man states very clearly that he likes a petite woman who’s fit I don’t call him names.  I just know I’m not the woman for him.  At best, I’m softly athletic, of average height with big, mushy tits — I’m an athlete in bed, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me — but he doesn’t need to know that.  I’m not going to argue with a guy who has a whole truckload of reasons behind his stated preference.  He’s entitled to it.  I also don’t want a man to settle for me.  Physically speaking, I want the man who wants me, just the way I am.  The man who wants a softer partner, with pendulous breasts that swing and bounce, and an ass that jiggles as he slams into it.

I want men to be ok with me not wanting them if their cocks are average or smaller.  Let me go find a guy who’s bigger and wish me well on my search.  I’ll wish him well on his search for a woman who thinks he’s perfect, too.  I’m not doing it to be exclusive, I’m doing it because it’s just what I want.  No one should shame someone because they have a preference be it for fake tits or BBW, hairy men or older blokes.  We all want what we want.  There’s no need to make it personal.

Love vs Cock vs Good Times

I’ve essentially shot myself in the foot having this ridiculous thing about me, this preference, because I also want a man who’s intelligent, funny, and kind, successful in his career, and above all else, interested in me.  Add to it the general ambiguity of dating, the trials and misfires and it’s an exhausting endeavor, which is why I’ve essentially taken myself off the fucking market (pun intended).  I’m tired of it all.

I’m tired of the emotional math necessary for sending texts or making calls, tired of the hoping and the waiting, tired of trying to untangle mixed messages and shot-down hopes, tired of looking for a man who wants me who also has a nice, giant meaty cock.  It seems vaguely impossible; I might as well buy a lottery ticket.

Luckily, I’m perfectly capable of just chillin’ and fully enjoying myself with a man who isn’t related to a donkey.  I’ve had some really pleasurable evenings with these guys and walked away sated, smiling like a fool.  I’m an equal-opportunity dater, I just have a preference.  It doesn’t mean you have to be my dream cock.  If you’re a great guy, I’ll still think you’re great and you might even win my heart.

I’ll never rule out love with someone based on the size of his penis, but it would certainly be a boon for me if I loved a man who had one that was made for me.

I don’t know what other size queens think about their needs and wants, I only know about mine.  It’s born out of lust, pride, and physiological necessity.  It’s not meant to make anyone feel badly.  It’s only meant to make me feel good, both inside and out.  I sincerely hope that we all find our perfect match in whatever sizes we want.

We masturbate with the light on.

hyacinthjones_polkadot_shorts

The outfit of ill repute.

I pressed myself against his bare back and reached my arm around to find his stiff cock resting on the mattress.  We’d been cuddling for a while and our new configuration had interrupted my stroking.  I sighed into his back and kissed his shoulder, squeezed the hot thing in my hand.  He picked up his stream of consciousness and I closed my eyes with a smile as I breathed him in and indulged completely my joy of curling around him while sunk deeply into my mattress.

My hand, wrapped around his hotness, lazily moved the length of him and I felt a familiar draw between my legs.  I was surprised; I thought for sure the pounding headache I’d endured all day had surely killed any kind of libido, but no… she was purring just below the surface.  I decided to test it and thought out loud to us both.

“How long has it been since you masturbated?”

“Since Saturday or Sunday whenever I sent you that pic.”

“Mmm,” I replied remembering the glorious cock shot I’d received, all resplendent dark pink skin arched like a dolphin above the surface of his belly.  “I remember now.  Thanks for that.”  I squeezed my hand again and pulled his shoulder toward me to reposition him on his back.

“I want to watch you cum tonight,” I said softly, firmly.  The room was filled with light and an evening stillness, waiting.

He politely declined, but I persisted, perceiving the game.  “It’s so hot when your hand is a blur, to watch you tense your big thighs,” I whispered.

I traced my hand over his meaty quadricep.  “And to watch you shake a little.  To see your arm flex, your biceps harden.  Your little grunts and then you curl.”

“I curl?” he asked.

“Yes, you curl, just a little, like this at the end,” and I demonstrated the little crunch he does during climax.

He moaned a little and took over.  A slight smacking sound from the head of his cock joined the lilt of my story as his hand moved quickly and expertly over his own body.  “Mmm, how could I have forgotten about that sound?” I wondered.

“I want you to cum with me,” he said.  Then added, “Please, ma’am.”

I rolled over and retrieved the Hitachi resting on a nest of tangled cords and put the head over my polkadot shorts.  I lifted my white see-through t-shirt and lay in the bright light, his eyes locked on mine for a moment before we both shifted to each other’s bodies.

The wand seared through me as I watched the blurry arc of his hand.  Words tumbled out of me as quickly as my orgasm tumbled toward its cliff of release.  “I love your cock,” I gasped, “It’s so fucking big.  Look at you: so beautiful, so sexy.”

His body was doing all the things I’d already described.  His legs were rigid slabs of muscle, his chest was taut with exertion, his breath coming fast and in little jerks.

“I can’t believe you put that giant thing in me,” I managed to say and then my orgasm pushed through me like a wave crashing on the beach.  It came so swiftly the second I was done I wanted more.  He was still beating himself with a steady, sexy rhythm.

“You’re going again, right?” he asked, hopeful.

“Definitely,” I confirmed.  “Talking — hearing my own voice say those things — made me cum faster,” I said a little incredulously.  “But it’s hard.  I’m so shy.”  He said he felt the same way when he tried to talk and I felt less silly.

I put the Hitachi back on me and kept talking.  Again, it pounded through me in seconds and I arched and moaned and called out.  He closed his eyes and moved to his own music, his own needs.  His hand moved impossibly fast and his breathing shortened.  I pressed my hand gently on his thigh, close to the magic and waited.

And then he curled a little and spurts of his seed came spilling out to rest on the brambles of his hairy abdomen.  He giggled a little and relaxed.  “See?” I said kissing his shoulder.  “You curled!”  He giggled again and sighed, wiped the cum off his belly with his bare hand.

I took it and licked some off and smacked my lips, rolled back onto my back and quickly had a third orgasm with the taste of his cum on my lips and his mouth latched onto my breast.

“Let’s talk about our feelings,” he joked.  I snuggled down into my nook and kissed his chest.  His arm squeezed me to him and he nuzzled me for a kiss on the lips.

“Ok,” I said.  “I love you.”  He smiled and I got lost in his icy blue eyes, the whiskers he was growing back for me.

“I love you, too,” he replied and I quietly wrapped myself in the evening’s joy as I looked out into the quiet stillness of my brightly lit room, his chest a pillow beneath my smiling cheek.

hyacinthjones_polkadot_shorts

What he saw.

I write a letter to The Neighbor.

hyacinthjones_grey_tank_blue_briefs

The morning after.

Dearest TN,

Last night was what I needed though I didn’t want it.  Not at first.

All I wanted was your company on the cold balcony while I dragged on my sad little cigarette and drank out of my fishbowl wine glass.  My heart hurt and I was bereft that my ex is making poor decisions, fast decisions, but you sat with me and listened.

And when I cried because I was a raw nerve you held my hand and told me you were sorry and you stuck up for me like the Polish bulldog you are, your Irish heart pure and bold.

I was mush, but you turned me into putty.

You led me to my bed and you lay with me, stroked me and giggled with me.  I felt heavy and then I felt light.  Your flaccid cock came alive in my hand, large and stiff, and when you loomed over me in the candlelight I was skeptical that I was even there with you, it was another woman, someone else.

But then you punctured me, huge and taut, and began to move.

I’ve never felt you quite like that before and my body only just accommodated you. And then it became slippery, but I was still only barely letting you fit.  Every thrust, every move I felt our skin touch and my heart began to beat with our movements.  I was stretched apart by you.

You kissed me then and I kissed you back.  I arched my back and gripped the bars of my bed for purchase, for mercy.  You gave me none and bore into me and glared into my weeping face, sad and lovely, at home and so alone.  But you were there.  Big.

I clung to you, your wildly pumping buttocks, and you dumped yourself into me.  I was sobbing at this point, my heart broken into so many pieces then shattered into infinitely more by you, your love, your resistance, your everything.

You kept at me, ignoring my sobs, turned on by them, I suspect.  I felt exposed and vulnerable, unworthy and like a fraud.  Happy.  I was out of control.

“I’m going to cum again,” you said through gritted teeth, but I couldn’t take another stroke.  I had died so many times.  La petite mort and all that.

But you started up inside me again and I melted and wheezed my love into your ear, silently and coded.  Your powerful thighs flexed between my soft and gripping ones and I rolled my eyes into the back of my head to see my heart slip out behind.

Mercy came then when you chose to roll off of me.  It wasn’t going to happen for you that way.  I squirmed and writhed and tears streamed down my face as I gulped in ugly breaths of air and turned my cheek to you and watched your hand become an arc on your hard cock.

Fap fap fap fap fap fap fap, said your hand.

Unnnnhhhh, ahhhhhhh, ooooooh, said your mouth.

And then you jerked and flexed and creamy bright globs spurted out on your furry abdomen.  I stared slack-jawed and drooling for a moment, dipped my head and licked the tip of your cock as if it were fairy dust.  It was my way of punctuating your beautiful, dirty solo act.  Yum, yum.

The magic your body bears on mine is unequivocal in my universe.  I’ve never known such beauty before with another human.  It is a symphony of luck and love.

You are a balm on my aching heart and my racing mind.  You heal me in places no one else can possibly reach because your cock happens to be a magic fucking wand and not everyone runs around with one of those between their legs.  Who knew that when I decided to shove my hand down your pants in a drunken pass almost exactly 2 years ago?

But of course you’re so much more than just the sex we share.  You are terrifyingly smart and weird and loyal; you don’t like any of the foods I love so much, but yet we still manage to make eating a sinful delight between us; you don’t like anyone, but you like me… a lot; you demand alone time, but give me none preferring to a cuddle to solitude every time; you are thirsty for wisdom and I can see your impatience with “catching up” to me, yet you have your own special 29 year old knowledge I could never have; you like to fuck with your socks on and have an amazing non-relationship with clothing in general; you are generous and kind, witty and utterly likeable.

How lucky are we that we both landed in this apartment complex, in this city, in this state, and all next door to one another??

I don’t know what the future holds for us when I move out in March, but what I do know is that I will always have memories like that of last night to keep me warm when we are apart.

All this to say: I’m hoping I’ll muster the courage to tell you I love you this weekend.  We both deserve to hear it, though, I am petrified.

And please, god, don’t let it be a mistake to finally lift the veil of denial from us. Please…

We’ll see what Monday brings.

xx
Hy

“It’s total perfection.”

hy_striped_tank_jeans

It started out like this.

I’ve become high on love.

I dream about sharing my feelings with him and it’s a long, terrifying jump to crystal blue waters below, that feeling of my breath being stolen on the way down, the slap of wetness beneath my feet, the subsequent rush and rise to the top.

In true 7th grade fashion, I admitted to him that I like him “a whole lot.” You might be rolling your eyes at that, but it was a big deal to me.

And I invited him to spend Thanksgiving with my family on the wings of a prayer and when he said Yes I felt as though I’d won the lottery. I feel blessed, y’all.

But my lips remain sealed. I cannot say the words that boom in my heart. Those three silly little words.

I’m waiting for something. For the universe to tell me I can handle losing him. For that moment when he looks back into my tear-filled blue eyes and says, “But I don’t love you, Hy. This is just a ‘thing’ we’re doing. I’m not going to love you. You knew that.”

When I feel strong enough to weather that, my words will tumble.

But in the meantime, I float along among the clouds anchored by his mighty cock, his sweet gestures, his wise words. He roots me on every professional step I take and supports me as I navigate my tangled and painful relationship with my exhusband. He is my number one fan.

The rest of our lives is business as usual as I keep my secret. I send him a daily pic and sometimes a series if I’m feeling particularly inspired and have the freedom and privacy to do so. The weather is turning here and I recently wore jeans for the first time in months. They were a little loose, but I felt sexy and began to snap away.

Click, click, clickity-click.

I strip-teased my way down to unzipped pants and exposed breasts. He was happy to receive them.

hy_striptease_jeans

Striptease.

A day or two later, I dug out my red panties with the peek-a-boo hole tied with a thick, shiny ribbon. I was curious as to what the view was like and twisted and craned my body this way and that to capture a from-behind view.

Click, click, click.

I was pleased and sent those off, too. Again, he was grateful.

hy_hearts_bottom

Days changed into nights, cuddles turned into sweet talks, expectations morphed into reality. We tangled our parts less than our hearts. It was sweet, fairy dust; glittery longing with no release.

Finally, finally, we carved out some time to lay down inside one another. Peyton was passed out and The Neighbor was over within seconds of my “all clear” text standing in my candlelit room in black gym shorts. I wore a black spaghetti strap night dress with little sprigs of flowers dusted all over it.

We stood facing each other and he took my hand and pulled me closer, dipped his chin and captured my mouth in a long, sweet song of a kiss. I breathed him in, he inhaled me.

I ran my fingers through his hair and he clung to my bottom and pulled me towards the cradle of his hips. I felt his hardness through the thin cotton of my nightgown; my right strap slipped off my shoulder and I pulled my arm out and let my breast fall out.

We moaned into each other’s mouths and I melted into his warm skin. Every cell of my being sang of love, my pussy pulsed and my breath caught as I realized we were beginning to make love to each other.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, “We haven’t kissed like that in a long time,” he observed.

“No, we haven’t,” I agreed, though I’d argue it was closer to never.

I looked into his eyes shrouded in shadow and then his parted lips and reached forward with my own and sucked gently and slipped my soft tongue to meet his. He removed my remaining strap and I stood only in black, lace panties, then he groaned and bent to free himself from his shorts.

He pushed me down on the bed and dragged my bottom to the edge, licked his palm and rubbed it on the head of his giant erection. He positioned himself at my hole and pressed into me. Nothing happened.

Our eyes locked as we both smiled slyly knowing his first push was always the best, my favorite of favorites.

He pushed harder and I began to spread for him. I gasped a little and smiled more broadly. His mouth mirrored mine and then my eyes fluttered shut as the head entered my body completely and the rest of him eased in as if my body were a hungry constrictor.

He kissed me hungrily as his hips began to move, my body completely lubricated. “You’re not wet at all,” he joked huskily in my ear.

“Nope,” I whispered back with a chuckle, “not at all.”

He kissed my neck and my jaw and sat up and pumped into me, his hands braced on either side of me. Each punishing thrust made my breasts jiggle like bowl-shaped domes of Jell-O.

“Turn over,” he said suddenly. “Flip onto your belly.”

I did as instructed, my feet planted firmly on the ground and he slipped back into me.

“Tell me what you see,” I said thinking of my red-panty pics.

“I see my favorite thing: your beautiful body, your curves, this,” and he ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “It’s total perfection.”

photo 1

I closed my eyes and let him plow into me and light me up from the inside. My heart sparkled in time with my G-spot, our skin slapped and our moans mingled.

We moved up onto the bed completely and he pinned my knees together as he rutted on top of me, grabbed my top-knot bun and growled into my ear and struck my flanks once, twice, three times.

I lost time, wanted to be somewhere else and nowhere else. Then we were spent.

“C’mere,” I heard him as if from far away.

He pulled me into his nook and I lay there feeling more satisfied than I had in days, recalibrated. My thoughts felt like warm honey, my bones willow branches.

“Let’s go out on the balcony,” I suggested. It was in the low 60s, a rarity in September here. We dressed in white robes, him in a long Egyptian-cotton shin-length thing with my name, “Hyacinth,” embroidered on the lapel (a bridal party gift of mine from years ago) and me in a little short white one.

And there, on a balcony chair cushion beneath my knees and the breeze caressing us both, I sucked and loved on his cock, his knees splayed wide and confidently in that way that men do.

It had been weeks since I’d spent any time on him and I was ashamed. I apologized and he told me it wasn’t necessary. I answered with more sucking and smiled around his girth.

Eventually, he called me off, said he’d gotten a little too sensitive. We walked back into my room and shed our robes and laid down beside one another, the ceiling fan puffed gently on us.

The night was still young so I rolled to my side and grabbed the vibrator, flicked it on and pressed it to my bare mound. TN kissed my neck and jaw, sucked on my lips and my nipple. I climbed the rise quickly and as his mouth returned to mine I began to splinter.

He caught my orgasm in his mouth as I whimpered and gasped into him.

I fell limp and he pulled me to him as he rolled onto his back. I surprised him when I grabbed his chubby cock with one hand and turned the vibrator back on while on my side.

It was a swift ride with my ear pressed to his chest as it rose and fell quickly; his cock grew in my hand as my orgasm approached, spilled out onto us and faded away.

In his arms I thanked him for saying all those nice things about me as he was fucking me. He said it was nothing, that he loved the pictures I sent him. “I think it’s especially sexy when there are things left to the imagination.”

“Really?” I said, dancing on the edge of a doze.

“Yeah, like that one in the series you sent me the other day where your pants were unzipped but your bra still on. That was damn sexy, by far my favorite of the bunch.”

I perked up a little at that, proud and pleased in equal measure.

“Well, I’m glad. I try to be sexy and not just raunchy.”

“You do a good job,” he affirmed.

I mumbled something into the warmth of his skin, wrapped in love and kisses and compliments and told him again how much I liked him. He squeezed me and said he had to go soon.

I don’t know if loving him more will make me braver or more afraid, but as I’ve been told recently I need to act like the grown up and share my feelings and I agree. Just a few more nights like this one and I might feel brave enough to try.

hy_TN_favorite_jeans

His favorite.

I cried and then I was spanked.

I stood in the shower and cried.  I was exhausted after yet another 12 hour plus day and my heart hurt.  He was still at the game I’d had to miss and taking his sweet ass time to come home.  He didn’t care about me.  It was all so obvious.

The water poured down over my face, dripped off my nipples, slipped down my swells.  My heels rooted into the tub floor.  I felt lost and as if my line had snapped.

I heard the door slam and Faisal jumped from his perch on the bathtub ledge.  I closed my eyes and pretended I was unaware.

He came into the bathroom with a questioning look on his face.  “Are you upset with me?” he asked.  “I saw your text.”  My angry text telling him how stupid I felt for leaving my meeting early to meet him for our plans when he obviously — obviously — didn’t care.

He seemed nervous, like he was on a floor of eggshells.

I burst into both tears and laughter as I pulled the clear shower curtain back and he approached me cautiously.  “Yes!  And no!” I blubbler-giggled.  And then it all came out in a rush.

“You knew I was exhausted already and you knew I was going to have a 14 hour day today!  It seems as though you don’t even care about me!  I put myself out there and was vulnerable when I told you I wanted you to fuck the shit out of me tonight and then you stayed at the field instead of rushing home to me, but I can’t even be mad because we never communicated what time we’d meet up or when I’d be done and you can’t read my mind like I wish you could and I feel crazy and sad and mad and know I don’t have a real leg to stand on!”

He reached out and held my arms as my words tumbled out and looked at me with a kind face.  “Are you done?” he asked.

“Yes,” I nodded.  “I think so.  I’m so sorry…” I ducked my head in shame.  So tired, so overwhelmed, so embarrassed.

“It’s ok,” he assured me, “but I want you to know that I was the second person to leave and came home earlier than I would have to be with you.  I do care, Hy.”

“Really?” I squeaked.  And then I pulled him closer to my wet, naked body and he kissed me roughly, dirt and sweat filling my nostrils.

I wrapped my warm, wet arms around him and pulled him into the shower fully clothed.  He stopped to take off his socks and peel off his shorts and shirt and then he drew me back into his arms and kissed me,  hot water ran off my back and buttocks.

I washed him them with my coconut-hibiscus bodywash, careful to clean between his round cheeks and behind his soft sac.  I scrubbed his neck and pressed my body against his hard length; our skin slipped and slid against each other.

“I still need to be fucked,” I said quietly. “Hard.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied holding my gaze.  “I’m going to abuse you.”

I nearly folded in half at the words, the promise.  I wanted nothing more than to be pushed, hit, bitten, and pummeled.  My complete failure to reach perfection in life in general demanded that I be reminded what a worthless piece of shit I was; nothing more than a wet hole founded in pleasure would suffice at that very moment to carry me through to reach equilibrium.

We toweled off and stood in front of my bed.  I was nervous.  He was huge.  Everywhere, every way.

He grabbed me and kissed me, his scruffy face abrading my face.  He shoved me down onto the mattress, my feet planted on the ground and he told me get ready.  I braced myself on my elbows and waited for the sting.

He gave me 3 little warmup swats.  “You ready?” His voice was low, heated.

“Mmmhmm,” I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut.

And then pain exploded throughout my flank.  I lunged forward, buried my face into my bedding and screamed.  The white-hot sting greater than anything he’d ever done before; it was so fast, so complete.  He told me he was going to do it again.  He moved to the other side, but I told him to stay there.  I wanted to be marked.

He struck again and this time tears filled my eyes.  Legitimate tears.  The flame down my backside wasn’t subsiding.  So fast, so perfect.

A third time, on the other cheek, brought me down through the rafters.  I began to sob and he was there with me, cooing in my ear, pressing against my hot skin with his big, lead hand.  He made apologetic sounds, but never said the words.  I didn’t want him to.  He was there with me in my sadness, my bareness.

“C’mere,” he said and pulled me up to the pillows and put me in his nook as I shook with sobs.  He stroked me gently for a moment then said, “Ok, we’re not done.”  I lay limply, yet complcit beside him, and helped him to roll me over to my belly.  He wedged my knees apart roughly and sunk deep inside of me.

“Is this what you want, you little slut?” he growled into my ear.  His hips jack-hammered into me, his hands pinned my wrists to the mattress, my wet hair matted to my face.  He bit my shoulder, scratched his clawed hand down my back.

I felt the tip of his cock in my throat shove organs aside.  Orgasm bloomed through me and I held my breath as I heard him grunt and pound above me.  He wrapped my hair around his fist and he lifted my face off the sheet.  “Say you love it,” he said between gritted teeth.

I ignored him.

“Say. you. love. it.” he ground out again each word punctuated with an unforgiving thrust and a tug.

“I love it,” I breathed out.  “I love it, I love it, I love it.”  Each “it” truly a “you.”

My pussy squelched and cried her juices, my bottom was slick with sweat from where we joined.  I was determined to be his rag fuck doll until he was either exhausted or came, whichever came first.

I felt him tense, heard his breath catch, and his tempo increased to a frightening whir.  He cried out and filled me with his magical cum, a smile on my face smashed into the mattress by his angry hand.

He collapsed on top of me then rolled off.  We lay there panting like two tired dogs in the desert sun.  I slowly rolled over and easily fit back into my nook.  My long, horrible day forgotten.  My silly little meltdown washed away in a burst of semen and one red bottom.

We admired the marks on me, kissed and cuddled.  I was myself again.  All bruised up.

Sometimes I hate my body.

20130618-071407.jpg

Tick tock.  His heavy hand accidentally marked me.

“You ready?” He stood in my apartment, his gym bag over his shoulder.  I was dressed in my work clothes still.

“Yeah, gimme a sec.”

He followed me back to my room and flopped down on the bed.  Faisal jumped up to purr and meow and twist himself about The Neighbor.  I peeled off my barely opaque white v-neck and my breasts bounced.

“Mmmm,” I heard from the bed.  I flexed my abdomen and tried to push my insecurities away, focus on this man’s approval.  I bent over to roll my skirt down over my hips and sucked in my stomach hoping the swell didn’t pooch out too much.

“That’s right baby, show me those tits.”  He watched me beyond the end of the bed as if I were on stage; I clenched every core muscle I owned and stood up straight and smiled as I reached behind me to unhook my bra, trying to look nonchalant and confident.  His eyes followed my every move as I tried to morph my body into that of a lithe dancer’s: arch my back, pull my shoulders back, face the audience, be lean and beautiful.

I gathered my workout clothes and scrunched up again to thread my legs into my leggings and cringed at how much I must seem the Michelin Man from the side.  I imagined shaking it off, these thoughts invasive and cruel.  Where was this coming from??

TN had stretched out on the bed and begun to absent-mindedly stroke his bulge.  I tucked my breasts into the little shelf of a sports bra and said, “You know, I was about to jerk off when you knocked a minute ago.” I walked around to the side of the bed. ” There’s still time before class starts.”

The ugly voice inside my head was shouting at me, relentless.  I felt awkward in my skin, undeserving, foolish for all of it.  Orgasms can be my reprieve from such thoughts.  TN didn’t spark them when he dropped by, he’d only walked into a snarling ant pit of self-loathing.

“Well, then let’s get going on that,” he replied as he watched me reach for my Hitachi.

I rested my knee on the mattress and planted my foot on the floor, my left arm straight and strong as I pressed the vibrating head to my crotch.  Instantly I was on the magic carpet ride up, up, and up.  TN had a front row seat to my cleavage cradled in white, an expanse of belly which I allowed to be whatever it was going to be — though I hoped it looked flat and muscular — and the swell of my hips encased in transparent Lululemon-like yoga pants.

He moaned a little and kept rubbing.  I kept my eyes latched onto his hand, then I felt his free hand sweetly trace my breasts.  “Is this ok?” he asked.

“Mmmhmm.”

But it lasted only seconds.

Instead he pulled his shorts down and flopped out his erection, big and juicy before me.  His hand began to whir and the sound of fap fap fap deliciously filled my ears.  My ride was spiraling its way to the clouds, my lashes fluttered, I could see him staring at me as if I were a unicorn passing outside his window.

The orgasm shook me and just before it stole my breath I managed to whisper, “I’m gonna cum!” knowing it turned him on more than anything.

He quickly and neatly replaced his cock beneath his layers of clothes and pulled me into his arms.  I hung on to his middle and laughed, waited a minute then pulled my shit together for the gym.

We worked out side by side, muscles bulged, faces red.  I stared at myself in the mirror hating every goddamned music-pumping second of it.  The orgasm relief had been fleeting — as I knew it would be — I was again beating myself down.

Other women in the class were athletic specimens, all narrow hips and beautifully wide shoulders, firm buttocks and roundly muscled arms.  I was…. not.

I caught TN’s icy blue gaze on my cleavage in the mirror more than once, an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to protect me from myself.  Yes, I thought, I have nice tits, but what about the rest of me??  I resigned myself to the Pig-Pen-cloud of low self-esteem and smiled wanly to the other class members as we put our weights away.  I really just wanted to go home and lie down.  Maybe die a little, hide under a rock, whatever.

When I get like this, seized by self-doubt and hate, I undoubtedly make a decision that will support this belief.  That night, it was making Mac n’ Cheese out of a box for dinner — something I rarely eat, but will always make me feel at once comforted and like a complete failure.  I ate 2/3 of the box in bed while watching The Taste, took a shower, and texted TN for our nightly cuddle.  I wanted to skip it altogether, but he’d asked me to text him and so I did.

I lay there anxiously, tired, a pain pill shivering through my veins.  I heard him snap his fingers through my darkened apartment and appear in my doorway.  He removed the kitten, shut the door, turned out the overhead lights and flipped on the closet light for ambiance.

“What’s going on?” I asked, nervous, irritable, feeling like utter and complete shit.

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, that’s what.”  He came around the side of the bed and dropped his shorts.  I reached out for his erection and it bobbed hot, thick, and clean in my palm.  I chuckled half-heartedly and rolled away from him, my whiteness stark against the aubergine bedding.

“What are you doing?” he wondered aloud.

“Making you work for it,” I answered.  He growled and pounced on me, wedged my knees apart and slid deep inside my body with one easy stroke.  His clean strawberry dusted body thrust into my own vanilla scented one and we made a warm body dessert out of two naked people.

I clung to his hindquarters with my legs and wrapped my arms around his broad, fuzzy back; he grunted and kissed my neck and collar-bone.  When he sat up to hitch my ankles on his shoulders I refused.  My irritation and discomfort with my body had grown — my belly felt rounder — and suddenly, the fucking routine that went missionary-to-folded-in-half-to-orgasms seemed tired and only stoked my irritation.

I slipped my left leg between his knees and turned on my side.  He held my right leg with his hand and nailed me to the headboard.  I cringed when thoughts of Troy crowded my sad, addled brain — this had been a favorite position of ours.  I quickly rotated again to my belly and I heard the soft smacking of our bodies on my bottom and Troy thankfully exited stage left.

From his new vantage point TN brought his free, lead hand down on my flank.  Three excrutiating times.  I cried out and went rigid, the sting down to my bone, and then I was granted a reprieve when he got a charlie horse and was forced to stop.  We laughed at his misfortune and pulled apart.

I lay next to him and rubbed his massive hamstring chatting easily.  I was waging a stupid little war with myself and decided to let him in on the secret; I felt shy and worried about opening up to him about my self-loathing and odd flash of low self-esteem.

“I feel really bad, TN.  Like out of control.  I don’t like the way I look all of a sudden.  I hate feeling like this.  I feel so stupid and dumb.”

He crooned to me and pulled me into his arms and tried to rationalize my irrational behavior.  “Maybe you think you’re fatter than you are because your tits are so big,” he suggested not unhelpfully.

“Maybe…” I murmured.

“Hy, you’re very sexy and I think you’re extremely beautiful: your tits, your ass, especially your face.”  I flushed at the compliments and with shame for needing to hear the words.

I thanked him and took a deep breath to embolden me to open up more.  “So, there’s something else.”  I heard him hold his breath a little.  “When I’m in this kind of mood — feeling down on myself — what I really want is for you to throw me around.  But,” and his low timbre joined mine perfectly, “I/you don’t know how to let you/me know that’s what I/you want.”

“Right,” I nodded into his chest.

“Well,” he said sitting up quickly.  “Telling me to work for it is kind of perfect.”

He grabbed my wrists and I said quietly, “Work for it,” and held his gaze.

He repositioned himself between my legs and I tried to wriggle away, but he had me pinned.  I was tired, yet thrilled at this little game before he had to leave and before I passed the fuck out under that rock I’d been pining after earlier.

He slammed into me, stroked me from the inside and nuzzled my neck, gripped my wrists like he was hanging over a cliff and I came once then twice with big, round blooms of pleasure.  It was fast and fierce.  Perfect.

He pulled out abruptly and I lay there bathed in light from the closet, my thighs rested on the tops of his as he sat on his heels.  He ran his hands up from my hip bones to my ribcage and across the soft, mostly-flat plane of my belly.  He groaned approval and apologized that he had to go.  I nodded assent and assured him I was ready for him to leave.

He came around the side of the bed and wrapped his hand around my throat, tilted my head back as if to give me mouth-to-mouth and gently suckled my lips, his tongue soft and pliant while his hand gently squeezed — a kiss so unlike his usual hard, punishing, immobilizing goodbyes.  I melted away into those lips of his surrounded by a little sea of scruff.

And just like that, for that magical moment, the cloud lifted and I felt a bright, shiny love on me, my idiocy be damned.  “G’night, Hy,” he said as he left.  “I’ll lock the door behind me.”

“Good night!” I called out after him and then whispered smiling, I love you, as I have begun to do nightly.

The terrible feelings about my body and my looks were there when I awoke the next day and I am still waiting for them to subside.  I have committed to health, not looks, and I refuse to fall victim to the old bully of self-loathing.  I love my body and what it can do; I love my tits, my hips, my little pot belly.  I don’t know where this sucker punch has come from and I don’t know how long it will stay, but I’m going to do my goddamned damnedest to get rid of it.  Fuck it to hell.

I’m hoping lots of cuddles and fucking are just what the PhD ordered.

I send love notes.

underboob, sexy, panties, see-through top

Love notes 1, 2, and 3.

“You look so hot right now,” he said looking down at me from between my calves.  “You’re like a little sex package.”

His cock, buried deep inside of me twitched and then he pushed in deeper.  I gasped and fluttered my eyes up at him.  “I feel more like a sex pretzel,” I replied and pushed back against him from my grip on the headboard.

I couldn’t move.  My ankles rested on his shoulders and his weight pinned my thighs to my breasts which tried to escape over my shoulders.  I was folded in swells of my own flesh and pinned by the muscular density of a man on top of me.

I was in heaven.

::

He came home a couple of hours early Sunday and surprised me by waltzing into my apartment unannounced.  My bed was stripped and under a pile of laundry.  I wasn’t prepared to see him, but my heart jumped when he filled the doorway.

I went to give him a hug, but he suddenly dropped to the floor, looking around under my bed.  “Where’s the kitten?” he asked.  I stood there with my mouth a little open.

My breasts were heavy and free under my white t-shirt and my little pajama shorts clung to my thighs, but there he was.  On the floor.  Looking for the kitten I’d gotten the day he’d left.  Never underestimate a man’s priorities and brain, I told myself.

Mirthful, I smiled.  “Hey!  Come give me a hug!”  There was a gentle reprimand in my voice  — you pay attention to the woman first, not the cat — and I still wobbled on the beam of our relationship happiness.

We hugged and caught up then, a little stilted at first.  He told me of his adventures and I of mine; he apologized for not being in touch, but he thought I knew he had no cell reception.  Quickly, I unzipped the stifling suit of resentment I’d been wearing, butt hurt at the lack of weekend communication, and stepped out into a light breeze of acceptance.  We lay on one another and laughed and touched and sniffed lightly, like two long-separated and friendly dogs now.

He left soon after, exhausted.  He thanked me for the cookies I’d left on his doorstep and gave me a kiss.

Late last night he returned, his hair rumpled from an early-evening nap.  My bed was made, the house spotless this time.  I was in bed watching Mad Men, Peyton slept soundly in the room across the hall, and a candle flickered messily in the corner.  The kitten purred and zipped around at his arrival like an ill-working moped.

The Neighbor is like a magic trick for my day.  He enters a room and my spirits lift, my heart pounds, the birds sing.  Even when I am confused or angry his presence tilts my view from the trash on the ground to the light filtering through the treetops.  Sometimes my fear of losing him and us closes in on me and I have to beat it off with a stick, other times I feel serene at the prospect of setting us both free.  But he was there in my room last night, determined to be with me despite his exhaustion and my heart swelled, and I didn’t think of anything except welcoming him in.

He walked around to his side of the bed and I went and tucked the kitten up under my arm and joined him in the bed.  The kitten, Faisal, was geeked up on the drug that is kittenhood and sped off.  TN took the lack of feline distraction as an opportunity to latch onto my breast with his face.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I hadn’t been touched in 5 days.  I’d forgotten myself.  His absence was so gentle, so quiet.  My time was wholly my own and in my own presence, I forgot my own pleasure.  No child, no pseudo-boyfriend to keep me occupied.  I could have spent the entire weekend with my hand lashed to my cunt and the idea never crossed my mind.  Is Hyacinth horny when no man is around to fuck her?  What a thought…

I closed my eyes and reveled in the sandpaper scratch of his face on my skin and pressed into his mouth.  We tangled and grabbed, gripped and rubbed.  Faisal was taken to his room so there would be no stalking of swinging balls.

When TN slid into me I felt like I was myself again: Hyacinth, fuckable, sensuous, wanted, devoured.  When he is in me I feel like I am home.

His grunts were as loud as the squelching of my pussy, his words demanding and unapologetic.  He pinned me down and pounded into me and my g-spot blossomed big and hard and I concentrated on spiraling it out to my fingertips.

I panted and rolled my eyes into the back of my head and he sat up and folded my legs against my chest and pistoned into me like a jack hammer.  I cried out into my arm so as not to awaken my baby.

Soon, he stopped and drooped a little.  “I hurt everywhere!” he cried with a laugh and rolled off and took me with him into his arms.  His first attempt at snowboarding officially thwarted our usual sexual antics.

I smiled into his skin  and retrieved the kitten.  He purred and played with us until we settled down to watch Game of Thrones at which point he decided to attack a tinkling feather on the floor.

I felt two strong emotions laying there in his arms.  Never one to be truly content for long periods of time, my brow furrowed in the darkness as I tried to put my finger on it, this strange sense of unease.  Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I was wrapped in his arms and watching — we now suddenly realized — a Spanish version of episode 3 with Portuguese subtitles.  It was hilarious and conventional, all the puppies and rainbows any self-respecting unicorn could shat out.  But my nerves continued to be on edge, scratching at me.

I live in this space of uncertainty.  I realize I yearn for what’s on the other side, yet thrive in the workspace before it.  I constantly have to remind myself that nothing is in my control, I will survive heartache, -break, -demolition.  I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again.

This is how I talk myself down from the ledge of permanence and of needing “answers.”  The “Do you love me?”s, “What are we doing?”s, and “Am I your girlfriend?”s.   I remind myself of my current happiness and how I am merely a sensitive observer of my own life; a willing participant, but nonetheless powerless to bend others to my will.  And I relax a little knowing that I’m living my life the best way I know how.

And, ultimately, what I find most reassuring about his return — above and beyond his beautiful boyish face, his magnificent cock and his big, fat brain — is that I can send him titty pics again.  That was the worst part of the 4 day separation.  I couldn’t send him my uniquely Hyacinth love notes: my boobs, my body, and my smile.

I get fucked for days.

photo

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.

I have permission to fuck other men. I think.

photo(1)

Obama would approve, I’m certain.

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

But, here he was.

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

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

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

“I had coffee with Jason.”

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

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

“What a fucking asshole!”

“Yeah, well, anyway, it was ok.”

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

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

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

“So I have permission to fuck other people?”

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

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

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

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

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

But again, I said, “No.  More.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to get back together.”

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

Hy and Obama

Just your average Tuesday morning photo shoot.

He kissed me and there we were.

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.