Friday, September 20th, is Boobday! (Plus updates)

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This week has flown by.  I’ve made some major headway on some professional projects and I feel more free to write.

I’m still thinking about Scarlett’s  post (and now Pervertically Virtous’) about one-dimensional blogging.

I reached out to a longtime reader and friend and asked him if I should reveal more about me, particularly my location.  He vehemently opposed it.  My anonymity is my protection from crazies, he said (I’m paraphrasing; he was much more eloquent than that).

In any case, I’ll be writing about one-dimensional blogging in the future.  I already tried to address it with my Don’t Envy Me post, but I think I missed the mark considering the responses.

I also plan on writing about spanking as a reward and how I’ve just finally figured that out.  I’m a quick one, I tell you.

There’s also yet another hot night with The Neighbor I need to write up.

Another topic on my  mind to write about is how I think this chapter of my life is closing.  We’ll see how it affects the blog.

Ok, that’s about it for now.  On to our regularly scheduled Boobday!

xx

Hy

Want to participate in Boobday? Read the guidelines and send me a pic. I don’t censor the images, so there’s no “making the cut.” That would completely defeat the purpose of Boobday. I want to provide a space for women (cis and trans, bi, straight, gay, skinny to fat) to expose themselves and feel proud of what their mamas gave them.

If you don’t include your Twitter handle, your post URL, and whether or not you want to be anonymous, I’m not going to do any investigating, but also won’t assume anything, so be sure to have all the info every single time! If it’s not in your email, it won’t be in the post.  No blog post required if you just want to post on mine.

Also, only post your Boobday pic on Fridays and always include the Boobday button in the post and a link back to me.

My tits:

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A serious bra beneath a silly T.

NOT my tits:

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Freckles gives us the full Monty at last.

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Anonymous Aussie finally reveals what she’s been hiding under all those shirts.

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G’s hubby took this one. @CurvyMilfy

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It’s Pash’s first time on Boobday! @NeverBeg4Mercy

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Another first-timer! Meet Dizzy and her darlling dildo! @dizzygirl812

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Beck has the prettiest lingerie. @beck42069

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Ginger Queen teasing a suitor.

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Silverdrop getting punished. @SilverdropUK

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Scarlett’s pillowy kajongas. @atrueunfolding

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Kayla feeling her skin. @KaylaLords

Friday, August 9th, is Boobday!

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My apologies to all the ladies on top of their shit for Boobday and my late posting.

Soon — oh, so very soon — I will be able to re-engage with all of you to the level you deserve.  I’ll tell you all about it later.

In the meantime, accept my humble apologies and gaze upon lovely titties, boobs, and knockers from around the world.

xx

Hy

Want to participate in Boobday?  Read the guidelines and join in!  Be sure to let me know if you want to be anon or not and include your Twitter handle and URL if you want to be linked up.  Also, be sure to post a Boobday banner on your post! 

Click the pics below to get to a blog and the name to go to their Twitter account.

My tits:

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A week’s worth of boob pics sent to The Neighbor this week.

NOT my tits:

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Penny’s first photo makes me both fucking hungry and horny.

 

 

 

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I’m sneaking in G’s pic because I think this is a hot-ass photo. (And I lurv her.)

 

 

 

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Anisa sweetly smooshed up against her man.

 

 

 

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Silverdrop pulls it down for us.

 

 

 

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Beck and her gorgeous red, lace bra.

I fantasize about blowjobs and being a good girl.

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Cardigans are my friend.

It was 65 and muggy and the light grey eyes I’d come to expect each morning would soon be on me. I tried to rest nonchalantly against the wall near the bus stop, but felt anything but inconspicuous with a washed-off coffee stain on my shirt and larger-than-fucking-life tits jutting out arrogantly from my cardigan.

All too soon, I saw him walk up.  His comely daughter tagged behind, her nose buried in her phone.  She rides the bus with me and we never speak.  Her father and I typically exchange small talk until the bus arrives; awkward, yet obligated words.  He’s tall, lanky, Irish.  A transplant with silver hair and matching scruff.

I remembered the pic I’d just taken and sent off to The Neighbor with the note “I’m feeling better about my body.  Will you please fuck me tonight?” and stood a little taller.  The past few days I’ve been plagued with self-doubt and body dysmorphic thoughts, felt heavy and saggy.   This kind photo spun me around and opened my eyes.  I knew this married man found me attractive; his furtive, nervous glances couldn’t possibly be anything but guilty approval of my body.   And I wondered what it’d be like to debauch him for no other reason than because I know I could.

I wondered at the sound that would escape his lips, the taste of his warm, turgid flesh.

I imagined a springy nest of hair, a bouquet of clean man, and a tremble beneath my hands as I gripped him back in my apartment, my bus ride skipped and his daughter on her way without my silent presence bouncing nearby.

He would speak softly about how wrong it was, that he shouldn’t be doing this, that his wife hated to suck his cock. Stilted, Irish lilting.  Magical and halting to my ears.

I would smile up at him, his erection dividing my face with its fleshy stripe and he would be lost on a sea of conflict as pleasurably confusing as watching a stallion mount a mare.

Then I would flick the glistening aperture of his cock with my tongue, unafraid of his body’s response to me, and then suck in the head, letting the helmet catch on my lip like a hook.

My eyes would close then as I lost myself to lavishing his cock with attention. My legs would quake, my pussy would pulse and in seconds he would be fumbling for purchase in my silky hair as he cried out and burst wildly into my mouth and his hips bucked against my face.

I’d stand up slowly as he stumbled backwards to a chair and I would follow him, grinning, and slowly close my tingling, cum-coated lips on his.

It would have been years since he’d tasted himself and he would tell me so.

And then, I thought, I would tell N. all about what I’d done. Every lurid, debauched detail and I would hope he approved.

“Good girl, Hy. Good fucking girl,” he would tell me.  And with encouraging words he would hustle me to my bed and convince me to touch myself.  I would look down on my phone at each chime and see pictures of him “applauding” my dissolute behavior by way of his hand bluring the hardon he’d say I’d created. fap fap fap fap fap, Hy! fap fap fap fap fap

I’d imagine the sound it made — much as I’d imagined the Irishman’s exclamations as I unzipped his invisible pants — and then I would grin stupidly that I had pleased him and I would cum hard and cry out; shudder, then still.  Happy to have had the fantasy.  Happy to have a friend with whom to share.