Tag Archives: cock sucking

I am not broken.

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58

“Mommy will be right back,” I said and guiltily slipped next door while my child nodded ok, distracted with heavy lids and a movie.

My tomato red and navy striped sundress swirled about my knees as I followed The Neighbor back to his bedroom, his hand warm and tight on mine. It had been 3 days since we’d been able to touch bare skin, out-of-town friends and wedding obligations having conspired against us.

He pushed me roughly onto his bed. “I think I should take off my shirt,” he said while with one fluid motion he pulled his grey T-shirt over his head. “And of course these, too.” I watched hungrily as he unbuckled brass and brown leather.

His erection sprung free and I growled a little as I grabbed it with both hands, the head neatly available for my mouth.  I tucked it in between my lips and savored its clean taste and warm, smooth head.  He moaned and pressed towards me.

I let my hands slip away to wrap around his thigh with my right hand and the base of his shaft with my left; my face sunk down onto his pole.

I perched on the edge of the bed and the Sunday afternoon light streamed through the slots of the blinds as my neck worked like a strutting rooster.  “I think I should lie down, too,” he said gruffly.

I nestled between his legs, spread his knees apart with my own and fell down onto him.  I moaned and closed my eyes, eternally happy to be lapping at this favorite, magical part of his.  I paused for a second and turned to my right and noticed a mirror propped up on the floor.

I was silhouetted by the window, my breasts swells of light and shadow and my folded knees covered by the dark red fabric.  My arms distended onto something, I couldn’t quite see, but if I peeked just so, I could see the gentle curve of his cock like a dolphin breaking the top of the sea.

“I can see us,” I said and giggled a little.  I moved my hands along his thighs and could still only see my arms moving on something at their ends.  It was arousing to see me and not him, yet feel him so electrically beneath my fingertips.

He moved swiftly then before I could react and snatched up the mirror and gently leaned it above his head against the headboard.  “Now suck my cock,” he said sternly.  I nodded and quickly complied.  “And watch yourself,” he added.  I gave a small shake of my head.  “Do it, Hy,” he insisted.

Reluctantly, I looked up and saw my blue eyes gazing back at me, my mouth stretched wide around the head of his cock.  I quickly closed my eyes, embarrassed to the core.  My jaw looked unhinged, like a snake wrapped around a warm, furry body, and I seemed alien.

“Do it again, Hy.  Don’t be shy.  It’s hot,” he encouraged.

I tried again and giggled and spit around him, pistoned up and down on him hoping to distract him from his intense stare.  It didn’t work.  “Again, Hy.  It’s so fucking hot, oh my god.”  I looked up and saw him looking back at me in the mirror, his neck stretched up exposing a carpet of stubble and vulnerable places.  I contemplated biting his neck for a split second but closed my eyes instead and concentrated on the heat in my mouth.

I sucked and slobbered and listened to his moans for a minute or two.  Without prompting I glanced up once or twice, my cheeks still reddened with embarrassment and lust.  It was naughty.  So, so naughty.

“Do you have panties on?” he asked urgently then.

“Mmmhmm,” I nodded around a suck and pull.

“Pull them aside and c’mere.”  He pulled me up by my shoulders and I straddled him as I moved my black lace panties.

I was sopping wet and he slid in deep and long and without a moment to acclimate to his invasion he began to move, the mirror TN and Hy laid out before me.  “Look at you,” he commanded.  “Look at how fucking hot you are, how beautiful.”

My center tingled and prickled and a wash of heat swept out and up over my shoulders and rolled down to my fingertips.  My breath caught and I whimpered as I watched the woman in the red dress, her large breasts pulled out over her top.  She cried out and pumped on top of a naked man sprinkled with dark body hair, her hands were fists in his chest hair and massaged his lean pectorals.

And again and again and again it washed over her.

So rapidly, white hot, like a slap in the face the g-spot orgasms came and burst down my door.  I begged to stop, yelled out and felt my miscreant tones join the innocence of the chatty birds outside the open window, and again begged to stop.  “Please!  Please!  I can’t!  I’m going to die!”  My dramatic pleas humorous if not also so arousing to him.

He kindly relented and I sobbed half-heartedly with a laugh and slumped over him clutching his shoulders until I finally pressed my body against his, his cock still buried deep inside of me.

“I’m not going to call those ‘things’ any more,” I whispered.  “Those have got to be orgasms.  I’m certain any other woman would call that cumming.”  I panted and tingled.  “That just has to be a g-spot orgasm.”

He gently pushed me off of him and I slumped onto my side.  He curled up behind me naked and warm against my sundress.  I sighed and smiled.  “I’m not broken anymore,” I said.  “I feel like a normal woman!”  I rolled onto my back and he followed me, his face split by a big grin which matched mine.

I don’t know why I haven’t just called them orgasms all this time.  I’ve felt strangely dishonest since they are distinctly different from my Hitatchi-induced climaxes which are body-arching, breath-stealing bastards of pleasure.  These g-spot originating orgasms are more subtle, softer, and a part of a bigger picture.  They aren’t the ending, they’re part of the beginning and middle; they set me off down the river.

Then I said guilelessly, “TN, you just made me cum like a motherfucker.  How awesome is that??”  We laughed and he kissed me and hugged me and pulled me to him, his boyish smile plastered to his face.

“Well, this was a wonderful way to spend a few minutes of the day.”  I agreed and told him I had to get back to Peyton.

We stood and kissed and I felt righted.  When I got back home, my baby had finally succumbed to exhaustion and snoozed soundly curled up in the chair.  Everything was totally alright.   I was a normal woman, the day stretched out bright and long ahead of me, and I had gotten a proper little tumble in with the man who has my heart.

He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

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14

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.

I have permission to fuck other men. I think.

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22

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.

I’m sent off in style.

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32

It was late, 10 pm.  I was relaxed, buzzed from the martinis I’d had with an old high school friend passing through town, and dressed in little pajama pants and a white t-shirt.  My breasts hung heavy and loose beneath the filmy cotton as I bustled around the kitchen.  A pot steamed on the back burner filled with aromatic chicken stock and clam juice.  I tossed in the bright pink armor of six freshly shelled shrimp and stirred the risotto on the front burner.

I checked the cooking shrimp and removed them just as there was a knock at my door.  I didn’t even bother to look up as I heard the door open and shut.  The Neighbor walked in wearing only his shiny black basketball shorts.  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said smiling.  “It smells amazing.”

“Well, thank you,” I smiled back as I cleaned the scallops and put them in the hot pan the shrimp had just occupied.  He walked around the bar into the kitchen.  “Aren’t we dressed for dinner!” I laughed as I looked at the two of us.

The original plan had been for me to make him and his closest work friend dinner.  He has this idea that she and I should be best friends, so I offered to host dinner and a movie at my place.  Turns out she got shy and he had to work late, which suited me fine.  It’d given me a chance to see my old high school pal and peruse the grocery store at 9:30 at night along side lonely bachelors and single moms with their tired kids stuffed into grocery carts.

“What are we having?” he asked as he sidled up to me and cupped my breasts.  His chin rested on my shoulder and he peaked down to the stove top.

“Risotto with truffle oil, scallops and prawns and roasted asparagus,” I added,  “because I know you love that shit.  Simple and homey.  Will you set the table for us?”

He released my breasts and set to work telling me about his long and awful day at the office.  When he was finished with his chore he lay at the entrance of the kitchen and watched me with a smile on his face.  I brought him a glass of wine and he sipped appreciatively.  “I like this view,” he said and when I turned to look at him he was clearly staring at my bottom hanging out just an inch or so from my pj shorts.

“I’m glad you like it.  Like I said, we really dressed for dinner!”

He’d found some candles and dimmed the lights so when we sat down we were bathed in candlelight.  “This looks amazing, Hy,” he said.

“Well, here’s to hoping it doesn’t taste like shit!” I laughed as I said my usual little disclaimer before feeding someone.

We ate and talked like old friends, old lovers.  We mmm’d and awed over the perfectly cooked risotto (possibly one of my best efforts to date).  The heady, earthy truffle oil somehow made the meal more special, the moment more particular.  When not another morsel of food could be swallowed he stood up and held out his hand.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Oh, TN, my belly!!  It’s so full!” I cried.

“It’s ok.  Let’s just go cuddle then.”

I took his hand and he led me to my room where a candle was already lit.  He gently pushed me down and climbed in next to me.  We threaded our legs together and he pulled me into his nook.  As we continued to talk he absent-mindedly fondled my breasts.  Then dropped his hand lower.

My belly still felt full, but my whole body was filling up.  With love, with lust, with the need to wrap myself around him.  I dropped my knees apart and granted him easier access.

His fingers pushed into me and swirled around the slippery skin.  He pressed against my clit and massaged it gently, expertly.  His expertise further titillated me.  “God,” I gasped, “You’re getting so fucking good at that.  It’s wonderful that I can trust you won’t hurt me.”  So many men manhandle me; I’m too sensitive.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he murmured into my neck.

“Yes.  Yes, you have,” I whispered into the space above us.

He kissed me then, then my face and my neck.  I let him seduce me, play my body like a cheap fucking fiddle.  He set the pace, when clothes came off and in what manner.  He massaged my thighs and my belly with his strong hands and dipped his mouth to my cunt.  His hot, flat tongue lapped at me like the good little boy he is.  Jesus fucking Christ, that kid is good.

He stopped with his mouth and sat up.  His erection bounced mightily between us.  He braced himself above me with one arm and guided his cock in with the other.  Slowly, he stretched into me.

“Oh my God, Hy.  You feel so good.  You’re so tight.”

I thrilled at the words so rarely spoken.  I often fear that I am not tight enough because he never says it and he has such a hard time cumming, but here he was exclaiming it with his own words.  A beam of sunshine burst inside of me as I arched up to meet him.

He pumped into me for minutes, hours, an eternity.  He growled and clung to me and flipped me around so I could grip the headboard.  He split my legs apart and put one on his shoulder, his penetration pinned me to the wall.  I felt him in my goddamned throat as my pussy sprung a leak and splattered us with her joy.

I cried and bucked beneath him as he stared down menacingly at me.  He switched my legs and continued to lash at my soul with his cock.  My tits jiggled with my belly as I was contorted into a sexual pretzel, immobilized with passion, his pussy. Always his pussy.

He stopped then and kissed me.  “I want to see you cum,” he said simply as he leaned over and grabbed my Hitachi.  I could only nod.

He pounded into me a few more times for good measure then took up his favorite spot of observing: his cock buried inside of me, my legs hooked over his hips, his head in his right hand, his left somewhere on my body.

The vibrations took me instantly and as his thrusts gently bumped into me like a boat in its dock the climax grew and grew.  My eyes closed and I imagined what we must look like: two naked, creamy bodies hinged together like mating dragonflies, breasts heavy, nipples pert, candlelight shadows flickered across us.

I cried out and panted and arched my back.  “That’s it, Hy,” he crooned.  “That’s it.”  His paws kneaded my breasts and I lay shaking beneath him.

“I want you to do it again,” he said.

I turned my head to look at him and his beautiful, boyish face was intent.  I nodded.  But before I could start he sat up between my legs and took me for a few thrusts, forever thrusts.  Thrusts that split my brain open and my stupid heart.  He was harder than ever and I silently marveled at his prowess… and my luck.

“I love,” I said as he worked himself inside of me, “fucking you,” I finished with a gasp.  “I am so lucky to have you.”

I nearly took it back — it was too much, too open — but it was also too late.  Wordlessly, he lay back on his side and flipped on the Magic Wand laying beside me.  “Another,” he said.

“Ok,” I nodded.

Each orgasm I have is different.  Each one has its own flavor, its own imagery.  This second one was swift, but low.  His thrusts continued with a methodical deviance that drove me wild.  My breath hitched and I began to quake.  His hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed; my orgasm lurched ahead.  So delicious, just. out. of. reach.  “Cum for me,” he suddenly said.  “Cum for me now, you fucking slut.  NOW.”

And then I did.

It spilled out of me like an avalanche and washed away all my cares, my hurts, and my worries.  With it came sobs and yowls, a wild animal was released from me.  “That’s right, baby,” he said between gritted teeth. “That’s my girl.”

I spiraled down from whatever planet I’d just touched with my celestial body and slammed back into myself with a cry.  The tears poured out of my eyes and my cries were loud and ugly.  If only I could find this much satisfaction in all of my life, all of my space, fill my loneliness with it and end my worry.

He slipped out of me then and pulled himself up behind me and held me as I continued to fall back down to reality.  “Shhhh, it’s ok. You’re ok,” he said as he pet my head and kissed my ear.  “It’s ok.”

Before I was fully myself again I pushed him onto his back.  His cock was still rock hard, bigger than imaginable.  “I want to suck it,” I said looking up at him from under my lashes.  “May I?”

He said yes, but assured me he wasn’t going to cum.  I promised him I wouldn’t try.

My arms felt weak from my orgasms as I gripped his shaft with my left hand and braced my upperbody with my right.  I stroked him gently, lovingly.  I flicked my tongue on his leaky aperture and sipped at his precum.  I swallowed him whole and tasted my own juices, light and heady.

He moaned and stretched beneath me, pulsed in my hand.  I closed my eyes and set a warm, steady rhythm with my soft mouth.  My arm trembled, but I ignored it.  My head worked like a piston, never slowing, never wavering.  Tirelessly I worked his cock.  I felt like I could do it forever — love on him in this way — but only a minute or two had passed.

I felt him stiffen beneath me, his thighs hardened like rock, his breath caught.  I didn’t change one thing.  I remained steady and sucked and lapped at him like my life depended on it.

He exploded into my mouth, thrust into my face as far as I could take him.  I felt his hot spurts on the back of my throat.  His wildly sexy grunts and pants proof that he, too, is human.  Just like me.

I pushed down on him for one last slurp and he began to giggle.  “Oh my God,” he exclaimed.  “Hy, you’re so good at that!”

“Well, thank you.  I try,” I smiled as I crawled up his chest and kissed him passionately.  He grabbed the back of my head and pressed me into him, tasting himself on me.

I flopped to his side then, completely exhausted.

We lay there looking at each other.  I pet his scruffy face and he pushed into my hand like a cat.  My cat.  “I really am going to miss you, you know,” he said then.

“Well, thank you,” was all I said in return.

Minutes or hours later, I didn’t really know (though I suspected the former) he got up and sought out his clothes.  He tucked me in and gave me a sweet, lingering goodbye kiss.  “Have a safe trip tomorrow,” he said as he walked out of my room.  “I’ll lock the front door.”

I was on a plane to San Francisco the next day.

I still love him.

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Spilling my guts in a coffee shop.

It’s happening again.

That lurch in my chest, that belly ache.  The wild sense of fear and loneliness has somehow returned in flashes here and there.  I can’t decipher if it’s because of the year I’ve had with him or because my life has primed me for fear of loss.

The funny thing is loss hasn’t killed me yet, so why would it now?  Fear is an infection on my life.  It steals the beauty of a bright blue day with sounds of twittering life on the breeze.  It robs the beauty of a moment between lips and thighs and puffs of breath.  It decimates the beauty of a feeling between beings, that raw, wondrous energy one human transfers to another.  Fear is death of all things beauty.

I’ve lost much in my life, like most — I’m no different from the hipsters sitting next to me.  Loss isn’t just a death of a being, it’s also the death of a thing, a feeling, an agreement.  Divorce is the death of a life planned and hoped for.  The death of love and trust, even faith.

And yet, I’m still kicking.  No loss has gotten the best of me.  I continue to grow, feel, love.  Why am I so afraid, then?

It confounds me that I fear losing TN so much.  What would happen to me? I wonder.  Well, I would hurt.  I would ache and flail and sob and shrivel up a little, but I wouldn’t die.  Perhaps I would find beauty in my pain.  I believe it exists there because pain is life and life is art.  Some put it on our bodies, others turn it out.  I put it into letters on pages and sometimes I put it into my pussy.

Pain is unavoidable and grand simultaneously.  It’s reassurance that we’re here.

And: I am falling in love with him all over again.  That’s why I fear.

I’ve been avoiding writing that sentence — even saying it to myself — for weeks now, but it’s unavoidably true.

I do.  I love him.  Perhaps I always will, I don’t know.

Switching to the top, becoming his Domme, has transformed me.  I feel as though it’s where I should have always been.  I feel frantic about it and stupidly calm.  He needs me to care, I need him to need me.  Why has it taken me this long in my life to surrender to this?  Would this have saved my marriage?  I’m certain my ex-husband would have plugged into this — wait, I should never speak in absolutes — I’m confident he would have liked it.  Maybe it would have salvaged our broken promises from the wreckage.

Feeling TN’s desire for me to care, to take charge, to reprimand him and tug him this way and that lights my insides like a Roman candle.  The trust between us is growing, my love expanding, and thus, my fear.  I am juggling two kittens and an ax.  One wrong toss and the kittens are ribbons and my hand gone.

We have spent night upon night together cuddling and/or inside each other — literally and figuratively.  Since last Monday, we haven’t played with our new roles much other than setting light boundaries.  The way he speaks to me, for example, is up for review.  He gets punished when he says things on the assumption that I am silly or that I am old.  It’s a brilliant way of communicating.

Me: I’m going to get an ice-cube for your bottom now.

Him: But the water will drip down!

Me (firm and holding up one finger): That’s 1, TN.

Him (thinking): It’s because I assumed you wouldn’t take care of the drips, right?

Me: Yes.  Good boy.  (SMACK!)

Me (as I’m cooking us dinner): Could you please put the dishes in the dishwasher away?

Him (smiling): Why?

Me (smiling back): Because of my bad back and because it’ll help me stay organized.

Him (with a face-splitting grin): It’s because you’re old, right?

Me (also still smiling): That’s 2.  You are not to make fun of my age any more.

Him: Yes Ma’am.

Touching him, his cock, his lips.  I feel as though they’re mine.  I require a kiss now before he leaves.  He always presents his bottom for a nice smack, but then I pull him back in to feel his 5 o’clock shadow on my face and under my fingertips, his pliant, warm lips on mine.  I take what I need and he obliges.

Sunday he donned another pair of my panties and vacuumed my apartment for me.  I languished on the couch in my yellow dress, breasts to my chin, and mused that I should probably invest in a nice vacuum cleaner, one that wouldn’t wrench my back each time I used it.  He stopped the rhythmic push and pull and stood up straight, and looked at me.

“I don’t think I like that idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”

And so the story goes.  He wants me to need him as much as I want him to need me, though we dance around labels and real commitment and loving each other as openly and proudly as we are able.

This week I felt myself unraveling.  That fear of loss has me stumbling and gasping.  He has pulled back infinitesimally and it I feel like it’s the Titanic to my iceberg.  It’s ridiculous: He didn’t want to cuddle with me Tuesday night.  It was the first night in weeks that we didn’t spend time with limbs entwined.  And last night, as we cuddled and he said firmly for me not to touch his beautiful cock with my mouth or pussy, he wasn’t forthcoming with details for his plans on Thursday.

“I don’t remember what they are,” he said, eyes closed, brow knit.

“You don’t remember?” I asked, clearly not believing him.

“Yeah, I don’t.  I’m all out of it tonight.”

And just like that, the seed was planted.  He has plans with a woman! I thought.  They’re probably just friends, but he doesn’t want to tell me. What does that mean?  How am I supposed to respond?? I’m like a dog with a bone.

When asked, he assured me that We were cool, that he was just in a bad mood and that it had nothing to do with me.  I emphasized that he was welcome to discuss any problems with me if he had them.  He accused me of being insecure.  I scoffed at that.  He had the wrong reaction to deduce that.  Yes, I am insecure, but guaranteeing open lines of communication is not the indicator.

When I see him, my heart skips, my eyes twinkle.  He loves on me, cuddles me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my hair.  He humps me.

When he was vacuuming my bedroom I jumped on the bed, lay on my stomach with ankles crossed.  His erection was mighty and straining at the cotton of my panties.  He turned the machine off and came around to my face.  I patted his meat and breathed on him.

“Lay down,” I told him and we switched spots.

I pulled my panties down over his hips and fell on him with my mouth.  I crawled up the length of him and he popped my breasts out of the top of my dress and sucked on them with exquisite perfection.  I slid down back between his knees and when I stood up we laughed because his cock was caught under my dress, popping a yellow plaid tent between us.

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Mine.

I reached down and grabbed his shaft.  “It looks like it’s mine,” I said.  He pulled up the fabric of my dress and I stood there with no panties on with a giant cock leaping out at him.  Again we laughed as I took a picture.  It really is mine.  We both know it, though never say it.

I rode him and he rode me, hearts pounded.  It was the old TN and Hy.  No D/s, just me losing my shit and him reveling in it.  “God, I love fucking you!” he said over and over.  I thrashed beneath him naked, my breasts round Jello domes of jiggle, my eyes fluttered to his unable to keep eye contact.  If only I could get him to remove one word.

Monday night shifted things inside of me.  For a few hours my fear was gone.  I know I have no control, I know that life will do as it wills, I know I am insignificant.  But for a few hours I was in charge of something important to me: Him and Us.

I scribbled words of devotion all over his body, though he didn’t know that’s how I meant them: “glorious cock,” “yummy chest,” “broad shoulders,” and, over his heart, “Good Boy”.  If he ever finds this blog I hope he sees the love seeping out of every word I’ve ever written about him, good, bad, or ugly.

He wrote on me.  It was his reward for behaving: “magnificent breasts,” “sexy, horny slut,” “hottest, wettest best pussy ever” with a little arrow to my shaved vulva.

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Reflection.

My fear of loss, my need for love.  They are constantly warring, constantly pulling me into a million little different directions.

I can’t say more.  I feel shy and protective of him now; I am incapable of sharing the details of the D/s encounters, my fingers will not move, but I feel beautifully vulnerable sharing the changes in me and the other wonderful sex and things between us.  I think I’m ok with the fear.

I think I’m happy.

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I shamefully admit: this is my love.