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.

“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 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.

He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

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 do as promised.

This shirt is 8 years old.

This shirt is 8 years old.

Last night The Neighbor came over a little past 10. Peyton was soundly asleep and I was at my kitchen table doing some work.

I was tired, but happy to see him — a new morning gig has me up at the crack of dawn every day and 10pm more feels like 4am. I just looked at him with an open expression. He felt silly and made to leave. I told him to stop and to come closer and put his bubble butt “here, in my hand.”

He came closer and I discovered he had on tight workout clothes. Unacceptable. “What’s all this?” I asked.

“Oh. I tried to workout tonight, but my leg hurt, so I had to stop.” I rubbed his legs. “I think I hurt my knee yesterday on the stair climber.” I kept rubbing. “I’m going to go lie down now,” he said then and disappeared to my room.

I followed him, thoughtful. Hours earlier, I’d gone back to my writings of March of last year and reread them all. And I was mortified.

I ached for the woman I read on the pages. She was so confused, in a lot of pain, and wrestling with burgeoning feelings for her neighbor who told her repeatedly their affair would soon end and he would date the woman of his dreams, his future wife.

I read how he’d taken the-girl-who-wouldn’t-touch-him to his best friend’s birthday party and my stomach had clenched. This year, I was resoundingly not invited to the same best friend’s birthday dinner.

Immediately I thought back to the night several weeks ago when he told me 4 am girl and his ex girlfriend were different from me because, as he said “They were his girlfriends,” and I am not and I felt small and silly and misused.

I wrestled with the proverbial kick to my gut. Had I not just written an essay about how I wasn’t afraid of loss anymore? That I was in charge of myself and my feelings?? I dug deeper.

It wasn’t a fear of loss that was twisting me up. It was a feeling of being less-than, not as important, being tucked away in a dark corner. Not right.

I entered my room and took off my pants and climbed into bed with him, my mind in a flurry. “Just so you know, I’m too tired to fuck or get sucked,” he said. He reached out his arm to me and I sighed and snuggled into his nook. “Here,” he said lifting his shirt.

“That’s ok. Me, too.”

I giggled and pressed my nose to his warm, clean skin as I would a bouquet of fragrant roses. He smelled of strawberries and skin and love. “Mmm,” I purred, shoving thoughts from my brain. “My favorite place o be.”

He pulled the covers up over my head and I was encased in a strawberry scented biodome. We both giggled.

We cuddled then and I tried to forget about that girl from forever ago who was so easily allowed into an important part of his life when I am not, but it still bothered me.

And there was more: there were two other conversations we’ve had recently that had lodged in my skin like splinters. Splinters that I strained to ignore, but became inflamed last night.

There was the chat a week ago when I asked him if his best friend knew who I was yet. The answer is somewhat ridiculous: the best friend knows that TN’s fucking a woman named Hyacinth and that TN is close friends with his neighbor. The best friend doesn’t know she’s the same woman.

At the time I was in our usual position when alone: in his arms. “Well, that’s weird,” I countered playing with his chest hair, my feelings bruised.

He became defensive.

“It’s not ‘weird,’ Hy. He doesn’t care and neither do I.”

I felt sucker punched.

And the second talk took place two nights ago when I shared a disturbing dream with him.

We lay in bed, naked, and I was filled with embarrassment and dread. He was going to propose and I didn’t want him to. Like a sunrise I was unable to stop, he drew out a little chocolate cake-ball and inside — I knew — was the ring he’d painstakingly chosen for me.

I acted surprised and grateful and slipped it on. A round solitaire, big, but not gaudy. I told him neither yes or no, but asked for some time. In truth, I needed to figure out how to turn him down.

I didn’t want to marry him because I didn’t want to inflict him on Peyton; a man who’s sworn he could never love another man’s child will not be invited to be in my child’s life in that way. Though, you’d never know it by watching them together — he seems to enjoy and care for my baby –but I figured he’d forgotten about Peyton’s existence. Our time together is rarely a threesome.

What I shared with him was that he’d proposed, I wasn’t happy about it, didn’t really trust that it was him, and then the lengthy part of the dream wherein my mother lost her shit on me and co-opted my feelings.

I knew immediately it was a mistake telling him. He tensed and seemed strange and I could hear the wheels spinning in his fat brain. I knew what the dream meant and it certainly wasn’t the desire for a wedding with him. It actually represented my growing sense of closeness with him and the inevitable decision I am going to make for the safety of my child’s heart, which is to leave. Pretty simple. But what he heard was, “HY DREAMED I PROPOSED TO HER.”

And so last night, in my strawberry bubble of sweetness, I felt compelled to bring up the best-friend-birthday-dinner-thing to ward off a an early attack of the 90-day-Hy-freaks-out schedule (I’m due in April, in case you were wondering, so these early scrambles are actually like clock work).

I told him how I’d read my old journals from a year ago and I’d discovered the note about the girl. He explained that she was actually a part of that circle of friends and that’s why she was there. Where’s my dunce’s hat?, I wondered. What an epic fucking fail on my part.

As we talked he pushed my hand down his pants, but his tight shorts were restrictive. “Take these horrible things off,” I said. He raised his hips and slid them off and pulled down his underwear. His erection sprang free and he placed my hand on it. We kept talking.

“Are you weirded out?” I asked.

“Yeah, a little,” he admitted.

“I felt I had to tell you how I was feeling. I’m trying hard to communicate with you. Are you still freaking out about my dream last night, too?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you?”

“Why?” I asked squeezing his cock.

“Because, it’s a little upsetting!”

“But why? I never get inside your head. You have to tell me how you’re feeling or what you’re thinking.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” he said evading the question still.

“No, because I said clearly that I did not want to marry you and that I was upset that you’d proposed in the first place, but all you’re focusing on is the proposal part and not the rest!” I sighed. “I swear, I’m cool. I don’t want to marry you and I don’t want anything to change.”

“Ok, but you have to understand how that could freak me out because of the nature of our relationship.”

I froze.

The “nature of our relationship”? What did that mean? Holy fucking shit. He still thinks we’re not together! All the breakups we’ve ever shared flashed before my eyes where we cried and my heart was ripped out; his icy blue eyes looking directly into my darker ones and saying, “I do not love you. You will never be my girlfriend.”

I cringed and took a deep breath, pretended that I totally agreed. Of course! The nature of our relationship precludes any kind of commitment or long-term feelings, therefore he has every right to be freaked the fuck out that I was dreaming about marrying him.

We cuddled a little longer. I felt stupid and like finding the nearest rock to climb under instead of basking on top of the warm rock of my lover’s body. He stood up and got dressed, tucked me in and gave me a long, easy kiss goodnight, his heart safely behind steel.

Countdown to Freakout #6 continues… also, how human am I?

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These tits are 37 years old.

He gets on his knees.

“Do you want me on my knees in front of the fireplace?” he asked sweetly.

“I’m not sure,” I answered, thoughtful. “I plan on being out late tonight and drinking.”

“Well, ok. Just let me know.” I gave him the customary swat out the door and clicked the lock behind him.

::

When I go back a year and read my posts, my yearning for something is palpable. I wanted connection, love, trust, passion. I was locked in a terrible embrace with fear of loss and all it entails and The Neighbor was a complicit partner.

He was uncommunicative and distant. He liked to taunt me, torture me and basically flog my ego until I would literally beg for parts of him, at which point he might deign to humor me. Or possibly not.

What I didn’t know then, that I’m beginning to understand now, is that my offered position of subservience kept him away and it never had the potential to draw him nearer like I hoped. He wanted me on top. Always. Somewhere near his marrow he is some kind of submissive.

He needs me to be in charge, confident and independent, not simpering and desperate for attention. He needs me to think of him and his pleasure first. I need his trust and for him to need me.

Since the sun has risen on this slumbering side of me I feel taller — I’m the tallest 5’5″ woman you know — and I am no longer scared of him walking off. Maybe I’ll walk off instead.

And now my stark, raving fear has gone away like the steam from a kettle. I am gentle. I am strong. I am changing. I make the decisions.

The shift isn’t perceptible to the outside. It’s a private contract we’ve signed between each other. When he calls me “Ma’am” in public I swell with pride and excitement. The rules are making themselves known with each step; I could never have laid them all out myself.

One thing is clear: I’m more in love with him than ever.

::

“I’m coming to get you. Text me the address,” he said, his deep voice clear and vibrant.

It hadn’t been the plan at all, but he’d been texting me all night asking my whereabouts and my ETA and things weren’t going according to plan.

Apparently, he was coming to rescue me from the hipster-clogged streets and over-extended taxis. I would soon be in his kneeling arms after all.

Thirty minutes later he pulled up in his dark luxury car at the end of the street and my friend and I hopped in, to be greeted by his boyish face dusted with whiskers and split with a smile.

We lavished thanks on him and he was gracious and kind as he dropped off my friend. When she was gone, the silent whisper of the car taunted me to rub the bulge between his legs. My white knight in a black car was aroused.

Moving shadows played across his face, his thick hands gripped the steering wheel, and I continued to make him grow.

We parked and climbed the stairs. He fondled my bottom and I giggled. A pat and a tickle. A love and a whisper.

A minute later, naked and pressed against him my body flexed and received him. Ever ready, always wet at the slightest glance, we both exclaimed as he pressed deep inside of me.

“I’m not going to look away,” I said, more to myself than him and my lashes fluttered.

His broad shoulders over me, his arms locked and flexed, his beautifully shadowed face nodded approval. Then he began to move.

The flower of my passion opened like the hussy that she is and I dug my nails into his flanks to draw him ever closer. His tempo increased and he hitched my ankles up to his shoulders and pile drove into me.

Bloom after bloom of little g-spot fireworks peppered me from the inside and I coasted for a minute like a rag doll. I begged him to stop, said I was going to die, but never truly cried uncle. The torture was too sweet.

I grabbed his head and pulled his face down to mine and kissed him passionately.

“Ok, stop. Stop for real,” I panted. He instantly stilled and waited. For me.

“Get on your knees,” I whispered. “I want your cum on my tits. Now.” He raised his eyebrows for a second, but didn’t hesitate. Slowly he pulled out and kneeled to my left. This wasn’t the kneeling man I’d envisioned earlier, but this was a beautiful man.

I leaned over and grabbed the Hitachi and the head buzzed noisily on my clit as his hand became a blur above me.

“Oh my god, you are so hot, Hy,” he gritted out. I closed my eyes to imagine the sight we made: a creamy and muscled man, with dark hair across his chest, his tree-trunk legs spread wide and kneeling, his hand fapping at his enormous erection like a teenager with a box of porn and me, a thickly curved woman on her back, breasts large and plump like domes of Jell-O, knees slightly splayed, breath heavy, eyes closed beneath her dark and staring lover.

My revery was broken by a lusty, “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum on your tits.”

“Cum on my face,” I offered.

He exploded and cried out and I closed my eyes as semen rained down on me, landing on my breasts, my jaw, and my cheek.

He fell forward and giggled a little. I pressed the wand down harder and concentrated as the jizz’s magic heat began to cool on my skin. He laid down beside me and made little patterns in it over the swells of my breasts and the flat stretch of my chest. He followed the trail up to my jaw and kissed some off of me.

My build jumped forward and I chuckled that a glob was under my eye. Carefully, he wiped it away and closed his mouth over mine. My pussy clenched and I inhaled the fragrance of his seed and remembered the look in his eyes moments before and I came long and hard in his arms and to his words of encouragement.

::

I am not the boss of him — I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t really want to do, but my loss of fear has opened me up to the possibility of being something else for a change: myself.

Dominance and submission, compersion via swinging, good old fashioned vanilla, a blowjob and a handjob. It doesn’t matter what I do so long as I’m real, so long as I’m me.

And me — I think — is a horny, self-esteemed, loving, curious, bashful schmuck who is no longer afraid of losing someone because she’s sorta found a little more of herself.

Fancy fucking that.

I’m sent off in style.

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.

photo

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.

photo 1

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.

He invited me to a potluck.

“You home?” he texted. “I just knocked and no one answered.”

“No,” I replied. “I was, but then I left to get baby-blocking pills. Home in 15.”

When I climbed the stairs with my new suitcase I fumbled with my keys and the kitchen mats under my arm my mother had bought me. His door opened. He looked handsome and sweet in his basketball shorts and shirtlessness.

“Hi!” I said beaming. He beamed back. “Were you waiting for me?? What are you doing?”

“Yes. I had my eye on the peephole for 20 minutes waiting for you!”

“Ok, come on in,” I said swinging the door open.

We walked in and I futzed around chattering about nothing as I put my things down. Arms free I opened them and walked towards him. I’d decided to hug him as I would any friend after a time apart. He walked into my hug and held me tight. “You did it!” I said squeezing him. I felt his arms tighten around me and his head bury into my neck.

“I did!” he mumbled into my skin.

I stepped back and rubbed his arms and walked away and went about tidying up my apartment.

“I want to lie down in your bed,” he announced.

“Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

I joined him and flopped my suitcase on the bed. “Are you packing??” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t. Come talk to me!”

I put my chore aside and cleared a space for me to lay next to him. He wanted to know all about my days away from him, every little thing I did. I went through each day, laughing as I set milestones around the pics I’d sent him. He touched my leg, my arm. I leaned between his.

“C’mere,” he beckoned. “Lie down.” I did.

His hands found my skin as we continued to talk. I reached back to adjust my panties and pulled a rip in the lace. “Goddamnit,” I complained, “I just tore my panties! I made a hole!”

“Lemme see,” he said leaning over me. “What about this hole?” he asked with a dirty smirk and a grab for my pussy. He made hard, circular motions on my clit over my panties.

“Well, there’s a hole in there, too,” I teased.

His hand worked magic. I had trouble finishing my weekend story. When I was done he pulled my panties down and pooled his shorts on the floor, spread my knees and positioned himself over me.

“Ok, tell me about your weekend,” I said as he dipped his fingers inside of me.

“When my parents met me at the airport,” he began, “the car was packed and my brother was in there.” He removed his hand from me and gripped his cock instead and aimed it at my wetness. “We went immediately to the cabin,” he said as he slid inside of me.

I struggled to concentrate as he slowly, gently fucked me. His words never wavered as he pumped against me. I gripped the metal swirls of my headboard and did my best to listen.

He spoke of history tours and museums, “That’s when I bought you your souvenir — I’ll have to bring that over later,” he said to himself as he continued to thrust. His face was placid, his hips were rabid. I was a laughing, titillated mess.

His story finally over we forgot to talk anymore. He pounded into me and my pussy squelched around us. I kissed his neck, grazed my teeth against his jaw and kissed his ear. He buried his face in my neck and hair and kissed me, sucked on my breast and pistoned away like a mechanical pony.

I tossed my head back and forth and watched him through my lashes. His eyes never left my face.

He stood up and pulled out, exhausted. “I need a break for a second,” he panted and offered me his cock. I took him in my mouth, my pussy a light, fragrant bouquet in my nostrils.

“Mmm, I taste good,” I mumbled around his meat. “You should try this for yourself some time.”

I continued to slurp and suck and grip until he gently pushed me back and told me to scoot over. He spread my knees and pulled me to the edge of the bed and kneeled down. His mouth descended on me with gentle pressure. I told him to use his fingers to stretch my hole and he obediently followed directions.

I panted and writhed under his ministrations. My hands tingled, I saw stars. I needed a break and begged him to stop. He lifted his head and climbed up on top of me. I pulled his face down to mine and kissed me off of him like a layer of frosting.

He fingered me, he fucked me, he sucked me, he loved me, he hit me, he watched me. I fucked him back, bucked on him, loved him, watched him back.

Standing on the floor, my bottom hanging off the edge, he parted my legs like the sea and watched my tits bounce and flounce to the rhythm of his cock. His face beautiful in the soft light of my room, his shoulders broad and arms flexed.

He reached behind him and handed me my vibrator. I came hard and loud around him. I quivered and cried as he told me I was hot and beautiful, how good it felt. He handed it to me again and another orgasm screamed through me.

He pulled out and pulled me with him as I sobbed alone. “Hy, it’s ok. Come here,” he crooned and opened his arms. I moved into the crook of his arms and cried into the fur of his chest. His fingers traced the lines of my back as I tried to gather myself.

“I’m sorry,” I squeaked.

“For what??”

“For making your erection go away.” He’d gone soft during my second orgasm.

“Aw, it’s ok. It’s tired, don’t worry.” I still felt bad. Then again, he is only human and an hour of vigorous, hard fucking can undo any man.

We lay tangled together for a while until I got antsy. This is when he usually leaves. I felt it. But I was wrong.

I got up and handed him his glass of wine. He made no move to leave. Instead we lay in bed and I asked more questions about his weekend. He was happy to be home, back where he belonged, he said. “That reminds me, lemme go get your gift.”

He slipped out and was back in a minute. “Have you heard back from Jack and Emma, yet?”

Last night I’d received an email on Adult Friend Finder inviting me to a sex party in another city in November and December. I’d mentioned it to The Neighbor and he was interested. I’d immediately texted my friend and ex-lover Jack to ask what he knew about it. TN wanted to know if Jack and Emma would be willing to help him feel comfortable being watched while having sex. “I’ve only ever been watched once, and that was with Marian. I’m nervous,” he’d told me.

“No, not yet. Lemme check.” I tick-tacked away on the laptop as he pulled out a slim white, rectangular package for me. I stopped typing and looked at it. It was a beautiful metal bookmark.

“Oh, TN. Thank you! It’s beautiful!” I felt awkward and flattered in equal measures, the hot laptop warmed my naked belly ignorant of my emotions. The price tag was still visible: $18.

This gesture, this nice, non-keyring-with-flashing-first-name gift, floored me. It was kind, it was sweet, it was thoughtful. It wasn’t him. But, I guess it was.

I opened it and read the inscription on the packaging as he told me more about the artist. “He wanted to incorporate nature into all his designs and felt that art and the world should coincide as one, not compete.”

I put it down and searched my email for any response from Jack and Emma. There was none.

“Are you really serious about this sex party?” I asked.

“I am. I’m really interested.”

We’d go the end of December. After our 5k in early December. After a night spent shrooming together with Downstairs Neighbor. After plans of spending Thanksgiving together.

“What are you doing next Saturday?” he started to ask me as I folded the computer shut. “Oh fuck, you’re in San Fran, aren’t you? Fuck. I was going to ask you to go to a potluck with me. Oh well, you can be there in spirit because I need you to tell me what to cook and how to do it. I need an Italian themed salad.”

I laughed lightly and gave him a recipe for something decidedly not a salad; a tomato, garlic and basil concoction that melts in your mouth and makes bread the vehicle to heaven.

Eventually, the clock, though still early, crowded in on me. I stood and dressed in a t-shirt and pj shorts and went to light some firewood. He followed. He nibbled on Peyton’s Halloween candy and we talked about my trip tomorrow — both my nerves and the pedantic what’s and whens — as I sat in front of the fire.

He intermittently sucked on my nipples and I seductively played with myself between my words of cooking wisdom for his potluck. It felt stupidly normal, stupidly awesome.

“I am so happy to be back he said,” lying on the floor and tossing a softball in the air. “Being back makes me realize all that I have here.” I looked up from my recipe notes and bounded over to him and playfully flung myself down on him, pinning him down.

My free-spirit burst at the seams as I playfully humped him and he wrapped his arms around me and giggled at my antics. I kissed his cheeks and hopped up off of him as quickly as I’d descended and returned to my spot on the couch to finish his cooking instructions. It was as honest a reflection of my feelings as I could possibly muster.

I studied my note and gathered myself back up.

“I’m getting antsy,” he gently warned. “I need to go home soon.”

“I know, I’m hurrying,” I answered with a smile.

I finished my recipe and handed it to him. He bent down and kissed each breast in turn and then me. I walked him to the door and I confirmed that he’d be up 6:10 am so we could leave by 6:20.

“G’night, Hy,” he smiled over his shoulder.

“G’night, TN,” I said back and shut the door. His words of wonder at what he would do for the next 7 days rang in my ears, his words of longing for my pussy, his words of praise. They all enclosed around me like a giant hug and have moved with me from room to room.

“I had to tell the sex party people that you’re my boyfriend. I hope that’s ok,” I’d said worried.

“No, it’s ok with me,” he’d answered.

Has something happened? Has something changed? Is there a happy ending to this??

Interlaced with these frilly sentiments are jack hammer reminders of old words, cruel and dirty. I haven’t forgotten a thing, but goddamn does it feel good to try to forget.

 

 

Even I can’t stop the seasons.

Love and interest are fickle friends.  For months I was moon-eyed over my young lover.  I noticed when his car was home, if his lights were on.  I held my breath when his door slammed shut — would my door rattle from his knuckles 2 seconds later??  Seeing his boyish face made my day, hearing his deep, news-broadcaster voice tickled me, and seeing his fit, hair-dusted body made me want to unwrap him like a Christmas present and pounce.

But something has changed.

It is the autumn of my affair with The Neighbor.  Spring brought passion and bursts of colors; highs were the only notes on the breeze.  Summer was long and arduous — I barely survived the heat of my own emotions, his refusal of me, and our irrefutable chemistry.  Today, it is fall.  The leaves of my love are turning and will soon waft to the ground like so many dizzying streaks of gold.  When winter comes, the blanket of cold will insulate me as I rejuvenate away from him and our strange, misshapen relationship.

I don’t know when or how it happened, but it did.  His glorious, meaty cock still haunts me and I admit to lusting after it, but my conquering of it is no longer tied to my heart.  If I get to wrap my fingers around hot pinkness, then so be it.  If not, oh well.  I will live without sex.  A piece of Hy dies as I write that.

Saturday night was a dazzling night in our hobbled relationship.  As asked, I woke him up in time to get ready.  It wasn’t my fault that calling his name and gently shaking him didn’t work and my only option was to slip my hand beneath his puffy white comforter and find his sleeping manhood with my hand.  What else should I have done?  Honestly.

I stroked him slowly while I watched his face, his eyes covered in the black mask that had come with his bondage kit.  His breathing was even and ignorant of my presence.  I increased the pressure of my hand and he jerked awake.

“What the hell??”

“Wake up, TN,” I said smiling.

He pulled the mask off and looked at me bleary-eyed.  He rolled onto his back so I could get full access to his erection.

“Can you wake me up like this every day?”

“You say that nearly every day.”

“Well, I mean it.”

I ignored him and continued my ministrations.

It wasn’t long before I swung a boot clad leg over his waist and slowly slid down on him, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my ridiculously tacky sequined wolf shirt sparkling in the candlelight.  His cock hit me in my throat and I flushed with warmth as I rocked on him.  He gripped my waist and I increased my tempo.  Tremors skittered across my skin as a climax snaked its way through me.

He reached for my breasts, but pulled his hands back with a laugh when he got nothing but sequins.  I laughed, too, and bent over and kissed him just as I released around us both.  “I guess I’ll have to take a shower now before the party,” he murmured into my mouth.

“I guess so.”

At the party he was attentive and hovering.  He encouraged me to eat off his appetizer plate, refilled my glass, and was sure to be shoulder to shoulder with me whenever another man came within my orbit.  I was amused and smiled to myself.  Silly Neighbor, I thought, tricks are for kids.

Our chemistry ultimately belied our ruse of easy, close friendship when an old friend of mine cornered him and asked if he and I had ever dated.  His “No comment,” clearly an admission of guilt, her smile of satisfaction an admission of her pride of sniffing us out.

Our dance continues, but the song is ending.  How many loving, connected conversations can we have?  How many tiffs easily repaired?  How many mind-blowing sexual encounters?  How many tears, hugs, kisses, games, and parries before we admit it will never be more than this?

He thinks we will be friends in 10 years.  He thinks we’ll be close friends in 10 years.  How do I tell him that it might not happen?  That I see no such future between us?  That things are winding down?

He came over last night because he was sad.  I rubbed his chest, made him laugh, and finally slipped my hand into his shorts to grip his pretty, pretty penis and rub it to a big, full handful.  He flipped me on my back and filled me to the brim.  The lights were on and I struggled under his steady, smirking gaze as I slowly, embarrassingly lost my shit beneath him.

I drenched my bed and us, climaxed and orgasmed around him, heaved and sobbed little dry sobs and then we talked some more.  He was back to being sad and anxious about an upcoming trip home.  I told him he’d do great, that he had this.  He’d be back before he knew it.  He lazily traced lines on my arm with the pads of his fingertips.  It was close to 2 am and my yawns came more frequently.

We joked about the sexy pics we’d exchanged lately.  The one of him with his fat cock hanging out of his jeans and poking up past his t-shirt-covered belly button and the one where I’m stretched out on my side pulling down my pj shorts.  I wanted him to make that his phone wallpaper and vice versa.  I’m going to stump for it.

Good morning.

“What do you do with the pics I’ve sent you?” I wondered.

“I keep them all.  They’re on my phone,” he paused for a beat then said, “And I appreciate every single one of them.  Very, very much.”

Words like those from him are like cool drafts of water on my parched throat.  “Well, I’m glad.”

More yawning.  More snuggling.  More laughing.

Then he realized the time and dressed.  I called him over to me before he left, “C’mere.  Let me give you a hug.”  I stood on my knees on the bed, letting the sheets drop, and held out my arms.  He walked into them awkwardly.  I kissed him on the cheek and squeezed anyway.  This is what friends do, after all: they support and love.  “You’re gonna do great.  I promise.  Good luck.”

He squeezed back and put his other hand gingerly on my hip before he pulled away.  “Thanks.”

He walked out of my room and I called out, “Safe travels!!” then, “And thanks for the fuck!”

I heard him laugh as he shut the front door behind him and I snuggled down into bed.  The towel covering the epic wet spot pleasantly rough on my bare bottom.

I remember the month of July as the month I couldn’t breathe and food tasted like packing popcorn.  I laid nearly comatose every spare second I had in bed watching Cheers in between fleeting hookups and interactions with him and going to work.  I knew then that it would pass.  I knew it.  I’ve been through worse and came out alive, after all, but fucking Christ was it unpleasant.

I had to let myself be a pathetic, sniveling shit for a few weeks in order to move to the next season.  I molted.  It wasn’t obvious then because I hadn’t fully emerged yet, but I’d like to think it’s more apparent now.  I forget about him most days and I check my libido at the door like a good, stoic German woman should.  She has better things to do than lead with her pussy all day.

I wonder what the future of this blog will be as I enter this strange limbo of autumn.  I am extremely busy — too busy to go hunting — but this is a blog about my dissolute life and I’m not feeling all that dissolute.  I’m beginning to feel like now Hyacinth is that best friend I made at summer camp, but I really, really don’t want to see her go.  Not just yet.

I still want to be dissolute.