Friday, February 21st, is SIDEBOOB Booday!

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So, we’re back to Friday already and it’s an epic day.  I never actually count the number of entries I get each week, but it feels like there are more than ever this go around.  I’m sure, in part, to the readers of JK and Sofia’s blog.

Which in some roundabout way reminded me that I’ve forgotten to choose a single participant each month to highlight like I did with G back in November (it took me 20 minutes to find that post; I couldn’t even remember what month that had been!).  I’ll be emailing one of you soon to tell us in your own words what it’s been like sharing your body with the Internet, so be ready!

Next week’s theme will be SUNSHINE, inspired by New Dawn’s submission this week and another old pic I ran across earlier in my hunt for that old post — and not to be confused with LIGHT Boobday.

And again, please feel free to email me Boobday theme ideas, just make sure to put BOOBDAY THEME in your subject line lest it gets lost.

xx

Hy

Want to participate in Boobday?  Go here and read the Guidelines and State of the Boob Union to answer any questions, but this is the TL;DR of what I need each time:

  1. an attached pic

  2. a sentence about why you chose this particular photo

  3. if you want to be anonymous or not

  4. a hyperlink or URL to your Twitter handle (if you have one)

  5. a hyperlink or URL to your blog post (if you have one and post, it must have my Boobday banner and a link back to me and only posted on Friday)

Emails sent to me with all of this info plus the theme will be given preferential treatment.  I will not look up links.

My SIDEBOOB tits:

hyacinthjones_sideboob_scarf_blue_panties
I look at this image and literally can’t believe it’s me…
hyacinthjones_sideboob_bw
The scarf was caught on Faisal.

The first one is my favorite, but I couldn’t resist posting a second one.  I like it when little everyday things show up in shots, but I’ll also be the first to admit my blog is nothing if not self-indulgent.

NOT my SIDEBOOB tits (click on images for click-thrus where available):

veronica_sideboob_clamp
@Hubman38 submitted this with permission from @VeronicaASM. I wonder where he was leading her…

I love the curve of her breast and how the nipple is pulled taut

::

beck_sideboob
@Beck42069 has a PSA for us all.
Here is my side boob boob day image. It’s a reminder to check your armpit during breast exams.
::
silverdrop_sideboob_pink
The answer is YES!

@SilverDom says, “Silverdrop looks so pretty in pink against her pale skin. Don’t you agree?”

::

sofia_sideboob_outside
Yes, JK, it is hard to get your own sideboob shot ;)

I chose this one because I love the way the light plays on her breast and in her hair, and I’ll always enjoy a topless woman the most in the bright sunshine.

::

tispersonal_sideboob_cami
This is ‘Tis’ first Boobday and she sorta [kinda not really] got wrangled into it I think she nailed it.

Seeing how this was my first Boobday submission, my husband and I picked the picture out together. We selected this picture because we each liked how my nipple was peaking out from underneath my tank top, it was sexy and revealing but still left something to the imagination.

::

kayla_sideboob
@KaylaLords, I love them, too.

I love my boobs from this angle.

::

jade_sideboob
@PiecesofJade tantalizes from the shadows.  And, YES, it’s definitely good enough.

I don’t have a lot of boob to GET a sideboob shot with, but my partner LOVES sideboob, so I had to try to get a pic especially for him. Unfortunately, since I am traveling I didn’t have the right “prop” (he adores the “accidental” sideboob peeking out of a blouse) but I thought this might be good enough. ;-)

::

newdawn_sideboob
New Dawn was tough for us and an inspiration.
This week, I was sick and contemplated not taking part.
And then this morning I was feeling better, and played around in my bed…
::
kinkybikermom_sideboob
@kinkybikermom gives us oodles of sideboob.

::

pantyparade_sideboob
@offgothepanties put this one to a vote.

I had three to choose from and Mr. Wonderful picked this one out  of the three. It’s a fun game I like to play with him.

::

cara_sideboob
@thereon_cara gives a glimpse as if we were a fly on the wall.

This is pre-workout so I was pulling on my sports bra to head out for a run.
::

g_sideboob
Look at @CurvyMilfy‘s bowls full of fun. I want to take a long, long nap right there.

I love the laying down sideboob look. D snapped this pic after he had pulled my bra down and gave my tits a nice rough squeeze.

::

bisexualminx_sideboob
I tore my dresser apart looking for something like this to wear, but I’m not nearly as stylish. Goddamnit, I want all @BisexualMinx’s lingerie!

Pure, simple, SideBoob

Friday, November 15th, is CURVES Boobday!

hy_tits_bannerFirst, let me say I was completely blown away by the thought and care put into the images and words sent in this week.  You all make me SO proud to be a woman and to be Hyacinth, my alter ego.  I’m glad this blog has morphed into something outside of just me and my sex/love life.

Second, next week’s theme will be BLUE.

Third, thanks for following the new formatting rules.  Putting this together was a pleasure!

Fourth, I’m super excited that one of our smaller-breasted sisters decided to participate this week (thanks, Heather!).  We are heavily large-breasted most weeks and I would love to see more of the littles of us out there represented here.  Breasts are so pretty!

Lastly, I’ve decided that every month I’ll ask a Boobday participant to write a short essay (500 words or less) about what it means to her to share her body with the Internet.  This month, I asked G, of Filled and Fooled, the sweet and often self-conscious sex blogger we’ve all come to know and love to be my inaugural writer.

Here’s what she had to say:

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Follow her at @CurvyMilfy on Twitter.

When you asked me to write about what it means to share my body with the internet, I was honored and excited for the opportunity.  I’m not sure I’ve ever said why I like sharing my boob pics. It took me a while to formulate an answer when it came down to it.  My reasons seem so primitive, so stimulus-response, yet so hard to explain.

When I first started sharing “boob pics” on the internet, it would produce a unique and sometimes rush-like feeling. Most often when I post a photo I’ve had to push past vulnerability, fears of all kinds, and my own rigid and outrageously high expectations for what I produce.  I push past the doubts because I know it feels good to create something that evokes a positive response, and it feels good to have sex appeal, and it feels good to project confidence.

So I publish, then dance between the fears and doubts and the memories of compliments and my momentary acceptances; pirouetting in the high of swirling emotions until the first notification.

What Boobday has done for me is evolved that dance, slowed me down a bit by cutting out some of the fears, and taken vulnerability out of the equation. We are all sharing our special qualities and our audience appreciates our differences.

As I slowed down it wasn’t so hard to see the beauty anymore. I am no longer chasing a high, I’m learning about human beings. Not everyone likes gigantic breasts, and huge nipples.  I sort of thought “the bigger the better” before, following these silly porn ideals I guess.  So, as I come to truly believe that my tits are great simply because they belong to me, I accept more of the things I don’t like about them.  And sharing them becomes less about a rush, but more about confirming I love myself.

This photo celebrates not only the obvious underside curve and pendulum-like boobs I sport, but it portrays the top of the cleavage curve, I claim it as distinctly “G”.  I know it may seem trivial to some, but I really didn’t like how the top of my cleavage always seems to curve a little to the left.  This dissatisfaction is probably a derivative of my long-ingrained belief that having a nice layer of softness over my body (i.e. being overweight)  isn’t a good thing.  So automatically I am inclined to be ashamed at yet another curve my body decides to take. But this photo shows that curve is okay.  My cleavage isn’t straight.  My breasts are fuller some days and saggier other days.  I now accept the fate and these facts that my beauty shall evolve (rather than fade), and I am no longer afraid.

Well said, G.  Well said.

Want to participate in Boobday?  Go here and read the Guidelines and State of the Boob Union to answer any questions, but this is the TL;DR of what I need each time:

  1. an attached pic

  2. a sentence about why you chose this particular photo

  3. if you want to be anonymous or not

  4. a hyperlink or URL to your Twitter handle (if you have one)

  5. a hyperlink or URL to your blog post (if you have one and post, it must have my Boobday banner and a link back to me)

My CURVES:

hyacinth_jones_bath_curves_wine_glass_nude
Curves upon curves.

NOT my CURVES:

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@Heather_Cole1 on Twitter.

Why I chose this photo: I’m extremely self-conscious of my small breasts. When I see them in photographs, it’s challenging for me to stop the negative thoughts. So I snapped this pic in my kitchen (my favorite room) wearing my favorite apron. In this view, I can see the curve of the underside of my breast, the curve of my nipple and the curve of where my hip meets my waist. There are a lot of curves to love, and I’m working on loving all of them.

silverdrop_breast_nipple
SilverDom took this of his lovely for us this week. It reminds me of the view of a planet, so perfectly curved.
bisexualminx_nude_fetal_curves
Follow her on Twitter at @BisexualMinx.

I chose this one for your CURVE theme because the ‘fetal’ positioning of my body portrays a distinct curve while nicely exemplifying my female form!

kayla_breast_bruise_curves
Follow her at @KaylaLords.

Between my breast, nipple, and even faint curvy outlines of bruises, there’s nothing not curvy about this one.

bookworm_cleavageAnonymous Bookworm submitted two pics with different lighting.  I spliced them together to better see the contrast.  She says, “I love unexpectedly catching a glimpse of my curves when I’m doing something as mundane as lying on the couch reading a book.”

Anonymous_Aussie_pearlsnap_cleavageAnonymous Aussie says, “It’s all about the curves this week Hy….& don’t all boobs have the most delicious curves?  & yes I confess to pulling the shirt in at the back to show my curvy boobs.”

cara_thereon_cuves_breast_ass
Follow her at @Thereon_Cara.

When I think of my body, I think of curves. I wanted to take a photo that showed not just the curve of my breast, but of that other asset I’m known for. So I picked the picture that showed that (I hope).

“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.

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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.

Friday, July 26th, is Boobday!

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I had a long conversation the other day with a young woman.  She’s barely in her 20s and the epitome of nubile.  And she hates her breasts.  Of course.

In her estimation, her 32DDs don’t look like they did when she was younger.  Her heartbreak was evident as she knew she was staring down the path of continued aging and her wish to look 19 forever would become more or less a joke.  I didn’t laugh at her.  I could feel her pain.

I felt my self-imposed gag order more than ever in that moment.  I wanted to show her there was a classy, respectful, cheeky place on the internet that showcases breasts of all kinds — and every week, no less!  But I was mute.  I cannot reveal my secret sex blog, even for the benefit of one affected girl.

She will have to come to the conclusion that her body is sacred, perfect in its own ways, without the small benefit of Boobday and its loyal followers and participants.  Hopefully, with age, she will come to see that our reverence of the preternatural 19 year old “look” is truly a farce and that men of all ages and around the world love us in all our stages of life.

Here’s to that girl.  I’m glad I’m no longer her.

xx

Hy

My tits:

boobdaySFt
My heart really always will be in SF.

NOT my tits:

boobdayhy
Dear Ella got shut down by WP this week. She wants me to tell you it’ll take a while before she can get back up. And, yes, the usual “pornographic content” was their reason. If this is porn, then we’re all in trouble.
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G’s out gallivanting around on vacation, but she took this one last week for us. She called it “weird,” but I think it’s exceptional.
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cAt and her sexy self.
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Beck and her lollipop. And cleavage.
Scarlett and her scarlet nails.

I play with light and my breasts.

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7:30 am light and lots of shadows.

Happy Mother’s Day, ladies.  Without our bodies, our curves, and the magical shit that happens within it we wouldn’t be who we are today.  I hope everyone has a spectacular day!

xx

Hy
Sinful Sunday

Friday, May 10th, is Boobday!

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A strange thing happened last night: under a balmy, cool night sky — and before the watchful eyes of our friends and a cute, young thing he’d been sitting next to — The Neighbor sat in my lap and nuzzled my neck.  He whispered how beautiful I was and pressed his heavy hand in between my jean-clad thighs.

I’d been wondering if the cute, young thing was more his type when he got up, came around the table and sat beside me, his leg draped over mine.  I guess not.

And then he took me home with the windows down and the wind in our hair and fucked me so senseless that I could only abuse my clit with my Hitachi.  My stubborn, fickle body refused to comply with my demands and I gave up whimpering, orgasm-less.  So he came to my rescue again as I lay alone beside him and curled his fingers into me and gave me one of my new orgasms with a messy, ridiculous splash and a shudder.

I slept on a towel and a smile.

Happy Boobday, y’all.

xx

Hy

Want to participate in Boobday?  Go here to check out the guidelines. 

Also, I’m going to change it up a little and say that I need to have pics no later than Wednesday.  My softball schedule makes it next to impossible for me to get this put together Thursdays. 

My tits:

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Cross my heart.

NOT my tits:

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A return participant who invites us to crawl up that lusciousness.

 

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It’s the lovely, lovely, G.

 

 

 

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The creamy and delicious LSAM.

 

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Scarlett left her funk for us to share this.

 

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Silverdrop posing for her SilverHubby.

 

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This is Shannon. She’s a long-time reader, she says, but this is her first submission. Her goal this year is to “gain more self confidence and just put myself out there, flaws and all, no matter what everyone else thinks.”

 

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She let me pick which pics to post. I chose them both.

 

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This is also PinkKitten’s first time sharing her breasts and, as she put it, she has “finally managed to muster the courage to submit my tits for Boobday, and my fiance was kind enough to make a small contribution.”

 

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An anonymous, (badass), Aussie submission.

 

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“Ginger, Daddy’s little pet,” as she says.

 

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Kayla and her ridiculously pretty jewelry.

I send love notes.

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Love notes 1, 2, and 3.

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

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

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

I was in heaven.

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I get fucked for days.

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I bought some hyacinths the other day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

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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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.