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!
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.
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.
NOT my tits:
“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.
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.
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.”
“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.