I still love him.

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Spilling my guts in a coffee shop.

It’s happening again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him: But the water will drip down!

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

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

Me: Yes.  Good boy.  (SMACK!)

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

Him (smiling): Why?

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

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

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

Him: Yes Ma’am.

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

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

“I don’t think I like that idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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Reflection.

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

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

I think I’m happy.

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I shamefully admit: this is my love.

My homecoming made me orgasm five times.

I flew in late last night to similar weather from what I’d just left. My parents were all smiles as we drove back to their house. We’d all agreed it’d be better for me to stay the night since I was taking them back to the airport at 6:30 the next morning.

I had a couple of glasses of wine with my mom then dragged my sorry ass to bed. The Neighbor’s sweet pleas to come get fucked glowing on my phone.

“I guess I’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning,” he realized.

“Looks like it,” I replied.

As the sun rose pink and yellow over the horizon I squirmed in my pajama pants and boots as my parents chattered like birds, excited and eager for their own trip.

Free and alone I headed west, the day at my back, and giggled. It wasn’t even 7 o’clock and I had a date to get the shit fucked out of me.

Once home I quickly cleaned up and slipped into something more comfortable and snuck next door. I stripped down to only my argyle knee-high socks and did my best to wake him up.

I dragged my breast across his cheek and stroked his mighty, sleeping erection. Finally, he awoke with a jerk and pulled me under the covers with him.

We played and snuggled and I bathed his cock with my mouth then mounted him like a mare in heat. The headboard slapped the wall with a loud, yet bored insolence.

I rolled my eyes and panted, possessed with desire. He sat up under me and I locked my ankles behind his back.

“You happy to be home, Hy?” he puffed into my neck.

“Oh, yes,” I breathed back between thrusts. “Very happy.”

He rolled me over onto my back and I clutched the footboard. It was even angrier with us and its clapping disapproval made us burst with laughter. The neighbors must hate us, I thought.

TN’s phone chimed with a text just then. It was Downstairs Neighbor telling TN to “move your goddamned bed away from the wall!!”

He shoved something between the wood and the wall and rejoined me with a giant grin. “That oughta do it!l

He pounded me with a little grin and flipped me over and blindfolded me, pinned my arms to my lower back and rode for the hills wailing on my flanks, the crack of his hand mixing with my cries.

“Did you go home before you came here?” he suddenly asked.

“Yes,” I mumbled into the mattress.

“Good. Lets go next door. It’s been far too long since you had an orgasm. Nine days, Hy!!”

I lifted my rosy face to look at him. “Seriously? Now?”

“Yes. Now. Get up. And don’t put anything on.”

I stood on wobbly legs and we jumped the few feet from door to door. 45 degrees feels goddamned awesome on a bare ass, lemme tell you.

We beelined to my bedroom, my apartment quiet and still. My bed was beautifully made, a canvas for our sexual arts.

Our dance began with his mouth on my breast, him pushing me down, spreading my knees and sliding in. I gripped my headboard and it squealed in protest, too, but I hung on. My pussy moaned and dripped around us. He flipped me this way and that and tortured me with his kingly cock and my humming hitachi. I only barely watched him through my lashes; I couldn’t bare to meet his steady gaze.

One, two laying on the bed, his hands and mouth on me. Three, my bottom hanging off the side and him standing regally above me. Four, he just wanted to watch and five was a surprise as he fucked my face.

I lay in his arms, and we stretched out like cats. I, a languid puddle in a sunbeam, him a greedy little creature who couldn’t bear it when my hand stilled from stroking the pelt on his chest.

We laughed and talked and I gave him his gift. A 1000-piece puzzle of a Jackson Pollock painting I’d found in the SF MOMA gift shop. “I like to torture you,” I said as he opened his eyes, the box in his hand.

He was thrilled. “I guess you do!!”

With ten minutes to spare before he had to be at work he got up to leave.

“C’mere, you,” I beckoned and pulled him down for a kiss. “That’s what your cock tastes like.”

“Wow. I taste pretty good!” I smiled at him and walked him to the door, his pink hardon bobbing as he walked. He gave my breast a final squeeze, looked around the landing and ducked back inside his apartment.

That was our one and only kiss this morning because, he said, “I might just be a hooker with a heart deep inside.”

Indeed. He can’t kiss me and I can’t look him in the eye. We’re quite the pair, TN and Hy. I’m happy to be home, though. So, so happy.

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At my favorite diner for breakfast. Black coffee and book must-haves.

I am fucking my neighbor.

Here’s the long overdue post about The Neighbor.

The first time we fucked I was drunk.  And then thrilled at how good he was in the sack.

The second time we fucked I was less drunk.  And even more thrilled at how good he was between my legs.

The 3rd through 13th times we’ve fucked I’ve been sober for the majority and increasingly ecstatic at this man’s innate abilities in bed.  He’s short and fuzzy, muscled and pale, sweet-faced and heavy-handed, mid-western naive and devilishly horny. He’s my secret lover who lives next door.  I am his 7th partner ever.  I think he might be my 47th (57th?).

He likes to be in a position where he is much taller than me, when, in reality, he’s only 5’8″ or 9″.  He catches me in a chair, on the floor, on the couch.  He likes to lean over me and look into my eyes and grin like a Cheshire cat.  I let him.  Then, sometimes, I like to wear my heels and we are eye to eye.  There’s something oddly thrilling to be overpowered by someone of similar build; his compactness is powerful and sexy.  I’ve never looked at a shorter man with such sexual admiration before.

His kisses are searing and his cock is curved in such a way that he strokes my g-spot.  I’ve taught him how to find it.  He’d never noticed the difference before.  Then one night when he started hitting it I made him stop.  I asked him if he could feel the difference and asked him to stroke me a couple of times (I whimpered with each thrust uncontrollably).  Then I had him move and thrust again.  “Yes!” he exclaimed breathlessly and starting to pump again.  “I can feel it!”  And then he made me cry and laugh into my pillow as he pounded my helpless cunt.

He’s inadvertently met all of my friends and even my kid.  Living next door makes these introductions natural and easy.  He comes over to play Scrabble a few times a week.  Sometimes he stays and fucks me, sometimes he goes home.  I told him that part of this arrangement meant that I wanted a dinner out from time to time.  He agreed and took me to my favorite restaurant in town.  It was fun taking the show on the road.  We flirted all night then he fucked me senseless sideways on his king-sized bed (nothing like sex on a soccer field, right?).

It hasn’t been all roses dating a man 9 years my junior.  He tends to say things without thinking and I have to point them out to him.  One thing I can say about him is that he listens and he’s thoughtful.  He is sweet.

I am also the only woman on the planet to have ever sucked him off.  A few times now.  For some reason it makes me feel good to know that I’ll never be forgotten for that reason alone (and it’s a much better reason than why Jake will never forget me – hahaha).  His cock fills two of my hands and then some.  It’s thick and his balls are just enough to over-stuff my  mouth.  Only I have ever tasted his seed and I find it adds to his charm; he’s never had to consider what he eats in a sexual way before and laughs when I recommend pineapple.

When I think of him I get excited.  It’s becoming a Pavlovian response almost.  The Neighbor = sexual delights.  He’s made me cry during sex multiple times; gasp laughing with my mascara smeared on my white sheets; create puddles beneath us on multiple surfaces.  He’s helped me to achieve a g-spot orgasm with the aid of my vibrator that rocked me for nearly twice as long as a typical orgasm.  It split me wide open and made me cry.  In a way, he split me wide open and made me cry.

We’ve discussed group sex and whatnot, but he’s mid-western, remember (haha)?  He’s straight-straight and doesn’t even want to see me with another man let alone be touched by one.  He’s up for an FFM, but it’d be up to me to find the other woman and frankly, I’m not all that interested.

Like I mentioned before, I’ve taken this first step with him and neither of us really know what we’re doing.  He’s not interested in dating anyone with a kid.  I’m not interested in dating anyone who doesn’t want to date a mother.  So, I guess I’ll just keep letting him fuck the bejeezus out of me; keep helping to learn my body; continue to learn his.  And maybe he can keep setting the bar for excellent lovemaking in my life while simultaneously knowing the rest of me, too.  An honor no other man has gotten before and a reminder to me that I am a pretty terrific catch on all counts.