I stared at his cock. The tip, only a sliver of edge viewable above the bottom of a lavender dress shirt, glistened. The shadow cast on thin fabric denoted the helmet, his hand gripped the base of the shaft. It looked mighty and throbbing.
My hand holding the phone shook a little as I continued to stare at it as my orgasm built. I clenched the muscles deep inside of me, imagining him there. I pushed and released and willed my x-ray vision to kick in. It never did, but my orgasm didn’t seem to care. A scream ripped through the room. I arched and convulsed harder and longer than usual.
I’d cum to this image 6 times in the last two days.
My new reader, The Russian, said he doesn’t send dick pics. He’s shy and a little nervous about the oozing black eternity of the internet — I get it — and yet, he sends me photos nonetheless. It is an honor.
In the ensuing hours since our phone call he’s sent me a handful of pics which I have dutifully deleted per his request. All but the purple shirt one, which he has let me keep.
His shyness personified in the second one with a white sheet gently draped on his erection; the third his hand wrapped around the base looking down; the fourth and fifth variations on the same theme: a POV of a long, erect morning wood.
We have spoken a little bit more about what I’ve done to two strangers minding their own business, the magnitude of trust that I’ve bestowed upon someone out of the blue. He’s been kind, thoughtful, and introspective about it. I’ve been sensitive to what feels like a blunder and how this might affect him, us, me, etc. It’s a new riddle to solve. I’m up for the challenge.
His proximity to Marian is a boon; she and I were already planning for me to visit in the upcoming weeks. Her availability is even sooner than I expected and The Russian and I might be sitting face-to-face much faster than either of us anticipated. This weekend is a slight possibility, certainly the 14th, definitely mid-September if nothing has soured us on one another.
In the middle of the night I awoke to my upstairs neighbors locked in a heated fight. I’ve never heard more than the occasional creak from them. This was new.
Bellowing, he said, “I never told you to fuck off!”
“Yes, you fucking did!” she shrieked.
More shouting, some door-slamming.
I checked my phone. There was a message from The Russian from 20 minutes earlier.
I texted back that I sort of was, listened to the lovebirds upstairs make a great deal more noise, and drifted off back to sleep.
Dawn broke, my eyes fluttered. I reached for my phone.
“Up. Been thinking about a variety of things. The huge amount of trust you’ve placed in me. The enormity of what you’ve implicitly asked of me. Some light musings. :) Also what my cock would look like in between your tits. So a variety of things. Night, Hy.”
I replied that I’d cum 3 times to his lavender cock the day before and snapped some pics. I figured it’d be as nice to wake up to as his texts were for me.
The morning light splashed across my belly, my waist curved. I felt like the old Hyacinth, the one who woke up with a fire in her belly and a story on her lips so long ago. The kind of Hy that I want to be.
Peyton is with my ex for the next few hours and I am home alone watching a bunch of hokey Christmas movies and sipping on cheap champagne. The Neighbor is in colder weather with his family and I am alone with a herd of Christmas animals I’ve volunteered to watch for a few days. Life is pretty good at the moment. I just wish I had wood for my fire — it’s somehow lonelier without one.
This year is much the same as last and all the others: Peyton is with my ex for a few hours so I’m alone, I’ve got the herd of animals (but they’re mine this time), no wood for the fire (or a fireplace, but I like to watch the Fireplace Channel so I sort of have one — don’t judge!), and The Neighbor is once again in much colder weather with his family.
What’s different is someone loves me. Not a bad change.
I love this Christmas Story of mine not just because of its salacious nature, but because it marks the beginning of everything for me. It happened 4 years ago today, seemingly a lifetime, but just like yesterday. I can still close my eyes and feel them on me. That was a night to go in the record books. And without it I might not be where I am today.
Troy reached out to me recently — filled with his own nostalgia I presume — and suggested that he, Jack and I get together for a drink. I told him I’d love to. Troy and I crackle when together and Jack is the perfect grounding unit. It could be a lot of fun, like old school-time buddies except we’re talking cocks and pussies, not keg stands and finals.
I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and hope that today brings you much love and warmth!
A few months ago my Hitachi died with a spark and a crack. It was very dramatic. I should have done some kind of burial ceremony because what ensued were months of lackluster masturbation sessions with a tiny little pink bullet with AA batteries.
I wrote a little bit about my loss here and there and word got back to my Fairy Toymothers and lo and behold I had in my possession a thing called the Doxy Massager. It looked like a Hitachi and walked like a Hitachi. It must be like a Hitachi, right??
For my birthday in late summer The Neighbor surprised me with a brand new Hitachi so I was able to do a side by side comparison — quite literally.
It was a rough afternoon, guys. Seriously. Orgasming, taking mental notes. Orgasming again, more mental notes. This vibrator, that vibrator. Exhausting stuff!
But here’s what you really want to know. Did I, a die-hard and devoted Hitachi fan like the Doxy?
Not only did I like it, but I actually prefer it.
Here’s the thing: the Hitachi can blitz out my clitoris almost before I know it. I can orgasm up to three times with my partner, but any more than that and my clit hurts. With the Doxy and its extra setting in between high and low, I can get at least 2 more and not have that tender soreness.
Hitachi v. Doxy
On Low: When I tested these I started on both devices’ low settings. Immediately I noticed the Doxy is more gentle. I can’t say with any scientific certainty about vibrations/second or whatever, but it’s just a softer feel. I came as quickly with both.
On Medium: The Doxy is the only one with a medium setting and, like Goldilocks, I would soon discover this was my sweet spot. Literally.
On High: This is where I felt there were the biggest differences between the two. The Hitachi was much too intense for me, but the Doxy I could handle. Even after 3 or 4 orgasms.
It’s been weeks since that first comparison afternoon and I can officially say that The Doxy is my preferred vibrator. It lives at The Neighbor’s house now and sometimes I get gidding just thinking about fucking him in his bed because I know I can top off our romp with The Doxy.
Of course I still use my Hitachi and get bone-chilling orgasms from it, but I kinda wish it was a Doxy, too.
The only drawback (if you can call it that)
So far I’ve found only one thing I wish I could change about the Doxy. When –after multiple orgasms — I’m delirious and can’t even read a clock, I have a hard time finding the Power Off button. With the Hitachi it’s as easy as flipping its switch the other direction. I know. Awful, right?
So, if you’re wondering what to get yourself, your lover, or your secret Santa for Christmas this year, I highly recommend clicking on my little link here and buying one. Or you can go to the Doxy website and see if there’s a store near you that carries it or somewhere you can buy online.
This also marks the first time I’ve ever done a review or gotten anything wonderful in the mail. It’s hard to receive stuff when you’re as freaky private as I am. And it’s not like I have a Hy Jones P.O. Box or anything. At least not yet. Having said that, I’d like to give a very special thanks to Ruby for her generosity and professionalism and to Molly for putting out the bat signal. My orgasms would have been very lacking if it weren’t for these two.
I have to add that I wasn’t compensated for this review — hell, I wasn’t even asked to give one! — and that all opinions are completely my own.
[A re-post from a couple of years ago because I still get a lot of questions. Also, everything I’ve written here still stands; I’m a squirting machine! Apparently, lots of other ladies are, too. Both Dawn and Caitlyn have written about their experiences with it . xx Hy]
A lot of women want to know how to squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.
Making G-spot Contact
The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 14 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.
This particular squirting night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.
I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was smaller that didn’t work, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.
So, naturally, I applied my new method with the bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar to the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra. Throughout my body it felt big and blossoming all the way to my fingertips. It was distinctly different from the orgasms I was used to.
That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased. And then we kept going.
Looking back on it, that was my first experience with a g-spot orgasm.
Size Can Matter
I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (story is here) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.
Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply didn’t. Until I learned some new tricks…
Head Space – What I do
Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.
When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential pussy. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.
When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.
Skills – What He Does
There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.
With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.
With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.
The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well.
Letting Go – It’s Not Pee
I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.
And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.
We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.
Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor has never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.
Go For It
And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!
I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!
And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:
I pressed myself against his bare back and reached my arm around to find his stiff cock resting on the mattress. We’d been cuddling for a while and our new configuration had interrupted my stroking. I sighed into his back and kissed his shoulder, squeezed the hot thing in my hand. He picked up his stream of consciousness and I closed my eyes with a smile as I breathed him in and indulged completely my joy of curling around him while sunk deeply into my mattress.
My hand, wrapped around his hotness, lazily moved the length of him and I felt a familiar draw between my legs. I was surprised; I thought for sure the pounding headache I’d endured all day had surely killed any kind of libido, but no… she was purring just below the surface. I decided to test it and thought out loud to us both.
“How long has it been since you masturbated?”
“Since Saturday or Sunday whenever I sent you that pic.”
“Mmm,” I replied remembering the glorious cock shot I’d received, all resplendent dark pink skin arched like a dolphin above the surface of his belly. “I remember now. Thanks for that.” I squeezed my hand again and pulled his shoulder toward me to reposition him on his back.
“I want to watch you cum tonight,” I said softly, firmly. The room was filled with light and an evening stillness, waiting.
He politely declined, but I persisted, perceiving the game. “It’s so hot when your hand is a blur, to watch you tense your big thighs,” I whispered.
I traced my hand over his meaty quadricep. “And to watch you shake a little. To see your arm flex, your biceps harden. Your little grunts and then you curl.”
“I curl?” he asked.
“Yes, you curl, just a little, like this at the end,” and I demonstrated the little crunch he does during climax.
He moaned a little and took over. A slight smacking sound from the head of his cock joined the lilt of my story as his hand moved quickly and expertly over his own body. “Mmm, how could I have forgotten about that sound?” I wondered.
“I want you to cum with me,” he said. Then added, “Please, ma’am.”
I rolled over and retrieved the Hitachi resting on a nest of tangled cords and put the head over my polkadot shorts. I lifted my white see-through t-shirt and lay in the bright light, his eyes locked on mine for a moment before we both shifted to each other’s bodies.
The wand seared through me as I watched the blurry arc of his hand. Words tumbled out of me as quickly as my orgasm tumbled toward its cliff of release. “I love your cock,” I gasped, “It’s so fucking big. Look at you: so beautiful, so sexy.”
His body was doing all the things I’d already described. His legs were rigid slabs of muscle, his chest was taut with exertion, his breath coming fast and in little jerks.
“I can’t believe you put that giant thing in me,” I managed to say and then my orgasm pushed through me like a wave crashing on the beach. It came so swiftly the second I was done I wanted more. He was still beating himself with a steady, sexy rhythm.
“You’re going again, right?” he asked, hopeful.
“Definitely,” I confirmed. “Talking — hearing my own voice say those things — made me cum faster,” I said a little incredulously. “But it’s hard. I’m so shy.” He said he felt the same way when he tried to talk and I felt less silly.
I put the Hitachi back on me and kept talking. Again, it pounded through me in seconds and I arched and moaned and called out. He closed his eyes and moved to his own music, his own needs. His hand moved impossibly fast and his breathing shortened. I pressed my hand gently on his thigh, close to the magic and waited.
And then he curled a little and spurts of his seed came spilling out to rest on the brambles of his hairy abdomen. He giggled a little and relaxed. “See?” I said kissing his shoulder. “You curled!” He giggled again and sighed, wiped the cum off his belly with his bare hand.
I took it and licked some off and smacked my lips, rolled back onto my back and quickly had a third orgasm with the taste of his cum on my lips and his mouth latched onto my breast.
“Let’s talk about our feelings,” he joked. I snuggled down into my nook and kissed his chest. His arm squeezed me to him and he nuzzled me for a kiss on the lips.
“Ok,” I said. “I love you.” He smiled and I got lost in his icy blue eyes, the whiskers he was growing back for me.
“I love you, too,” he replied and I quietly wrapped myself in the evening’s joy as I looked out into the quiet stillness of my brightly lit room, his chest a pillow beneath my smiling cheek.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the man wrapped in only a white towel glaring at me in my entryway. Apparently, Downstairs Neighbor, upon being rushed out of my apartment because I was about to get the shit fucked out of me, had hidden behind the corner and when The Neighbor had single-mindedly tried to span the 5 feet between our doors he’d leaped out and scared the shit out of him. A cat might also have run outside in all the commotion of TN’s glares and DN’s booming laughter.
“Oh, TN!” I laughed putting my hand on his stubbly cheek, the door tightly shut and locked behind us. “Don’t be mad!! He had no idea you’d be naked!!” He leveled a gaze at me that made me giggle some more as if I’d conspired with DN to humiliate him!
I laughed some more, just simply couldn’t help it, frankly.
I kissed his cheek and hugged his stiff body and to prove his “anger” he let the towel drop and his erection bobbed heavily between us. I grabbed it and whispered against his mouth, “I swear, DN had no idea you’d be in a towel! It was just a joke!”
He melted against me with a grin and took my hand, led me back to my candlelit room. “Ok,” he finally said still smiling and pulled me closer.
He bent his hand and slanted his mouth across mine, long, soft and sweet surrounded by sandpaper whiskers. I moaned a little as he removed my cardigan.
“You look so hot in this dress,” he said taking a breath. I swelled with pride. My yellow dress, theyellow dress. It always does me right.
He dipped his head back down to the top of my cleavage and I closed my eyes as his scruff left red blooms on my skin.
He returned to my lips and I breathed him in, lost in my love. Our fingers explored the dips and swells of our figures, my face nibbling on his.
He pushed the little straps off my shoulders and the top of my dress pooled around my waist. My breasts filled his hands and mouth and we laughed when I needed help pulling the dress back up and over my double Ds.
He grabbed my white cotton panties and tore them off. “Leave the boots on,” he said lustily and shoved me down on the bed.
I sighed as he entered me and pulled my bottom to the edge of the bed. My knee-high brown leather riding boots framed his face and he turned into one calf and kissed it. I could hear him smell the leather.
His cock was enormous and I was wet as fuck. He leaned down and kissed me and I stared boldly up at him then shut my eyes as he slowly stroked my body with his.
I thought of the strict orders he’d received from his physical therapist to not do any vigorous fucking for a while and groaned. “Don’t hurt yourself, TN,” I warned as I felt his tempo increase. “If you do, you’ll be in big trouble.” I panted the words in time with his thrusts. He only smiled mischievously at me and kept at it.
I tossed my head from side to side as it all began to feel more like torture. An exquisite, stupidly hot and wet, torture.
He seemed to sense my agony and lifted me up fully onto the bed and positioned himself between my legs. For a quick 30 seconds he pumped like horny stray dog into me and I came just as rapidly; little bursts strung together by moans, grabbed skin, and warm breath on my neck.
He stopped then, panting. “Damn you,” I admonished. “I’m all vibe-y. Are you ok?” I shook my hands like little helicopters.
“Yes, I’m ok,” he said. “And that reminds me…” he leaned over, still inside of me, and grabbed my Hitachi. “Here you go.” He flicked it on and lay beside me with my legs over his hips.
It took forever and a day for me to spill over, but with the struggle came the reward: his words, his mouth; he stroked my temple and told me what a good girl I was. And then we cuddled and loved and talked and I dozed stupidly for minutes on end.
Then he kissed me again and squeezed me, tucked me in, loved on Faisal who’s claimed him for his own, and left quietly.
The next morning I awoke naked and in a sunbeam, my body sore in all the right places. My boots lay in a heap on the floor next to my white panties, the vibrator lay like a bone a couple of feet away and my pretty yellow dress hung draped over the foot of my bed.
My wonderful, lucky, get-laid-every-time yellow dress. Thank you, Old Navy.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
I was open with him. “I don’t mean to make you feel badly or self-conscious, but I would very much like it if I knew you were getting as much pleasure as me, if you had the occasional orgasm in my presence — I feel guilty, greedy. It’s always about me and my pleasure, never yours.” I paused, thinking about what to say next as he looked at me softly with his icy blue eyes.
“And you’re not getting the pleasure of giving,” he finished for me.
“Yes,” I breathed with relief. He got it.
His “apathy,” as he calls it, is what he struggles with the most. He appears to be completely unflappable when it comes to social intricacies, connecting, receiving, and giving. He has built himself an iron island and no one may ever let him down. It’s emotionally impossible after 29 years of fortitude.
He doesn’t care about things. What those things are, I couldn’t say, I haven’t poked around too much for fear of hearing I am one of them, but he is working on cracking open enough to the vulnerability that is inherent in caring about something, maybe someone.
Almost as if on cue, I began to feel unwell the days following that conversation. Sex was off the table. So we cuddled and talked and let our words probe each other rather than our body parts, but aching/hungry/ass belly aside, I was still set to drooling last night when my absentminded cock-stroking awoke the beast.
We giggled as it rose stiffly against the elastic of his shorts and I gripped it happily and squeezed.
“I’ve thought about what you said the other day,” he said huskily, close to my ear, “And I’m not going to jerk off until Saturday night.”
“Really??” I asked incredulously.
“Yes, really. When you come to La Maison du Voisin, then I’ll cum all over your face, in your mouth, and maybe in your pussy.”
“That’s a lot of cumming!” I said impressed.
I was touched by this grand gesture. La Maison du Voisin night marks the very first time he’s offered to cook for me, hang with me, and tuck me in next door.
It’s not as romantic as you think, however. It was originally a gesture of contrition and remorse. Saturday he let a drunk girl pass out face down in his lap and, panicked and drunk, he stroked her arm and shoulder in a creepy, intimate way while our knees bounced against each other in the back of a bouncing pick up truck. My warning looks served only to heighten his discomfort and feelings of helplessness and rendered me anxiety-ridden and miserable.
That night, he offered me La Maison du Voisin.
The next day he woke me up to say he feels bad that he continues to cross boundaries with other women he considers in distress. It was at that moment I realized he’d tossed me bones: Wanna come over to my house Saturday?? Would you like for me to make you dinner? You can stay the night, too.
“Did you offer all that La Maison du Vosin stuff because you felt bad about the drunk girl?”
He admitted it was true, but that he still really wanted me to come over and do those things for me. So, ok. I’m gonna take it however it may come.
I squeezed the cock hot and thick in my hand and it pulsed a little. I told him I wished I was up for fucking. He hugged me and said it was ok. I wasn’t sure if I should try, but I decided to grab my Hitachi. His eyes lit up.
I put the buzzing head on top of my plaid, pink pj shorts and rode the vibrations to a quick and powerful crescendo. I panted, whimpered, and arched my back, and through fluttering lashes I watched his hand move to his cock and begin to blur.
His hand was fast and fapping and I watched his massive thighs flex and relax again and again.
“Do it again,” he said.
My stomach felt ok, so I decided to oblige him.
Again I flipped the switch and rose swift and high, like a rocket, and his hand continued to be a blur as I watched entranced, his muscles flexing and releasing like a wild animal on the run.
I came hard for a second time and lay limply beside him, his hand idling on his stiff cock. “Could you have cum?” I asked, assuming we were done.
“I’m trying to cum!” he said with a smile.
“But I thought you weren’t cumming till Saturday…” I said confused.
“Yes, but I figured jerking off next to you was totally allowed.” He smiled broadly at me. I agreed it was absolutely allowed. “Cum a third time,” he whispered. I knew he was telling me he needed to watch me for a little longer, that he was close.
I flicked the switch back on and gasped the second it hit my clit. The rise was fast, but I was spent. I knew this was for him. I turned my head to the side, let the little row-boat of my orgasm bump against the dock, and watched his hand become an arc of Caucasian skin.
His eyes were tightly closed, his chest knots of muscles. He grunted and gasped and began to buck into his hand even as it slammed down into his lap. His stomach clenched and he crunched up a little, his hand slowed and spurts of milky white choked out of the abused head. A little glob landed on the silky nest of his chest hair.
He laid back down with a sigh and squeezed out more semen, slowly milking himself.
“Fuck, that was hot,” I said, the vibrator forgotten and turned off.
He leaned over and kissed me and I kept my eyes on the glistening tip of his cock.
He rose then and walked around to the other side of the bed, my side, and his still rock hard cock bobbed by my face. He leaned towards my face and I opened my mouth and gently drew him in. He tasted salty and clean.
Then he pulled away and smiled. “I just wanted you to taste it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It tastes delicious.”
He came back around and we cuddled some more until my lids were heavy and my smile left an imprint in his chest hair. He rolled out from under me and pulled up my covers, leaned over and kissed me goodnight with soft, long strokes.
I’m looking forward to Saturday and lots more of this cum-flavored contrition.
“You ready?” He stood in my apartment, his gym bag over his shoulder. I was dressed in my work clothes still.
“Yeah, gimme a sec.”
He followed me back to my room and flopped down on the bed. Faisal jumped up to purr and meow and twist himself about The Neighbor. I peeled off my barely opaque white v-neck and my breasts bounced.
“Mmmm,” I heard from the bed. I flexed my abdomen and tried to push my insecurities away, focus on this man’s approval. I bent over to roll my skirt down over my hips and sucked in my stomach hoping the swell didn’t pooch out too much.
“That’s right baby, show me those tits.” He watched me beyond the end of the bed as if I were on stage; I clenched every core muscle I owned and stood up straight and smiled as I reached behind me to unhook my bra, trying to look nonchalant and confident. His eyes followed my every move as I tried to morph my body into that of a lithe dancer’s: arch my back, pull my shoulders back, face the audience, be lean and beautiful.
I gathered my workout clothes and scrunched up again to thread my legs into my leggings and cringed at how much I must seem the Michelin Man from the side. I imagined shaking it off, these thoughts invasive and cruel. Where was this coming from??
TN had stretched out on the bed and begun to absent-mindedly stroke his bulge. I tucked my breasts into the little shelf of a sports bra and said, “You know, I was about to jerk off when you knocked a minute ago.” I walked around to the side of the bed. ” There’s still time before class starts.”
The ugly voice inside my head was shouting at me, relentless. I felt awkward in my skin, undeserving, foolish for all of it. Orgasms can be my reprieve from such thoughts. TN didn’t spark them when he dropped by, he’d only walked into a snarling ant pit of self-loathing.
“Well, then let’s get going on that,” he replied as he watched me reach for my Hitachi.
I rested my knee on the mattress and planted my foot on the floor, my left arm straight and strong as I pressed the vibrating head to my crotch. Instantly I was on the magic carpet ride up, up, and up. TN had a front row seat to my cleavage cradled in white, an expanse of belly which I allowed to be whatever it was going to be — though I hoped it looked flat and muscular — and the swell of my hips encased in transparent Lululemon-like yoga pants.
He moaned a little and kept rubbing. I kept my eyes latched onto his hand, then I felt his free hand sweetly trace my breasts. “Is this ok?” he asked.
But it lasted only seconds.
Instead he pulled his shorts down and flopped out his erection, big and juicy before me. His hand began to whir and the sound of fap fap fap deliciously filled my ears. My ride was spiraling its way to the clouds, my lashes fluttered, I could see him staring at me as if I were a unicorn passing outside his window.
The orgasm shook me and just before it stole my breath I managed to whisper, “I’m gonna cum!” knowing it turned him on more than anything.
He quickly and neatly replaced his cock beneath his layers of clothes and pulled me into his arms. I hung on to his middle and laughed, waited a minute then pulled my shit together for the gym.
We worked out side by side, muscles bulged, faces red. I stared at myself in the mirror hating every goddamned music-pumping second of it. The orgasm relief had been fleeting — as I knew it would be — I was again beating myself down.
Other women in the class were athletic specimens, all narrow hips and beautifully wide shoulders, firm buttocks and roundly muscled arms. I was…. not.
I caught TN’s icy blue gaze on my cleavage in the mirror more than once, an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to protect me from myself. Yes, I thought, I have nice tits, but what about the rest of me?? I resigned myself to the Pig-Pen-cloud of low self-esteem and smiled wanly to the other class members as we put our weights away. I really just wanted to go home and lie down. Maybe die a little, hide under a rock, whatever.
When I get like this, seized by self-doubt and hate, I undoubtedly make a decision that will support this belief. That night, it was making Mac n’ Cheese out of a box for dinner — something I rarely eat, but will always make me feel at once comforted and like a complete failure. I ate 2/3 of the box in bed while watching The Taste, took a shower, and texted TN for our nightly cuddle. I wanted to skip it altogether, but he’d asked me to text him and so I did.
I lay there anxiously, tired, a pain pill shivering through my veins. I heard him snap his fingers through my darkened apartment and appear in my doorway. He removed the kitten, shut the door, turned out the overhead lights and flipped on the closet light for ambiance.
“What’s going on?” I asked, nervous, irritable, feeling like utter and complete shit.
“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, that’s what.” He came around the side of the bed and dropped his shorts. I reached out for his erection and it bobbed hot, thick, and clean in my palm. I chuckled half-heartedly and rolled away from him, my whiteness stark against the aubergine bedding.
“What are you doing?” he wondered aloud.
“Making you work for it,” I answered. He growled and pounced on me, wedged my knees apart and slid deep inside my body with one easy stroke. His clean strawberry dusted body thrust into my own vanilla scented one and we made a warm body dessert out of two naked people.
I clung to his hindquarters with my legs and wrapped my arms around his broad, fuzzy back; he grunted and kissed my neck and collar-bone. When he sat up to hitch my ankles on his shoulders I refused. My irritation and discomfort with my body had grown — my belly felt rounder — and suddenly, the fucking routine that went missionary-to-folded-in-half-to-orgasms seemed tired and only stoked my irritation.
I slipped my left leg between his knees and turned on my side. He held my right leg with his hand and nailed me to the headboard. I cringed when thoughts of Troy crowded my sad, addled brain — this had been a favorite position of ours. I quickly rotated again to my belly and I heard the soft smacking of our bodies on my bottom and Troy thankfully exited stage left.
From his new vantage point TN brought his free, lead hand down on my flank. Three excrutiating times. I cried out and went rigid, the sting down to my bone, and then I was granted a reprieve when he got a charlie horse and was forced to stop. We laughed at his misfortune and pulled apart.
I lay next to him and rubbed his massive hamstring chatting easily. I was waging a stupid little war with myself and decided to let him in on the secret; I felt shy and worried about opening up to him about my self-loathing and odd flash of low self-esteem.
“I feel really bad, TN. Like out of control. I don’t like the way I look all of a sudden. I hate feeling like this. I feel so stupid and dumb.”
He crooned to me and pulled me into his arms and tried to rationalize my irrational behavior. “Maybe you think you’re fatter than you are because your tits are so big,” he suggested not unhelpfully.
“Maybe…” I murmured.
“Hy, you’re very sexy and I think you’re extremely beautiful: your tits, your ass, especially your face.” I flushed at the compliments and with shame for needing to hear the words.
I thanked him and took a deep breath to embolden me to open up more. “So, there’s something else.” I heard him hold his breath a little. “When I’m in this kind of mood — feeling down on myself — what I really want is for you to throw me around. But,” and his low timbre joined mine perfectly, “I/you don’t know how to let you/me know that’s what I/you want.”
“Right,” I nodded into his chest.
“Well,” he said sitting up quickly. “Telling me to work for it is kind of perfect.”
He grabbed my wrists and I said quietly, “Work for it,” and held his gaze.
He repositioned himself between my legs and I tried to wriggle away, but he had me pinned. I was tired, yet thrilled at this little game before he had to leave and before I passed the fuck out under that rock I’d been pining after earlier.
He slammed into me, stroked me from the inside and nuzzled my neck, gripped my wrists like he was hanging over a cliff and I came once then twice with big, round blooms of pleasure. It was fast and fierce. Perfect.
He pulled out abruptly and I lay there bathed in light from the closet, my thighs rested on the tops of his as he sat on his heels. He ran his hands up from my hip bones to my ribcage and across the soft, mostly-flat plane of my belly. He groaned approval and apologized that he had to go. I nodded assent and assured him I was ready for him to leave.
He came around the side of the bed and wrapped his hand around my throat, tilted my head back as if to give me mouth-to-mouth and gently suckled my lips, his tongue soft and pliant while his hand gently squeezed — a kiss so unlike his usual hard, punishing, immobilizing goodbyes. I melted away into those lips of his surrounded by a little sea of scruff.
And just like that, for that magical moment, the cloud lifted and I felt a bright, shiny love on me, my idiocy be damned. “G’night, Hy,” he said as he left. “I’ll lock the door behind me.”
“Good night!” I called out after him and then whispered smiling, I love you, as I have begun to do nightly.
The terrible feelings about my body and my looks were there when I awoke the next day and I am still waiting for them to subside. I have committed to health, not looks, and I refuse to fall victim to the old bully of self-loathing. I love my body and what it can do; I love my tits, my hips, my little pot belly. I don’t know where this sucker punch has come from and I don’t know how long it will stay, but I’m going to do my goddamned damnedest to get rid of it. Fuck it to hell.
I’m hoping lots of cuddles and fucking are just what the PhD ordered.
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.