Sometimes it’s a strange path to learn to trust.

I pinched my eyes shut and silently moaned with embarrassment.  I didn’t think I could do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.  His English accent made it seem more official.  “God, so beautiful.  Yes, just like that.”

I adjusted the laptop between my bare legs and my naked pussy and looked down the length of my pale body.  The screen was of him, his large erection and stroking hand, his dark grey eyes riveted on me and then, near the glowing green light of the camera, a smaller box of me.

In it my legs formed a sort of low-M where the downward point was the dark line which drew up from the bed to my center to end in more darkness.  I thanked God I couldn’t see it with more definition.

Above that a smattering of short hair, a soft belly, two mounds of jiggly flesh and beyond that my blonde head peeking down at all the action.  I groaned my discomfort even as his words spelled out enthusiastic approval.

He asked for me to spread my lips for him.

Humiliation isn’t the right word for how I felt.  Yes, there was certainly some of that, but I couldn’t locate the source.  There was also shame, embarrassment, worry, flagrant bashfulness.  I have made it a policy of mine to never send pics of my pussy unless and until I deeply trust the man which means 3 men have gotten pictures of me.

It’s not because my pussy is extra special — though, of course it is! — it’s because I am awash with such emotions it becomes devoid of fun.  I have to beat down half a dozen complicated feelings just to send one pic of my vulva.  It’s an exhausting endeavor.  But here I was, legs splayed, all my bits on an iPad in London with a rapt audience of one.

Two hours earlier I’d come home alone from a pleasant enough date with a man who was a big believer in thin pants and no underwear and wanted to just be alone.  It was a boon to find Ben online and awake at 2 am his time.

He was naked in bed with his big cock in his hands.

“Hello, Hy!” he said.

Our smiles were big.

Soon I had stripped down for him and swiveled the laptop around so I could stand and twirl for him.  I felt silly, out of control, and struggled to remind myself that he had seen me in real life, that I had nothing to hide.

“You are so gorgeous, Hy!  Look at your body!”

I squinted at the little square of me and didn’t see what he did, but I believed how he felt about it and pushed on.

“Bend over for me,” he said.

I giggled nervously and did as he asked, my panties around my ankles.

“More, bend all the way.  Please,” he urged.

I bent more and felt my face turn red from embarrassment.  I thought about how differently boys and girls are with their sexuality.  Even after years of trying to reprogram myself I found myself a slave to my earliest insecurities about my body, such as there’s such a thing as a “good angle.”

Men* have proven to me time and time again that they don’t believe in a “good angle,” they adore them all.  The ones where my ass looks “bad” or my pussy looks however-a-pussy-isn’t-supposed-to-look or my tits hang long and torpedo like.  The assumption I carry there is clearly faulty — that there’s a “right” way to look — so when Ben asked me to contort my body in ways in which I couldn’t control the visual outcome I had to trust his tastes… and him.

I had to trust that he wouldn’t say, “Oh fuck, stop it! That’s horrible!” which is the other side to the “good angle” belief.  I had to trust that he wouldn’t judge me.  I had to trust he was enjoying himself.  I had to trust that he was being honest.

At an extremely formidable age, on two separate occasions years apart, boys I liked and trusted ripped the rug out from under me and I have only just recently begun to realize that though I felt at the time I had moved on and not let it affect me that it became an important part of my programming when it came to men: They are not to be trusted.  Ever.

So even before I began to make questionable choices in mates, partners, and lovers, I already had an infected belief.  How self-fulfilling that has been I can’t quantify, but it has surely affected me deeply and profoundly.

I can get naked for a lover in person, because I believe my charisma will overcome any physical limitation or shortcoming they might discern.  I can suck them till their eyes cross and get him to lose himself inside of me, but what can I do an ocean away?  I can’t make him not see me.  I have to trust him.

And so it came to pass that I was spread wide with his watchful gaze on me and his kind, lustful words emboldened me.

I grabbed the Godemiche dildo Adam and Monika had given me at Eroticon — the longer one, of course.  Still bashful I squeezed some lube on it and began to work it in as Ben moaned his approval.  I added the buzz of my Hitachi and the boom of my orgasm laid me out like a pancake.

“That was fucking hot, Hy.”

“Next time we’re together, I’ll do that with you in me,” I said breathlessly.

“Good.”

“I want to go again, though I really wish it was you.”

“Me, too.  Do as I say then.”

He told me to slowly push the dildo in and out.  It was complicated and naughty and I felt like at any minute someone would burst through my door and catch me while I had an open laptop between my legs, my left hand operating a giant and magical dildo, and my right hand pressing a Magic Wand on me.  But no one did and Ben coached me to go deeper.

I did.

Then faster.

And I did.

Yes, he liked that very much.

The orgasm came up and fucking punched me, turned me inside out and left me like a wrapper beside the dumpster.  I yelled out and began to sob.  I clenched and bore down on the cold ting inside of me as the waves tore through my body.

I heard Ben’s voice in the distance beyond my cries.  I convulsed and shivered and felt that keening, soulful pain I always feel with this kind of orgasm; something is just out of reach.  This time, it was literally him.

I turned off the wand and gently pushed the dildo out, swung my legs over and pushed the laptop to the side, and tried desperately not to cry with very little success.  I didn’t know how this would translate and didn’t want to completely lose my shit when he couldn’t hold me or see all the nuance in my sobs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “That was really intense.  I haven’t felt that since…” I searched for the last time.  “Since TN.”

It was a strange sensation to have that intense of an orgasm with a dildo and not a man and though I did love the dildo very, very much, the truth is it was Ben.  His voice, his energy.

“You did that to me,” I explained in case he was thinking I had just given myself the greatest orgasm ever and he had nothing to do with it.

Spent, I asked him what I could do so he could cum finally.  It had been nearly 2 hours since I’d stripped down and we’d begun our camming fun.  “I don’t think I can cum,” he said, disappointment in his voice.

“Well, try, please.  For me.”

Roughly 25 seconds later he was showing me the globs of white he’d shot onto his belly.  “Oh shit!  It’s in my hair!” he laughed.  “And on my chin!  Oh my god!”  We laughed at how wrong he’d been.

We said our sweet goodbyes and hung up.  I washed the dildo and wrapped it in a cloth and put it back in my super fancy cardboard sex-box, put the lube away.  I felt raw and sad, distantly happy.  I had a moment of panic that what if he’d recorded it?  What if he’d try to sell it?  Or hurt me with it?  But quickly realized it was my old pain rearing its ugly head.  Ben would never do that.  I trusted him.

I found the panties I’d discarded over the side of the bed as if I’d had an in-person encounter and crawled under the covers.  I fell asleep dreaming of a sweet British man and hoping I was starting a new trend: to trust again.

 

*I say “men,” but I can expand this to all lovers I’ve ever had, male or female, and I certainly can attest to feeling similarly about all the lovers I’ve ever had.  I think they’re all stunning in their unique ways. 

He’s shy.

Hy in the am, white shorts

Good morning.

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.

“You up?”

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.

Hy in the am, white shorts

The second pic I sent him.

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.

Total orgasm count to his cock is now 7.

Thank you.

 

Hy in the am, white shorts

I love tan lines.

 

 

I learned to masturbate in the shower.

I had my first orgasm on the back of a horse at around the age of 12 or 13, but I can’t claim to know at that moment what was happening to my body.  I only knew I was gripping the saddle with my thighs, my stirrups were long so I could sit deeply, and I was driving this giant animal forward into my hands in order for him to do an extended trot.

My hips began to tingle and then it spread lower.  My trainer was yelling at me with her megaphone because as I lost control the horse was, too, and I was failing at the exercise.  I had no idea the pommel being ground into my mound was the culprit.

Fast forward a year and I was surreptitiously perusing the bible of all women’s books, Our Bodies, Ourselves, and discovered a chapter which included a woman’s discovery of water as a sexual toy.  She was 9 and would use a faulty sink faucet.  I had a detachable shower head massager in my bath.  It was a Eureka! moment.

That first time I stood in the shower stall holding the head to my crotch.  I didn’t know what I had down there or even really where anything was, but the sensation was immediate and profound.

I pushed my hips forward and closed my eyes.  The build was swift and complete in a minute.  It stayed in my legs and hips only and I immediately recognized it as what had happened to me on the horse months earlier.

I became a showerhead aficionado that day.

A shower became so much more; I came in there every chance I could get.  I even boldly came with a young lover in there many years later.

When I left home, I also left my shower massager behind.  It was a sad day.  But I’d sneak into my roommate’s bathroom and use hers when she wasn’t around until a friend told me of an ex who’d lay on her back beneath the tub faucet.  That got me through for years until I bought my own massager again.

By now my orgasms were explosive and blew out the top of my head.  I no longer stood primly with my feet together like that first time, but with legs spread wide and my back against the cold wall.  I came with many eyes on me, sometimes hands, sometimes a mouth.  I hadn’t met the Hitachi, yet.  Water was my only toy.  And the occasional horse.

My senior year in college I joined the equestrian team and early one morning while training I was in a two-point position, stirrups short, but legs in a new style of riding.  I perched above the pommel again and as my trainer yelled, “Yes, Hy!  Like that!  GOOD!” I came and came as I cantered in a circle on a giant-barreled steed.

Later that season, while competing in an equitation class, I began to cum on the long side of an arena and nearly fell off.  I won the blue ribbon that day.  For me, doing it right equaled the reward of orgasm.

It wasn’t until I was 25 that I got my first vibrator and things have never been the same since.  In fact, I think I’m going to see my old friend now, before David comes over tries to murder me with his giant cock.  See ya on the flip side!

 

 

Welcome to Masturbation Monday and Masturbation Month! So the prompt isn’t super steamy this week, but I have no doubt the stories that bloggers and writers will share will be. Go show them some love and help spread the word about Masturbation Monday! You and I know that masturbation is wonderful and delicious, but too many people think it’s bad or shameful. Let’s show people just how yummy and hawt it can be.

Masturbation Monday

I know how to squirt.

[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:

Make Her Ejaculate

Female Ejaculation

Shejaculation: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Gush

Originally published 2/18/12.

I masturbated in his bed while he was at work.

I am a stickler for privacy. I personally don’t need much, but I’m extremely sensitive to others’ needs, particularly The Neighbor’s. I’ve had access to his apartment for more than a year and I think I’ve popped over 5 times while he wasn’t at home and only one of those he didn’t know (I left some things by his front door when I was moving). And even with his permission I feel like I’ve entered some kind of foreign, enchanted forest; I must watch my every step lest I discover some evil troll lurking behind the couch (or in the computer).

I had an exboyfriend years ago whose extra-relationship activities repeatedly — and magically — appeared before me, though back then I had no idea I was in an enchanted forest. I don’t remember the details now (it was nearly 15 years ago), but what I do recall is that I was following my natural, stupidly guileless curiosity down forest paths, my basket filled with cookies for Grandma and my little red hood over my eyes.

Imagine my surprise while looking through boxes of his old photos with a little nostalgic smile on my face thinking, “Aw, look at Joey, isn’t he so young and sweet?” I also stumbled upon negatives of his exwife in various stages of undress. I can’t unsee her negative-vulva, guys. Or my surprise when I went to my History in our computer’s browser to find a link I’d used and I found links he’d used to post pics of the exwife on some kind of file-sharing site. He wasn’t posting pics of me, just her. Or my surprise when I found their polaroids in the same box he said he stored the Polaroid camera. UGH.

To say that I learned my lesson is an understatement. While I may not need much privacy, others certainly do and I honor that. The Neighbor, being wildly different from me, covets his and far be it from me to ever shake his private, furry tree.

That being said, I’m not beyond using those invisible parameters to my advantage.

A couple of weeks ago TN gave me permission to enter his apartment to borrow a cookie sheet.  I climbed the 3 sets of stairs and took a deep breath when I saw his door at the top.

I opened the door and peeked inside, his clothes were strewn about everywhere and nearly every light was on. Different world, indeed. That sense of being where I shouldn’t was as strong that day as any other despite my pass and I practically tip-toed into the kitchen to get the sheet. I pulled it out and set it on the kitchen island and took in my surroundings. It was quiet, masculine. The work I’d done on his place made it homey and his own contributions made it look decidedly lived in. I looked at his bedroom door and at the unmade bed beyond. And a decision was made.

I smiled, gathered my courage (and my phone), and walked in. Kicked off my loafers, peeled off the cardigan, grabbed the *Doxy from his nightstand and laid down.

My heart beat fast and heavy. The scent of a slumbering TN surrounded me in his pillows and bedding, his fan whirred quietly above me. I snapped some pics, began to relax.

Processed with VSCOcam with b1 preset

I punched the ON button on the Doxy and let its deep, gentle vibrations begin to scour my senses clean of concern. I kept my eyes open, drinking in all his stuff. The clothes on the dresser, the candles, the lamp. I came hard and writhed on his sheets. I switched my phone to video and came again and talked to him, let him see exactly where I was. Then a third time. I thought about all the times he’d sneaked into my bed while I was away and jerked off for me there while wearing my panties, him pulling on his big dusky pink meat until he choked out ropes of semen all over his belly. I came a fourth and fifth time then was spent.

FullSizeRender

Satiated and feeling like I belonged, I texted all the photos and the video. He was very pleased.

Before I left I needed a pen and padded softly into his office, opened the drawer I knew I could find them and gingerly pulled one out. I kept my eyes down away from whatever might be laying around, the monitors were dark. I quickly used the pen and gently closed the drawer when suddenly the monitors flickered on. My eyes were instantly drawn to them and my heart lurched.   No!  No forest trolls, please!  Memories of Joey’s escapades flashed through my mind then in a split second washed away.  There was nothing there.

I breathed deeply and quickly left. But not before I turned off all the lights.

 

[Ed. Note: *Doxy post will be coming soon!]

I’m disjointed.

IMG_2887.PNG

In so many ways I haven’t felt like me. I’ve been tired, angry, in pain, confused. I’ve been sucked dry of my passion and playfulness these last few months. I hardly ever masterbate anymore.

I no longer get excited about the thought of it; it’s far too much work. With the Hitachi dead, I am left with a tiny pink thing that buzzes. To call it a vibrator would be like calling a burro a Thoroughbred.

I have to carve out 10 minutes of my day versus 2 1/2. Sometimes even 15. I know it sounds utterly ridiculous, but I rarely feel I have 15 minutes to simply lay still and touch my lips, arch my back, imagine mouths and cocks and breath and thrusts.

It’s too much work to feel good and so I don’t even try. I slip down a hidden path of apathy which if I look closely enough I can always find, like the last stashed cigarette in my kitchen drawer.

But I am losing something important: me. My apathy sends the wrong message. It’s not leisure, it’s misuse. I’m misusing my body. A strong, healthy, responsive body which rarely lets me down. I’m neglecting her.

I recently received a gift through my donation button, and to that kind soul I’d like to say that that money is going towards my Hitachi Magic Wand fund.

In the meantime, I’m going to get off the path I’ve been on and I’m gonna touch the shit outta myself.

I’m going to squeeze the handfuls of my breasts and moan a little. I’m going to pretend that you’re there in the room with me, your hands wandering over the planes of your body. I’m going to close my eyes and dip my fingers, listen for the gentle smack of moisture as my digits plunder my chubby little folds and hole. My teeny pink buzzing thing is going to sound like a little moped on my mound as I let my orgasm build and I think I can hear the catch of your breath from beside me. And then I’m going to cum and cry and clutch and fall back onto my pillows with a smile and a sigh.

That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop being disjointed.

 

Check out everyone else being sinful today!

Sinful Sunday

We masturbate with the light on.

hyacinthjones_polkadot_shorts

The outfit of ill repute.

I pressed myself against his bare back and reached my arm around to find his stiff cock resting on the mattress.  We’d been cuddling for a while and our new configuration had interrupted my stroking.  I sighed into his back and kissed his shoulder, squeezed the hot thing in my hand.  He picked up his stream of consciousness and I closed my eyes with a smile as I breathed him in and indulged completely my joy of curling around him while sunk deeply into my mattress.

My hand, wrapped around his hotness, lazily moved the length of him and I felt a familiar draw between my legs.  I was surprised; I thought for sure the pounding headache I’d endured all day had surely killed any kind of libido, but no… she was purring just below the surface.  I decided to test it and thought out loud to us both.

“How long has it been since you masturbated?”

“Since Saturday or Sunday whenever I sent you that pic.”

“Mmm,” I replied remembering the glorious cock shot I’d received, all resplendent dark pink skin arched like a dolphin above the surface of his belly.  “I remember now.  Thanks for that.”  I squeezed my hand again and pulled his shoulder toward me to reposition him on his back.

“I want to watch you cum tonight,” I said softly, firmly.  The room was filled with light and an evening stillness, waiting.

He politely declined, but I persisted, perceiving the game.  “It’s so hot when your hand is a blur, to watch you tense your big thighs,” I whispered.

I traced my hand over his meaty quadricep.  “And to watch you shake a little.  To see your arm flex, your biceps harden.  Your little grunts and then you curl.”

“I curl?” he asked.

“Yes, you curl, just a little, like this at the end,” and I demonstrated the little crunch he does during climax.

He moaned a little and took over.  A slight smacking sound from the head of his cock joined the lilt of my story as his hand moved quickly and expertly over his own body.  “Mmm, how could I have forgotten about that sound?” I wondered.

“I want you to cum with me,” he said.  Then added, “Please, ma’am.”

I rolled over and retrieved the Hitachi resting on a nest of tangled cords and put the head over my polkadot shorts.  I lifted my white see-through t-shirt and lay in the bright light, his eyes locked on mine for a moment before we both shifted to each other’s bodies.

The wand seared through me as I watched the blurry arc of his hand.  Words tumbled out of me as quickly as my orgasm tumbled toward its cliff of release.  “I love your cock,” I gasped, “It’s so fucking big.  Look at you: so beautiful, so sexy.”

His body was doing all the things I’d already described.  His legs were rigid slabs of muscle, his chest was taut with exertion, his breath coming fast and in little jerks.

“I can’t believe you put that giant thing in me,” I managed to say and then my orgasm pushed through me like a wave crashing on the beach.  It came so swiftly the second I was done I wanted more.  He was still beating himself with a steady, sexy rhythm.

“You’re going again, right?” he asked, hopeful.

“Definitely,” I confirmed.  “Talking — hearing my own voice say those things — made me cum faster,” I said a little incredulously.  “But it’s hard.  I’m so shy.”  He said he felt the same way when he tried to talk and I felt less silly.

I put the Hitachi back on me and kept talking.  Again, it pounded through me in seconds and I arched and moaned and called out.  He closed his eyes and moved to his own music, his own needs.  His hand moved impossibly fast and his breathing shortened.  I pressed my hand gently on his thigh, close to the magic and waited.

And then he curled a little and spurts of his seed came spilling out to rest on the brambles of his hairy abdomen.  He giggled a little and relaxed.  “See?” I said kissing his shoulder.  “You curled!”  He giggled again and sighed, wiped the cum off his belly with his bare hand.

I took it and licked some off and smacked my lips, rolled back onto my back and quickly had a third orgasm with the taste of his cum on my lips and his mouth latched onto my breast.

“Let’s talk about our feelings,” he joked.  I snuggled down into my nook and kissed his chest.  His arm squeezed me to him and he nuzzled me for a kiss on the lips.

“Ok,” I said.  “I love you.”  He smiled and I got lost in his icy blue eyes, the whiskers he was growing back for me.

“I love you, too,” he replied and I quietly wrapped myself in the evening’s joy as I looked out into the quiet stillness of my brightly lit room, his chest a pillow beneath my smiling cheek.

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What he saw.

He gets a [very lovely] punishment.

It’s been a few months now since The Neighbor and I entered into another layer of D/s and I became in control of his masturbation practices.

Our original foray into D/s was borne out of intense curiosity to see if it would fit us; he’d been spanking me for nearly a year and controlling our interactions, but I was miserable and he was a slippery little thing, perhaps miserable, too. That was definitely not working for us.

When I finally heard him, actually listened to his words about being submissive in the past — deliberately and with a real Domme — and how much he loved to vacuum for me bound in my skimpy lace panties, I opened a cupboard door into a part of me to which I hadn’t given any merit. And then it liberated us.

We dipped our toes into the power pool and suddenly we were both more relaxed, tall and serene. He still wasn’t committing to me or saying he loved me, but there was something else there, a stronger, newer connection that bound us even tighter. Roots were growing.

There have been mostly ups since we started this new side of us and I have learned mountains of information about the both of us: like how I am not a sadist, but I like welts, how I like having control over his pain because I can make it stop, how my position better allows me to express my needs from strength and not fear; and how he needs to feel trust and kind words during moments of consensual weakness, how he wants me to stand up for myself and keep him in line.

We fuck an average of a dozen times a month and 2-3 of those are me in total charge. Spankings, nipple clamps, him falling the fuck apart. The rest are laced with my domination and I top from the bottom with a big fat fucking smile on my face. And mostly all of our clothed sexual interactions are via D/s.

The innuendos, the spanks, the demands, the rules. So that means I also have had to come up with punishments. A real punishment, not something he would outrightly enjoy, though, that is how I prefer to deliver my blows.

He confessed to me the other day that he had masturbated without my permission. I thanked him for telling me, because I knew he was afraid, and we talked about why and I shelved it for later.

The next morning, I came up with a plan:

Ok, I’ve thought some more about you jerking off. I’m upset bc you didn’t send me a pic like I always say to do (& you broke your promise, but that can’t be helped now). So, to start over fresh, this is your punishment: you’re allowed to jerk off 3x bn now and next Tuesday but you must 1st ask my permission, 2nd, if it’s late and I don’t respond, then you must make a video of it, and 3rd, regardless of 1 or 2, you must take pics. So this means I expect 3 pics at least, if not some videos, of your gorgeous cock. You can also jerk off in front of me, too, thereby eliminating the need for pics 🙂

He said it was “tough, but fair.”

I said, “Good boy,” relieved to hear it, but knowing there was really nothing else he could say.

Thursday night, sick as a dog, I convinced him to jerkoff next to me. It was, quite literally, the highlight of my miserable day to watch his body tense and vibrate then jerk into his blurry hand, milky white jizz quickly mopped up by a tissue I had ready. I had three boxes of them littered about me, after all.

And this morning, this happened:

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The tits were for encouragement.

I’m not certain if he actually jerked off right then or of he was asking for his lunch break, but either way, I’m looking forward to the pics and I feel strong in my position yet again.

I never would have guessed how hot him asking me for permission could be — never — but goddamn. This punishment stuff sure does feel good. Almost as good as everything else with him does.

I held him in my arms.

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The other morning.

Since our discussion about my fears regarding Peyton The Neighbor and I have been running like a finely tuned machine.  We sparkle and tango and fuck and laugh and glitter until our lashes meet our cheeks.  Something feels better.

Last night he came over wearing only silky basketball shorts and suggested we go lay down in my room “Just to cuddle,” he said.  I rose wearily, my men’s pajama bottoms fluttered loosely about my legs as I marched behind him quietly happy.  I loved this ritual of ours.

We lay down beside each other, assuming the position of a hundred nights before.  Me on the right, him on the left.  My ear pressed against his warm chest, his fingers tracing lines on my arm, my hand absent-mindedly stroking his soft bulge.

Our conversation included our day and our upcoming week.  We were both in good spirits and we each laughed robustly at each other’s little jokes.  One of his favorites is when I ask him what he’s thinking and he says something like, “Ants,” or, “Mountain blasting mining practices.”  Last night’s was particularly entertaining.

“Hy,” he said smiling, “Ask me what I’m thinking!”  I laughed knowing it was going to be something ridiculous.

“Ok, what are you thinking, TN?”

“How to light a match in zero G!”

Oh, the giggles on that one.

And then he was pinning me down with wrists and thighs because I was trying to pinch his tiny, sensitive nipples.  In my most authoritative voice I told him to stop, but the truth was I was enjoying it immensely and let him have the upper hand.

“C’mere,” he growled and he gently turned my face to his and he kissed me.

And then his erection caught my eye.

He loosened his grip on me and I ordered him to put his hands down to his sides.  He was afraid of exposing his little pink nubs, but I was going to show him I was trustworthy if he trusted me first.

Slowly his arms dropped to his side.

“Good.  Now take off your clothes,” I said firmly, smiling broadly.   His cock sprung free and I told him how pretty it was.  I gripped it gently, like he’s shown me, and moved my hand along the bone.

“Wait,” he said repositioning my hand so my knuckles lined up with the top of the ridge.  “Ok, go.”

I began to stroke again and his face split into an enormous grin.  “Holy shit!!  That feels like me!”  His smile went on for miles as he played with the idea that another’s hand could feel somehow familiar.  But my arm began to tire and my bicep cramp.

We reassembled.  This time with me sitting up with him wedged between my legs.  The blue fabric a modest contrast to his pink nakedness.

I tucked my arm under his and reached around, a first-person point of view, and peeked over his shoulder.  The glistening aperture of his cock winked at me as I pulled its short little turtle neck up to its head.

TN leaned against me, his weight pinning me to the bars of my headboard.  He leaned his head back on my shoulder and I kissed his neck.  My free hand splayed through the carpet of his chest hair.

He wrapped his paw around the outside of my fist and moved me faster.  I felt my pussy clench and my breath catch.  The rough cotton of my tank top pressed against my breasts smashed against his back.

Then I let go and he took over.

I bit and nibbled his neck, let my breath spill out like fog on his skin.  I dragged my fingertips across his taut belly and broad chest and clung to him with my thighs.

Every muscle in his body was flexed and pulsing in time with a long, slow thrust, though his hand was a Caucasian blur of pumping.

His balls bounced and flounced along like cans tied to the back of a wedding get-away car.

I closed my eyes and wished for him to cum.  Not for me, but for him, for his heart.  I whispered hotly in his ear, “You are so hot,” and nipped the lobe gently.

His voice began to catch and he crushed me into the headboard.  His breath came out in choked bursts then as thick, milky semen spurted out onto his belly and lay like snow on a bush.

He panted and went limp as I kissed along his neck and shoulder and squeezed him from behind with my entire body.  My cunt pulsed with what she’d witnessed.

“Good boy,” I said.  “That was fucking hot.”

He smiled and said it was progress.  My heart lurched a little.

I spread his cum around in little circles and he laughed at my ministrations.  I told him how turned on I was.  He suggested perhaps it was my turn, but I told him I was good.  For once, this was just about him and not me.

We lay there with me holding him for a while before he said he had to leave.  He redressed and came around and gave me two sweet, long kisses goodnight.

I am so proud of him.  In the light of the night we are indeed making some kinds of progress.

He masturbated while I watched.

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This is what you get the morning after you jizz on your own chest in front of me.

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.