I cried and then I was spanked.

I stood in the shower and cried.  I was exhausted after yet another 12 hour plus day and my heart hurt.  He was still at the game I’d had to miss and taking his sweet ass time to come home.  He didn’t care about me.  It was all so obvious.

The water poured down over my face, dripped off my nipples, slipped down my swells.  My heels rooted into the tub floor.  I felt lost and as if my line had snapped.

I heard the door slam and Faisal jumped from his perch on the bathtub ledge.  I closed my eyes and pretended I was unaware.

He came into the bathroom with a questioning look on his face.  “Are you upset with me?” he asked.  “I saw your text.”  My angry text telling him how stupid I felt for leaving my meeting early to meet him for our plans when he obviously — obviously — didn’t care.

He seemed nervous, like he was on a floor of eggshells.

I burst into both tears and laughter as I pulled the clear shower curtain back and he approached me cautiously.  “Yes!  And no!” I blubbler-giggled.  And then it all came out in a rush.

“You knew I was exhausted already and you knew I was going to have a 14 hour day today!  It seems as though you don’t even care about me!  I put myself out there and was vulnerable when I told you I wanted you to fuck the shit out of me tonight and then you stayed at the field instead of rushing home to me, but I can’t even be mad because we never communicated what time we’d meet up or when I’d be done and you can’t read my mind like I wish you could and I feel crazy and sad and mad and know I don’t have a real leg to stand on!”

He reached out and held my arms as my words tumbled out and looked at me with a kind face.  “Are you done?” he asked.

“Yes,” I nodded.  “I think so.  I’m so sorry…” I ducked my head in shame.  So tired, so overwhelmed, so embarrassed.

“It’s ok,” he assured me, “but I want you to know that I was the second person to leave and came home earlier than I would have to be with you.  I do care, Hy.”

“Really?” I squeaked.  And then I pulled him closer to my wet, naked body and he kissed me roughly, dirt and sweat filling my nostrils.

I wrapped my warm, wet arms around him and pulled him into the shower fully clothed.  He stopped to take off his socks and peel off his shorts and shirt and then he drew me back into his arms and kissed me,  hot water ran off my back and buttocks.

I washed him them with my coconut-hibiscus bodywash, careful to clean between his round cheeks and behind his soft sac.  I scrubbed his neck and pressed my body against his hard length; our skin slipped and slid against each other.

“I still need to be fucked,” I said quietly. “Hard.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied holding my gaze.  “I’m going to abuse you.”

I nearly folded in half at the words, the promise.  I wanted nothing more than to be pushed, hit, bitten, and pummeled.  My complete failure to reach perfection in life in general demanded that I be reminded what a worthless piece of shit I was; nothing more than a wet hole founded in pleasure would suffice at that very moment to carry me through to reach equilibrium.

We toweled off and stood in front of my bed.  I was nervous.  He was huge.  Everywhere, every way.

He grabbed me and kissed me, his scruffy face abrading my face.  He shoved me down onto the mattress, my feet planted on the ground and he told me get ready.  I braced myself on my elbows and waited for the sting.

He gave me 3 little warmup swats.  “You ready?” His voice was low, heated.

“Mmmhmm,” I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut.

And then pain exploded throughout my flank.  I lunged forward, buried my face into my bedding and screamed.  The white-hot sting greater than anything he’d ever done before; it was so fast, so complete.  He told me he was going to do it again.  He moved to the other side, but I told him to stay there.  I wanted to be marked.

He struck again and this time tears filled my eyes.  Legitimate tears.  The flame down my backside wasn’t subsiding.  So fast, so perfect.

A third time, on the other cheek, brought me down through the rafters.  I began to sob and he was there with me, cooing in my ear, pressing against my hot skin with his big, lead hand.  He made apologetic sounds, but never said the words.  I didn’t want him to.  He was there with me in my sadness, my bareness.

“C’mere,” he said and pulled me up to the pillows and put me in his nook as I shook with sobs.  He stroked me gently for a moment then said, “Ok, we’re not done.”  I lay limply, yet complcit beside him, and helped him to roll me over to my belly.  He wedged my knees apart roughly and sunk deep inside of me.

“Is this what you want, you little slut?” he growled into my ear.  His hips jack-hammered into me, his hands pinned my wrists to the mattress, my wet hair matted to my face.  He bit my shoulder, scratched his clawed hand down my back.

I felt the tip of his cock in my throat shove organs aside.  Orgasm bloomed through me and I held my breath as I heard him grunt and pound above me.  He wrapped my hair around his fist and he lifted my face off the sheet.  “Say you love it,” he said between gritted teeth.

I ignored him.

“Say. you. love. it.” he ground out again each word punctuated with an unforgiving thrust and a tug.

“I love it,” I breathed out.  “I love it, I love it, I love it.”  Each “it” truly a “you.”

My pussy squelched and cried her juices, my bottom was slick with sweat from where we joined.  I was determined to be his rag fuck doll until he was either exhausted or came, whichever came first.

I felt him tense, heard his breath catch, and his tempo increased to a frightening whir.  He cried out and filled me with his magical cum, a smile on my face smashed into the mattress by his angry hand.

He collapsed on top of me then rolled off.  We lay there panting like two tired dogs in the desert sun.  I slowly rolled over and easily fit back into my nook.  My long, horrible day forgotten.  My silly little meltdown washed away in a burst of semen and one red bottom.

We admired the marks on me, kissed and cuddled.  I was myself again.  All bruised up.

He is my whipping boy.

He jumped up off the bed as he saw my anger rise. My voice was louder than I intended, my grip on my control slipping.

I stood up, too, not sure what he was doing, then he began to unbuckle his pants.

I rolled my eyes. I was not in the mood to play — not even remotely — I was close to the edge of no return.

He shook his head as if to shake me off. “I have something that will make you feel better.” He had done this to me, it was his fault for pushing, pushing, pushing me.

He pushed his jeans down past his hips, his underwear, too, and leaned on his elbows on the pile of clean laundry. “Go ahead. This will make you feel better. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

My breath caught as I looked at his bright white bottom, curved and muscular before me. I smacked him hard twice, but it hurt me more than it did him. I wondered aloud where my belt was, but he quickly removed his and handed it to me.

And as I thrashed his bottom I vented about the true object of my disdain and dislike. The Neighbor writhed and bucked, my voice a strange accompaniment to the sounds of leather on skin.

The red bloom was large and growing beneath my attentions. He was nearly trying to crawl away. So I stopped, said, “One more,” hit him harder than ever before and added to the male authority figure currently in my life, “And that’s for reminding me of my father.”

I drooped a little, confused. Both turned on, filled with love for him, and neatly exorcised.

TN had riled me up and offered his body as a vessel to demonstrate my anger to my demons both present and past.

I felt like one of those color-swirled marbles.

I caressed his rear end and pressed a cool Topo Chico bottle to the redness. He stood up and kissed me, gave me a big hug.

When he pulled away I saw his erection.

He shoved me roughly onto the pile of clothes, ripped my panties down and shoved himself inside. Peyton was watching TV on the other side of the locked bedroom door as I was getting pummeled from the inside, my anger wisping away like a blown out match.

Then it was done. My insides blooming, my chest heaving, my anger vanished.

The pile of laundry remained.
 

[Don’t forget today is the last day for Boobday submissions!]

He’s left his mark on me.

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This mark punctuated a long weekend of play, tears, and secrets revealed. We continue to grind on our arrangement: I am clear as a mountain lake, he is confused and murky.

He is a lost young man unable to figure us out because we are inexplicable to his own logic. We defy his long held conventions, yet he is stubbornly unwilling to let me go.

He may move away soon. Things will happen then. Big things, not little. We will either have to make a big effort to stay together or a big effort to end it.

I wish these marks on my bottom would last forever, like those already branding my heart. Like my memories.

I close my eyes and see the blur of his hand on his erection as my orgasm collapses down into me; I feel his cock deep inside of me and my orgasm folding in around us, washing over me like warm, sparkling bath water.

The handprint will fade, but the others are mine — always and forever — regardless of how this ends, clear or murky.

 

I get fucked for days.

photo
I bought some hyacinths the other day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

My eyes were heavy and my head stung; that irritating need to sleep pulled at me from a distance. The house was cleaned, the floors bare for him to do his chore, my room glowed with candles and I curled under my down comforter with a leg bent on top. He’d said 10 o’clock.

At 10 after 10, I sneaked under the blankets effectively hiding the curve of my thigh and my soft thigh-high socks. In addition to the sting of exhaustion, irritation joined the fray.

My eyes closed and I relaxed into the feathers. One spank for each minute, I thought. This is unacceptable. I contemplated calling off the night all together, but felt that would be more of a punishment for me than him. Spanks would have to suffice. And then a little torture.

At 10:13 he texted, “ETA 2 minutes.” I grinned at the thought of a nice round 15 lashes on his white bottom. I dared him to make it 20 and closed my eyes again willing my anger away.

When I opened my eyes 2 minutes later he was in my room, naked. I looked at him quietly and rolled over to face him. His expression was clear and open, curious as I observed him. “You said 10 o’clock,” I told him flatly.

He leaned over me, a hand on either side of me, “I went and worked out and –” I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“There’s only one thing I want to hear from you. I don’t care about any of that other stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Yes.”

“I’m very, very sorry, Ma’am.”

“I was on top of the covers waiting for you, but it got too cold.”

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

In the short time we’ve been exploring D/s I can’t quite figure him out. He is supple in my hands inside defined parameters, but occasionally he steps out and I am forced to step up. I assume this is the nature of D/s: he wants and needs to be corrected. And the more he steps out, I’m discovering, the easier it becomes to deal with the slight to my ego, my heart, my whatever because I have a fall-back system with which to deal with it: punishment, and an old standby: communication.

I am continually amazed by this dynamic, how safe it feels, how normal and natural. I routinely catch myself so languidly happy with “us” that I jerk awake and remind myself this isn’t entirely real, due to the nature of our relationship. It’s going to end in a non-traditional way and, most likely, come from left-fucking-field.

He pulled my shirt down to expose a breast and went for it with his mouth. “No, no, no,” I said stopping him with my hand on his face. “You haven’t earned the right to suck, yet.” His face fell.

Just then I stretched beneath him and noticed my sore legs from my earlier run. “Massage my leg,” I suggested. He jumped at the chance yo make amends.

He sat back and gripped my thigh with his hands and kneaded the skin. I moaned and closed my eyes. “Good, boy.”

For the next 10 minutes I writhed and moaned, and told him “harder,” “more,” and “do my knee again.” My bad mood sifted away like sands at high tide.

“I have a second part to your punishment,” I said, “but I can’t decide to do it before or after you vacuum.” He sighed audibly. “Do you want to go for 3 parts??” I asked incredulous.

His answer solved all the riddles. With my foot cradled in his hands and his face bathed in candlelight he said, “Maybe.”

That one word took me to a different sphere. He wanted me to discipline, to not back down, to demand he fall in line; he wanted to know where the invisible fence lay and feel the sting of the zap when he went beyond it. I was more than happy to fulfill his desire.

I pulled my pj shorts aside, licked my fingers, and flatly began to rub my flesh; my clit icy hot bulged like a little balloon. The Neighbor lay between my splayed legs and could only watch. I continued to stroke, letting him lick my fingers when necessary, my hand a little blur.

He kneeled between my legs, a question on his face. I looked down and his erection bobbed fiercely between us.

‘Ok, but just the tip,” I panted.

He eased himself in, even the tip big and filling. My fingers whizzed over my skin and I felt the orgasm gathering like a distant storm. With a devilish grin, his eyes locked on mine, he pushed in past the tip.

“You’re being very naughty,” I glared at him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied and pulled back further.

It was torture — pure motherfucking torture – to follow through on my directive, be consistent.

His little thrusts were more tantalizing, more sensual, more deliberate. He seemed utterly in control; I ached for him to plunge into me. “Ok,” I breathed finally, “You can go all the way in.”

He fell forward over me encasing me in his strawberry scent and kissed me as he squeezed fully into me… and held.

That hold, that pause, it’s the most magnificent part of sex. Better than cumming, better than sub-space/topping/swallowing/anything. It’s the moment my senses are alight and I am a nerve, a woman, human and pulsing. That thrust is everything.

He pulled back slowly and re-entered me, his lips soft and pliant on mine. He kissed my neck then and nibbled my shoulder as he thrust again, slowly. I grabbed his flanks and held him close again and with every ounce of self-control I could muster — I regained my position on top and pushed him away. “Assume the position, please,” I gently ordered.

My red leather belt made matching red marks on his lily white ass proffered to me like a virgin on the slab. He apologized for being late and for letting me get cold. Each loud smack was met with a grunt and an, “I’m sorry, Ma’am!” All my checked anger pooled in my cunt as I concentrated on hitting the same tender skin repeatedly; my arm felt like a sniper; my senses danced on pinpoints.

At 15 I kissed his red bottom and said, “Aren’t you glad you weren’t 16 minutes late?” and gave him the gift that he’d been begging to wear for 24 hours: The Oatmeal’s Hot Cock underpants.

He slipped them on, twirled about like a little boy with his new cowboy gear and went about cleaning my floors. I waited in my room, naked beneath the sheets.

When he was finished he peeled off the bright red shorts and climbed under the covers with me and I threaded my legs with his and nestled in his strawberry-patch chest. “I don’t know how you make strawberry so fucking sexy, but you do,” I murmured into his skin; his fingers traced lines on my arm.

I sat up then and threw the pillows off revealing black velcro wrist restraints that I’d gotten ready for him. He exclaimed happily and held still while I wrapped his wrists high where he couldn’t touch me. This was Part 3 of his punishment: a little torture.

I sat between his legs and kissed him and dragged my tender nipples along his thighs as I licked his shaft from balls to stern. He moaned and stretched beneath me and mumbled something ridiculous.

I crawled up his body and pushed the weight of my breasts into his face, not allowing my nipple to enter his mouth. He whimpered and rooted for one. He continued to babble despite my earlier warning to be quiet.

I pulled away abruptly and dug in my box of ties. “I warned you if you weren’t quiet I’d gag you. You’re much more appealing when you’re silent,” I said again. I tied a strip of green silk behind his head and, like a dutiful horse with a bit in his mouth, he was presented to me. He was magnificent.

Subdued, gloriously masculine for giving up his power and strength over me, muscled and broad, yet under my care and creativity. I was in total control by the look in his eyes. My heart raced and burst at the seams with love for him.

With the room nicely void of his musings I fell lustily on his cock, rabidly hard and impatient. I told him I was going to play with his beautiful little anus and that there was nothing he could do to stop me. He nodded.

I sucked and stroked with my mouth and hand and pushed tenderly at the pucker with my index finger. It flexed and withdrew from my touch like an anemone in the tide pools. I pushed gently in time with the motion of my head, never breaking the ring to his body.

I felt him begin to open beneath me, his passion taking him past embarrassment. I pulled away, stopped, dragged my breasts up to his face and pressed them into his eyes and against his closely shaven face.

He moaned and strained against the ties and I maneuvered a breast into a hand for a quick grab before I swung my left leg over him like I was mounting a saddle. I leaned forward to maneuver his cock inside of me, letting him see a wink of my own asshole. I sat back down, deeply, giving him a full view of my ample ass engulfing him.

He exclaimed around the gag as I moved slowly, exploring the sensation of his cock backwards inside of me. I moved faster and moaned uncontrollably. My chest and arms felt warm and heavy and I began to whimper when I heard a muffled, “Vibrator…” from behind me. I stopped and turned around. “Vibrator…” he said again.

I clicked it on and placed it on my tender skin. He twitched inside of me and I bucked against it as if scalded. I made noises I didn’t know I could make as the orgasm tore threw me and left me a quaking, shaking mess around his mischievous, twitching penis.

I pulled off of him, turned around and impaled my face on his erection and went back to his little ass-star. Happily, eagerly, and within seconds I felt him bear down on my finger. I slipped it just inside and pushed at the rim as I sucked.

As I felt him reopen to me I brought my breasts back to him, pausing my attention to his cock, and – finally – untied the gag. He suckled on my teats, greedy and ravenous.

I pulled away from his sweet mouth and returned to his delicious cock. He gasped and bucked as my finger went back to his hole and mouth continued to draw on him.

I heard velcro pop a little then, his sharp intake of breath, and held on as he arched into me spewing his seed into my hot little mouth. I tasted his tart, hot jizz and smiled around him. He shook and rattled to a stop and giggled and breathed jagged gulps of air.

I flopped down next to him and gently untied his hands. “Now your punishment is over.” We laughed and hugged each other.

He thanked me and kissed my temple. I lay in his arms for minutes more and we chatted about our night. “I love the three S’s”, he said, “Strawberries, sex, and submission.” I giggled and kissed his warm skin laced with sex and fruit. Then, it was time for him to go.

He tucked me in, thanked me for everything, and apologized again for being late.

“Thank you for saying that, but quite honestly, I’m glad you were late.”

“Me, too,” he said and left.

He kissed me and there we were.

Friday night Tina turned to her boyfriend, Chuckles, and their lips puckered and connected.  The girl with the faux-hawk behind them tossed a dirty look their way and I looked at The Neighbor surrounded by 20-somethings clad in ugly glasses, leather jackets, and skinny jeans, a mostly ignored Lone Star beer in his hand.  He was a rose in a field of grass.

“We can’t let them win,” he said and grabbed me and pulled me against his pea coat.  My lips parted in surprise as his icy blue eyes locked on mine and his own lips parted and came to crush down on mine.  He held me to him, his 5 o’clock shadow rough on my face.  The hum of the crowd disappeared under the cheers of my heart and the soft stroking of his warm tongue on my own.

I heard my friends gasp drunkenly behind me as they saw me embraced by the man they know I love, lost in the moment and shining like a fallen star among the ignorant hipster drunks trying to be cooler than their friends.

We pulled apart, but he kept me close.  I smiled and laughed like everything was normal, like I hadn’t just been molecularly modified by his lips on mine under the stars and many prying eyes.  Something shifted further away from safe and much closer to terror.

We’d spent a wonderful week together; night after night he came over after Peyton was in bed and we’d cuddle and kiss, fondle the warm fleshy bits and suck and nuzzle the protruding ones.   His cock lost its treasure to my hungry mouth as easily as my heart lost its treasure to him.  His warm, loving, incredible, sweet, smart, worried, supportive, sexy, funny self.

He has been supple under my steady hand and as I learn to exercise my dominance over him, subtle and consistent as it is, he bends and collects himself; self-corrects and shows a beauty I didn’t know a single man could possess. He catches himself and apologizes, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he’ll say with a tuck of his chin and a twinkle in his eye.  He’ll say it as many times as I require in front of anyone; it’s a secret code that only we know about.  To others, he’s being contrite, to me he’s being submissive and delectable.

Every night when the coast was clear I texted, “Come over.”  Moments later he would be in my room, stretched out on my bed with my hand on his fleecy chest.  He is a cat to the core: quirky in his solitude requirements, fiercely affectionate to those he trusts, demanding of attention on his private terms.  His words have spilled out, the most beautiful I have ever heard in my life.

“Hy, you are so fucking gorgeous.  I love your body.  You are so sexy,” he said to me Thursday night as we lay entwined after our first softball victory.  “I am so lucky.”  I cuddled into him, wishing I could stay there for hours.

“Thank you for saying that.  That means a lot to me.”

“Well, I mean it.”

It’s hard for me to imagine my life without him.  I know I am going to be devastated.  I can’t understand how he can be the best boyfriend I’ve never fucking had.  How is that even possible??  What kind of life was I living prior to not dating him?  Who was I choosing to love and spend my time with?  Even my ex-husband never made me feel so desirable, so smart, so special, so wanted and he pledged himself to me!

TN denies wanting me and yet… and yet none of that noise from his mouth matters to me right now.  What matters to me is that his bloody, beating heart is drawn to me and he is helpless to stop it and he has stopped trying to hide it.  From me, from anyone.  That kiss at the bar — in front of our friends — was more than just a kiss.  It was compliance, a real dip into submitting to what I want from him, love.

He loves me.  I am sure of it.  And it makes my heart burst with rainbows and glitter and all kinds of sparkly shit on the LUB and freeze and shiver and stop on the DUB.  But I’m used to it now.  Nothing will change — nothing has changed — but I feel loved now.  That’s fucking new.

Valentine’s Day found me busier than usual.  I had dinner with a friend of mine whom I don’t know super well (she dated my exhusband right after we split) and three other women I’d never met before, but it was lovely beyond words.  Roasted cauliflower, Brussels sprouts-stuffed pork tenderloin, kale salad, wine and cigarettes, connections made.

At 8:30 my phone lit up.  “What are you doing?” it read.  I texted him back that I was at a dinner party.  “When will you be back?”  I smiled and said around 10.  He liked that idea.

The wine flowed and the conversation improved by the minute.  At 10:30 my phone lit up again.  “Oh shit!” I told my dinner companions.  “I have to go!  I have to go get laid!”  They’d been curious about my arrangement with TN and I’d filled them in on the basics.  As I was getting sucked back into conversations my phone interrupted again, “I’m naked and in your bed.”  This time I was serious.

“Ok, ladies.  I’m so sorry, but I truly must leave.  I have a naked man in my bed.”  They all laughed and whistled at me as I ran through hugs and out the door.  What I hadn’t told them was he was following orders like a good boy.

I parked and flew up my stairs, tossed down my things and headed straight to my room.  Out of the darkness he said hello.  I felt blindly for him and he pulled back the covers and pulled me down to him for a kiss.  I lit a candle and undressed under his appraising eyes.

I preened and pushed out my breasts proudly.  “Before we start tonight,” I said quietly kneeling beside him, his hand resting on my bottom, “I owe you some spanks.”  He pretended to be surprised, but he’d known they were coming for days.  He got up and planted his feet on the floor and fell forward.

I cracked my red leather belt across the soft, round mounds of his bottom until he began to react.  Each flinch and stifled cry washed over me like bath water; his increasingly red bottom whet my core.

Instead of the promised 5, he got 35.  I needed to warm up with a few, then he was adorably impertinent, then I was just enjoying myself.  When I felt one more would be too much I stopped and kissed the warm skin, gently caressed his thick, muscular thighs.

I tied him up then sucked on his massive cock until he writhed helplessly beneath me, his hands bound above his head, and his semen spurting on the back of my throat.  When he’d stopped giggling and smiling, I crawled up to his face and carefully engulfed his nose and mouth with my cunt and gripped the iron bars of my headboard so as not to kill him with my passion.

I eased back down his torso and let his erection split me like a toothpick in a grape.  “Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” he moaned.

Eventually, I took pity on him and released his hands.  We tumbled and fucked.  I cried and let him spank me and pull my hair like a wild beast.  His cock twitched and throbbed inside me as the Hitachi did the work of 100 men and their talented tongues and he held me in his arms until I uncharacteristically fell asleep in them, tears drying on my cheeks.

As he opens up this beautiful, submissive side to me and I respond to it so viscerally and powerfully, I find myself in a strange predicament.  I am the embodiment of our very relationship: I am yes and I am no.  I want to feel this happiness and love, yet I am terrified of its abandonment and actually hate it a little like hating to comb out a tangle.  He’s such a terrible puppet, you know: he won’t do everything I want him to.  Just most of it.

I see the changes in him towards me, the love, but I want more.  The more I love him the more impossible I find it to not want more. I feel guilty and greedy and attempt to temper my wanton desires with reality, but I struggle.  He still refuses to sleep with me and when I boldly asked him one night his refusal was swift and permanent.

“But you slept with 4 am girl and your exgirlfriend all the time,” I said petulantly.

“That was different.  I was trying to have a different kind of relationship with them.  They were my girlfriend.

The words stole my breath away and I slunk down in the passenger seat wishing we were home already.  I couldn’t rally; I was crushed.

He tried to repair the matter with silly jokes, but I couldn’t pretend.  I solemnly climbed the stairs behind him, thanked him for a fun night and entered my apartment and had a small fit which might have included going back to the front door and slamming it as hard as I could.

In the morning I woke and asked to see him.  He came over immediately and I apologized for ending the night in a huff, but explained that my feelings were deeply  hurt by the fact that I’m not as special as fucking 4 am girl.  If ever I wished a D/s relationship could sway a person’s wants it would be with this.

“I don’t like sleeping with anyone, Hy and you’re looking at this all wrong.  You are so much more special to me than they ever were or will be.  I’ll still know you in 5 or 10 years and I don’t even talk to them anymore.  But I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.  I really am, but I promise you you are 100 times more special to me than they ever were.”

I told him his reasoning was bullshit, but that I would agree to believe his words for both our sakes.

It’s that reckless and random pain that awaits me whenever I want to close the gap between us that clutches at my throat on the DUB.  I cannot be without it.  I’d be an idiot to pretend it wasn’t there.  Even though we seem to have moved forward we are still in shadow.  Half my friends don’t know we are lovers, my family certainly has no idea I’m in love with someone new, and sweet Peyton only knows Mommy and TN are neighbors.

I’m happier than I’ve been in months, possibly even ever, but I am scared and sad, too.  I wish he’d kiss me in front of everyone all of the time.  Not just when the stars are out and the moon is bright, but in the light of day as a man in love should.  If, indeed, he really is a man in love.

I still love him.

photo
Spilling my guts in a coffee shop.

It’s happening again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him: But the water will drip down!

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

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

Me: Yes.  Good boy.  (SMACK!)

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

Him (smiling): Why?

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

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

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

Him: Yes Ma’am.

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

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

“I don’t think I like that idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

photo 1
Mine.

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

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

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

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

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

photo 3
Reflection.

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

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

I think I’m happy.

photo 5
I shamefully admit: this is my love.

I have happy dreams.

I looked up into the bleachers and saw him there, sitting patiently in the cool autumn weather waiting for me to hit the stage.  I was terrified and nervous.  My fellow talent show participant had rubbed my shoulders moments before and asked me what I was so afraid of.  I’d told her, “Well, this is pretty much my worst nightmare: performing a song whose words I don’t and a dance routine whose steps I also don’t know.”  I shrugged it off as I looked at him smiling back at me.  He was there with me.

I stretched out under fluffy covers and turned my head.  My eyes blinked open and he laid there on his side facing me.  “I just had a nice dream about you,” I said quietly, testing to see if he was awake.  He didn’t move.

I fluffed my pillow and sunk my head back into it, wondered if it was the one he’d “dedicated” to me all those long months ago during that magically hopeful day, and drifted off back to sleep, a smile on my face.

I’d come over the night before at 2 am after a long, cold night with friends huddled around a bonfire and a mass of goddamned hipsters with the sole intent to cuddle.

I pulled my hat down around my ears and tied my coat as I trudged up the stairs in the blistering cold.  I unlocked my door, but turned to knock on his.  He opened it smiling and pulled me inside.

I shook with a chill and he took my purse and phone and keys and set them on the coffee table.  He peeled off my jacket and hat.  As he slipped off my cardigan I noticed the house was spotless, candlelit and filled with spicy incense.  “Come on, you,” he said as he took my hand and led me to his bedroom.

Gone were the piles of clothes and tissues I’d noticed earlier in the day, the random chair.  Warm light flooded the space and his bed was turned down.  He swept his arm out in invitation before pushing me down on the bed and removing my boots, socks, and tights.  Still in my dress, I crawled under the covers and he quickly disrobed and joined me.

Nestled in his arms we talked about our nights and he pet my hair as I splayed my fingers through the pelt on his chest.  I removed the rest of my clothes and pressed my swells against his side, he trapped my icy feet between his warm thighs.

As I dozed off he excused himself to go play on his computer, said he might go to a coffee shop.  he was wide awake.  I drowsily wondered if he’d want me to leave, but fell asleep before I could do anything about it.  Some time later I felt him return to me and snuggle close.

When I awoke again later in the morning, we were facing each other again.  I closed my eyes and felt his hand reach for mine and place it on his erection.  It was hot and stiff.  We giggled conspiratorially as he coached me on the perfect handjob.  Soon, I gave up and fell on hit with my face.  Fuck that shit; it takes too long.

I lapped and slobbered and gripped and sucked until a distant pounding at the back of my skull forced me to stop.  “I think I have a hangover, TN.  I have to stop.  I’m so sorry.”  I’ve never stopped a blowjob before.

“It’s ok.  I have a plan B,” he said as he sat up and pushed me down.  He reared up between my legs and slid deep inside of me in one long thrust.  He stared into my eyes as I groaned and I peeked back up through my lashes.  “You like that??” he asked.

“Uh huh,” I moaned back.

We bucked and slammed into each other until my pussy squelched and I cried out for fear of death by pleasure.  I gripped the headboard and pushed with all my might against him.  His flanks pounded into me as my hands ran up his chest and across his shoulders.

He leaned back and swung my legs up together in front of me.  He rode me hard and swung his heavy hand on the softer undersides of my thighs.  With each thwack I cringed and almost screamed.  Pound, pound, pound.  Slap, slap, slap.

I could see him gazing at me through the gaps in my legs, helpless to move, dependent on him completely for my release and my salvation.  Warm climaxes washed over me and I sobbed dryly as he collapsed exhausted on top of me.

“I’m sorry I had to stop blowing you,” I said again, knowing he wasn’t really disappointed.

“I don’t care.  I love fucking you,” he replied.

We lay tangled in each other’s arms with blankets and sheets awry for a while longer until he suggested breakfast.  I wearily gathered my things and only just barely covered my nudity before jumping across to my doormat and my unlocked door.  I’d had a feeling I wouldn’t want to be fumbling with keys when I finally left his apartment.  I’m glad I’d thought ahead.

I am becoming a Domme.

Being dominant isn’t easy — I can’t even bring myself to capitalize the words for talking about myself.  It seems too self important, too damn cheesy. I’m a neophyte “Dominant”. I have no desire to truly put myself above another? Does that make me less dominant because my desire isn’t to be above, but in control of?

This new area of my psyche — and of The Neighbor’s — that we have begun to poke around in is wondrous and strange. Being dominant over him perfectly incorporates much of what has come naturally to me most of my life: leadership, caring, intuition, and control.

As a mother I have been in charge of a life and all its minutiae; as a woman raised in a relationship-centered culture I am intuitive and always anticipating someone’s needs and thoughts (thanks, sexist world, for that). My personality is bold and fearless, despite my attacks of ridiculous bashfulness and I’m creative to the bone; and control is the elusive thing I have yearned for in all my relationships, and knowing that it’s a parlor trick of heart and mind makes it even more tantalizing to me.  Like spraying myself in a cloud of perfume in the middle of a dump. I can pretend I’m somewhere else for a minute or hour or two.

We’ve gently explored our roles over the past few weeks and exhausted our brains talking about limits and expectations. I know his hard limits and I have been reading exhaustively what it means to be a “good Domme.”

I don’t want to humiliate him unduly. I want him to trust me, to give himself and his body over to me completely. I crave being needed, feeling important to him.

I’ve gently rebuked him when he pointed out the obvious, fearful I would miss it. He’d tried to squirm away from me when I placed a wedge of ice on his round, rosy bottom due to a pleasant belt-heavy punishment because he wouldn’t stop grossing me out about something.

“My jeans will get wet!” he’d protested. I held him down and smacked him smartly then blotted the wetness dry with a fluffy towel I’d spotted hanging over my foot board earlier.

“You need to trust me, TN. You need to understand that I will have thought of everything already, that I will take care of you before even you know you need it.  Unless being neglected is something you get off on, you need to understand that I also need to take care of you.” He sighed then and sunk deeper into my mattress as I let the ice melt more easily than his walls seem to be. But I am a patient woman.

Being dominant, to me, means I am in charge of this young man’s everything. His desire, his pleasure, his care, his pain, his fears. When I can meet his mistrust and dismantle it with a few softly spoken words and a kind, but firm hand, my heart soars.

He comes to me more and more with a twinkle in his eye, testing me, begging me to take the reins. I am growing more confident with each encounter and he is learning my limits and when we can switch. He forgives me when I stumble and I remind him how much power he has in this, yet NO isn’t an option anymore.  We’ve struggled with that one just a little.

Throughout our year-long plus affair he has wielded NO against me like an angry rider at an old nag. NO to this, NO to that. Sometimes with a polite thank you stapled onto it, sometimes cruelly applied, but he was like a child learning his rights and powers with grown ups and I went along with it. Until now.

I understand that NO for him is part of his emotional journey. A word that, until the last two years, was virtually absent from his vocabulary.  His childhood based in neglect and powerlessness forfeited him that basic human right to NO. He reclaimed it, abused me with it, and now I have gently demanded it back and he has willingly — trustingly — given it back to me.  I think he gets it.

I have asked to be the gentle keeper of his NO because it would destroy this delicate balance we are braiding together if he misuses it. His NO, claimed by him to thwart or challenge me, stops me dead and takes away all my dominance. It rocks me to the core in a more deeply intimate way than his regular nos did — those stung and stunk like shit, but they didn’t disembowel my ego.  I depend on his trust to go along with my demands in order to remain dominant in his presence.

We have a safeword, and he may use that, of course, but he may not tell me NO. He is beginning to understand his responsibility to me more, to the discourse between us. I’m not certain his former Domme explained any of this to him. They had a brief affair wherein she physically dominated him, certainly, but I’m unaware of the emotional dominance she demanded of him other than ordering him around.

She entered the playground an established Domme; she knew what she wanted and what she was doing and he deferred to her immediately and naturally. He’s seeing behind my velvet curtain, can see me struggle.  Maybe I have to work harder to gain his submission.  Hence the ban on NO.

Joy floods my heart when I know he’s baiting me so I’ll spank him and I feel balance when I redden his bottom and get to kiss it softly to make it better. Pushing my own limits to feel inside of his shell turns me inside out and inflames my desires for him; that he hands himself to me so willingly kick starts an engine in me I had no idea existed several weeks ago.

Then there are days, days like last week, when he clearly wanted to be in charge and I realized that I had power over that, too. I let him take it.

I gave it up and he took my foul mood and my soft body to bed and I emerged from the cocoon of my darkened room a little happier and a lot more centered.

It’s a process. I’m learning. I don’t always do it right.

A week and a half ago I wanted to exert some long-term control over him and therefore banned him from cumming unless I caused it. Ultimately, I’m tired of his hand stealing the pleasure of his jizz from us together, and I think it’s also an easy exercise to prove his loyalty to submission with me. He’d agreed, but slipped up two nights ago.

I frowned at him and spanked him once. “I’m not pleased, TN. For the love of God. All I want is your semen in my body. Somewhere. Is that too much to ask?? I don’t mind that it’s hard for you to cum, but do you think you could help me out a little bit? Keep your hands to yourself if you think there’s even the slightest chance we’ll fuck later?” He was silent, I was cross.

He looked down, ashamed. “I slipped up,” he said quietly.

“Ok. I need to think of a punishment for you. Lemme think, but you’re back on the No-Cumming regimen. Understood?” He nodded and went about with vacuuming my apartment, clad in a pair of my silky white panties trimmed in teal velvet and lace.

Eventually, he stripped out of my underpants and swung loose in front of the fire, vacuum in hand. I snapped pics and waited for him to finish. When he was done and flicked the machine off I said, “Ok, I know what your punishment is. You must clean your bathroom, rugs and everything. If you don’t, you aren’t allowed over here.”

He gasped. “Noooooooooooo!”

“No, really. I’m serious.” I’d promised myself I would not have my butt touch that toilet one more time in that condition.

“So, what if I never do it?” He was challenging my dominance and I had no smart, reasonable thing to counter with. I had stepped into the trap all parents know about: The Follow Through. I had laid out a consequence I was not actually willing to enforce and, just like a child, he immediately saw the weakness in my statement.

I’d overestimated him; I thought he’d play along like a grown up, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to be dominated, told what to do like a child. He needs a very firm, authoritative hand and I hadn’t quite realized it until that dreadful second I felt my power slip away.

Later, as he left that night, he twisted my nipples and sucked on the swells over my shirt, I hugged him close to me as my mind continued to search for a solution.  I didn’t feel good about our earlier exchange, but didn’t know what else to say. As the door clicked behind him and the cold draft dissipated around me it suddenly came to me.

I quickly pecked out the following text:

Let me start over with my newest demand. Erase the rewards and punishments we discussed from your brain. Just do as you’re told. You have until next Sunday to clean your bathroom, ok? I’ll review your efforts Monday night and respond accordingly.

His reply?

“Yes ma’am.”

Something is happening below my feet. It’s like the worms are wriggling and pushing the flowers up faster. TN is responding to this kind of care and love from me like a wilted houseplant. His attentions are more vibrant, more dependable, just more.

Laughter and fun — true Hyacinth fun — has therefore leaked into our dusty basement playground, as well. A bright, 4×4 beam-sized ray of sunshine slicing through the cobwebs and depravity. You see, it all comes down to humping.

It’s a dirty little secret of mine: I hump those I love.

I used to bite them back in college. I had a girlfriend once — a girl I didn’t particularly love — once have her feelings hurt because I’d bitten her two roommates, but not her. I show my affections in strange ways.

These days, I only hump. I humped my first love and second, and I’ve humped most of my girlfriends whom I love. In recent days, I’ve begun to hump TN – like a crazed Chihuahua. He laughs hysterically and tears squeeze out of my own eyes as my loud laughter joins his. It’s bizarre and ridiculous and fucking funny, y’all. What am I doing humping grown people anyway??

So, it was a sweet surprise when he started requesting it from me and doing it to me in turn. He’d lay on the floor and beckon to me, beg me to hump him. And just last night, as he was reluctantly leaving me and my sore throat, he came back to my bed, climbed on top of me and gyrated.

When he stopped, he just rested there, sunk down into my neck and hugged me tight. I squeezed and patted him back, smiling into his warm skin.

I may have been wrong about everything.

Maybe he really does love me after all — in his own way — I may have more of his heart than any woman may ever.

This could have something to do with him feeling safer with me under the constraints of a D/s relationship or maybe it has something to do with almost getting dumped by me again last week. A man’s realization of how close he’d come to his own death is a powerful thing and certainly requires changes.

He pledged his faithfulness to me that night of the almost-breakup. “I will be faithful to you, Hy, I promise. I will tell you before I look for another woman.” He remained non-committal, otherwise, but that pledge evaporated the crazy inside of me that was beginning to build.

“Hy, I’m not looking to date anyone right now. I can’t. I don’t want to lose this.” It was a sobering and comforting thought. After sacrificing love and commitment in order to keep doing this with him, it’s nice knowing he’s also sacrificing something. I feel like we’re more evenly matched and I feel more powerful, more worthy of dominating him.

He claimed that I do, indeed, receive love “of a certain kind.” I will cede this point to him. I do.

I’m holding my breath and waiting for the colossal sucker-punch waiting for me now that my defenses are lowering by the hour and my heart has opened more, instead of shutting down like it was supposed to. I thought the seasons were changing into something entirely different from this. I thought it was ending, but, like the coming spring, it’s blossoming into something new altogether. Fuck me.

photo 2
My heart, my universe.

I bruised my hand from spanking.

Wine glass in hand I lay on Tina’s bed.  She was touching up the paint on her toes and we were talking life, love, and threesomes.  My phone chimed.

“It’s The Neighbor, isn’t it?”

I picked it up.  “Yep,” I said smiling.  It was his cock.

He knew I was over there.  I’d asked him to send me a cock pic earlier and he’d asked for a minute or two to clean up from the gym.  I’d told him, “Good boy,” and sent him a picture of my cleavage with Tina’s cool hand in the cleft.

“Jesus Christ,” he’d texted.  “I appreciate you so much.  I’ll be home in a few minutes, unless I crash while looking at that picture in which case I will die smiling.”

TN has been body-snatched, y’all.

“I’ll be home soon,” I’d replied.  “Leave your door unlocked.  What a sweet boy.”

Fifteen minutes later he sent the perfect Bat Signal: the image of him buck-ass naked holding his giant erection.

My response was immediate to him.  “Wow. Got the pic.  Leaving this second.”  I turned to Tina.  “I gotta go,” I told her laughing.

“Yeah, you do. Damn, that guy has it bad for you.  What the hell did he say to you just now?”

Nothing,” I smirked.

He answered the door glowing white and naked and let me in.  I walked back to his bed and sat down, but he begged me to get up.  He still hasn’t been able to stabilize it since we broke it last week.  “Just go next door.  I’ll be right there.  I promise.”

I complied and no sooner had I hung up my purse and things than he walked through the door, sadly clothed.  We sat on the couch and found each other with our mouths.  My hands ran up his shorts and found his arousal.  I peeled off my sweater and glowed under his appraising eyes.  I have never felt more beautiful with this man than I have in the past 48 hours.

I sucked and kneaded and kissed and nibbled.  He sucked and kneaded and kissed and nibbled.  “Lets go in your room,” he said.

He unzipped my boots with his teeth and tossed them on the floor with a laugh.  I was in black lace panties and knee-high socks with white stripes at the top.  “Jesus Christ, you’re hot,” he moaned and fell on top of me, crushed me with his mouth and muscles and warm, creamy skin.

“I want to turn your lily-white ass red,” I moaned back.

He stopped short then kept kissing me, dipping into my mouth and looking into my eyes.  I stared back at him, bold and unafraid of my own passion.  “Yes.  Get on your belly.”

He rolled off of me and lay quietly below me.  I spread his knees and positioned myself between them and struck his right buttock.  Hard. “What do you want to tell me if you’ve had enough?” I asked him, too shy to say “safeword.”

“You mean a safeword??”

“Yes.  I’m going to hurt you, but I’m no sadist.  You have all the control here.  What’s your word?”

“Kiwi.”

“Good.  Thank you,” I said and cracked my hand down on his right flank.  I struck and wailed and rained my hand down upon him.  He writhed and tried to crawl away from me.  I wrapped my arm beneath his hips and pulled him back to me.  Asked him if I ever tried to get away from him?

I pressed my thighs into his and kissed his inflamed skin, crooned to him, told him he was a good boy.  I told him how hot he was.

He whimpered and tried to curl up with each blow, but it took no effort for me to pull him closer back to me, to my warmth and love.

I concentrated on one space of his canvas only occasionally breaking to the left.  My hand stung and my pussy dripped.  I felt time freeze and my heart swell outside of my body.  I could see every hair on his body and smell his pleasure and his fear and his contentment like fresh-baked cookies.

I paused as he laughed and cried into the mattress.  I felt a strange kind of remorse for what I’d done, but also a sick sense of pride.  I needed to care of him.  “I’ll be right back,” I told him.  “Don’t move, honey.”

I ran and grabbed an ice-cube and returned to the glowing ember of his ass.  He started when I put the cool rock on his skin, but relaxed as it slid beneath my palm.   As the water ran down his hips and between his buttocks I caressed the heat and pressed my lips to him.

“Is that better?” I whispered against his bottom and kissed it tenderly.

“Yes,” he answered and then my hand cracked down on the wet spot.

I fondled his soft cock and gently tugged on his balls as I brought the heat back to his backside, then slid my hand to his crack and pressed at the little starfish in the center.  He tried to retreat.  “I won’t hurt you.  It’s ok.”

“But what if I’m dirty?”  he worried.

“You’re not dirty.  Your ass is beautiful and I want it.  Come here,” and I pulled him back to me and spread his knees further.  “Arch your back,” I said softly.  He arched and I pressed just one slender finger inside of him.  He was so tight I felt my own center quicken.  Oh, how I wished I had a cock to slip deep inside of him, all the way to my hips, to feel him tight around me and writhing.   Men are so lucky.

I felt for the invisible scar on his lower back with my free hand and kissed its raised skin, wishing all the reasons it was there never existed.  My poor friend.  He never deserved any of that.  My breasts pressed into his soft ass.

I barely wiggled around inside of him, only one knuckle, and continued to spank him.  I was afraid of going too far with my fragile new toy; my finger one little thread holding the beautiful puppet before me.

“I want to leave a mark on you, like you do me.” I told him.

“Do it,” he agreed.  “Let’s see how you’re doing so far.”  I let him get up and he swung his bottom into the light of the bathroom.  There were broken capillaries, but no deep, blooming welts like he leaves on me.  With a quick hand I struck him again.  He winced, but remained still.

My hand stung and throbbed and I suddenly knew we were done.  I couldn’t think straight, my memory of minutes before was blurry.  I’m not even sure I have the lead up to this right.  I could be writing complete fiction.

I next remember laying with him and him asking me, “When did this happen, Hy?  I didn’t know you had this in you.”

I thought for a second.  “It’s always been there, but this trust you give me, it sets it free.  It’s so hot, so beautiful.  It turns me on so much. You have no idea.  Do you like it??”  Suddenly I was unsure, worried I’d hurt him, terrified him.

“Yes,” he answered.  Maybe he said he loved it or thought it was fucking hot.  Again, I can’t remember, my brain was scrambled and I still can’t sort it all out.

He stroked me, kissed me, touched me, dipped his fingers inside and exclaimed at my wetness.  He started to slam his hand inside of me and a climax came up and washed over me and right out my pulsing hole, a river of emotion and arousal bounding down a mountainside of flesh.

Then he pulled me into his arms and held me and kissed me tenderly.  “Do you ever have to think about it when you spank me?” I asked him.  “Does it come naturally to you?  You’re not just doing that for my sake, are you?”

“No, not at all.  I love it.  It just happens to me, too.”

He rolled into me and spooned me warmly, wrapped his arm around me and squeezed and kissed my neck.  I began to talk gibberish and found myself awakening in mid-sentence as I struggled to maintain consciousness.  He giggled at me and I flushed at my own vulnerability — the only thing worse would be to be caught drooling in my sleep.

He rose then and tucked me in.  I muttered something — incoherent, perhaps — and I’d like to think he kissed me somewhere before leaving saying he’d lock the door behind him, but I don’t remember.  I was already fast asleep, my hand scalded and bruised from abuse.

photo(4)
I will never shake hands cavalierly again.