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 had to cum first.

 

Hy teases IG

I shared this on Instagram earlier this week with promises of more to see.

I have been unbelievably busy the last 3 weeks.  Not only were there the obvious holiday reasons, but I’ve also been doing some freelance work on the side.  It’s eaten up every spare moment I have and contorted my body into rare and awful positions to the point that I just cannot bare to sit in front of the computer for one second more.

But some of that is behind me, thankfully.

Today is Friday and tomorrow a friend from back home arrives all pretty and golden and filled with smiles just for me.  We’re going to drink and talk and hug and go out and I’m going to try to figure out what to do in my hopping hipster town as [basically] 40 year olds.  We’ll likely get all dolled up and hide it all under puffy jackets and scarves, then brave the cold only to sit in a thumping club and laugh at how we’re the oldest birds around.

I’m excited!

I’m also drowning in housework.  You should see my couch right now.  No, really.

Hy bares her tits

No more teasing.

The Neighbor made the mistake of leaning against the mountainous pile of laundry I have resting there last night and the peak toppled like a little avalanche.  He laughed.  I grimaced a little.

I was in Peyton’s room perusing Instagram when he came in; my baby was asleep with my belly as a pillow.  He sneaked into the room and when Peyton roused a little he said, “Hi, Peyton,” and then helped me slip out from under.

On the couch, I was overwhelmed with love.  A strange sensation, frankly, considering the ups and downs of last year, but lately I’ve hit a groove with him.  I have refocused my attentions on myself, my baby, my career, my bank account, and my health and with that inward focus, he has come to me.  And when he closes the distance I feel calm.

I rubbed his thighs and sipped mint tea; he shared his day.  And then I realized that I felt something.  An old familiar “something” that hasn’t been with me in some time.  I wanted him.  I was aroused.

“Come on,” I said as I stood and held out my hand.  “Let’s go lay down.”

In my room, with the door locked we laid down and cuddled a bit.  I had him slip off his jeans and give me his butt nook.  Oh, the delectable delights his big booty gives me, pooched into the cradle of my hips, my hand on his hip and fondling the large package beneath his underpants.  Heaven above, it’s glorious.  Like cake.

We lay like that for some time before he began to swell in my hand.  I pushed him onto his back and realized that somehow the conversation had meandered to transgressive talk, dirty fantasies.  His cock had swollen more.

“I guess my penis likes crazy shit,” he said with a shy smile.  “Tell me more.”

And I did.  I talked about selling my panties to pervy panty sniffers*, of men who call customer care people just to jerk off, of women who love to piss all over their slave boys.  I talked about husbands who pine for a cuckold life and of boyfriends whose girlfriends are size queens who get off on humiliating them.  Anything that grazed the edge of my imagination I yanked it in and gave it voice.

As I spoke he pushed my hand away from the avid listener between his legs and began to pump, not slowly.  I tweaked and twisted his little nubbin nipples and watched him jerk and giggle all the while bent toward my voice and pumping his cock.

“Wait,” I said overcome with a great idea.  “I want to cum, but I won’t until you do.”  I rolled off the bed and ran to my bathroom to grab something I knew would help.

Hy rolls around in bed

I don’t actually sleep with my socks on.

“Here.”  I opened my palm to show two tiny little hair claws, their little teeth lined up next to each other and closed tight like a clam.  He groaned, as I got everything in order: the Hitachi, the removal of his clothing, the positioning of our bodies.  The last thing I did while lying beside him, breathing heavily, was to pinch his little areolas and feed the hair clips’ jaws.

He hissed as I turned on the Hitachi.  I lay on my side, my left breast pinched with my left hand, my right pressed the head of the wand to my mound.  I wasn’t talking anymore, but it wasn’t necessary.

I stared at the blurry arc of his hand, the rapid rise and fall of his chest with the little tortoise-shell devices clinging to him like barnacles, and I listened to his breath catch, his voice break and body twitch.

He was about to cum in under a minute.

My own orgasm bore down on me as if to say, Fuck this, he’s not beating me! and as he began to cry out and spurt hot, thick jizz into his bellybutton I cried out, too.  I floated on the sounds of our release and convulsed from my core.

Before I could stop him, the tiny jaws had been removed.

“Hey!” I protested.  “What are you doing?  I didn’t say you could take them off!”

Ever the petulant one he pointed out that I’d made no clear distinction as to how long he had to wear them.

Instead of being mad, I saw his defiance as a perfect opportunity for punishment at a later date.  “You’re going to pay for that,” I told him, still thick with orgasm, “but another day.  Right now, I’m going to cum again.”

As I turned the vibrator on me again he latched onto a nipple and drew hard and I begged him to finger me.  Forty-five seconds later I screamed and arched my back and clamped his hand between my legs as if to suck him into me entirely.

We both laid there and panted like dogs who’d run through fields.  “That was all pretty fucking hot,” he said.

“Yep,” I breathed back, heart still pounding.  “It was.  Do you usually cum that fast?” I wondered.

“Nope.  Almost never,” he answered.  I smiled.

“Cool,” was all I said.  I was just happy that he came first.

Hy and her big, naked boobs

It’s time I got new pajamas.

 

[*Ed. Note: I mean pervy in the very best sense.  I’m not judging, it was part of the fantasy talk to call them perverts.  I’m sex-positive, remember?]

I realize I have no idea how to talk dirty.

So this is really an addendum to my earlier post. Jason is gone now. He left about 15 minutes ago. I came two more times after he left thinking about us going to a sex club and watching him fuck some chick doggy style while he had his fingers buried deep inside my clenching, soaking cunt.

He didn’t cum tonight and I’m wrestling with that. The good, horny woman in me says I failed. The logical, intellectual one is struggling to believe him when he says (and rightly so) that sex isn’t always about an orgasm. I hate it when I hear that bullshit from men even though it’s the very basis on which my own sexuality and sexual experiences are based. I don’t cum with men. Like, almost ever. I know it’s not all about orgasms. But it’s hard to shake a sense of failure when a man I’m with doesn’t cum.

Add to this the fact that I really, really, really tried. I love to suck cock. So this perceived failure of mine is lingering. I sucked his cock for minutes upon minutes using all my skill and determination until I finally asked if he could cum for me at all. He said he most definitely could and he grabbed his cock with his right hand and started to stroke while I fingered myself in front of him, soaked through my panties and filled my cupped palms with ejaculate then trickled it on his hand and shaft; suckled his ripe, warm balls; trailed my nipples along his thighs and around his pouch; and spit hot, sticky saliva on his head whenever he got dried out. And still nothing.

“I need you to talk dirty to me,” he finally says.

I froze.

I don’t know how to fucking talk dirty.

Not even a little bit.

I tried hard not to derail the moment with my severe discomfort. I told him I didn’t know how. I asked him for some guidance. His obtuse answer was, “I can’t tell you that. It has to be genuine. From you.” MOTHERFUCKER.

After I tried — and failed — at sex talk, Jason gave me a B- for effort. I whacked him and laughed and he gave up trying to masturbate to climax. I had said things that I was comfortable saying, recounted fantasies I had about him while I masturbated. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right.

“Look, Hyacinth, the thing is, is that you have to say things you think your partner wants to hear.”

“But I’ve never heard dirty talk outside of the typical catalog of ‘Oh, baby, your pussy feels so good,’ and ‘You’re such a good girl, Hyacinth, that’s right: a good girl.'”

I felt defeated and confused, slightly irritated, but also challenged.

He’d fucked me for 30 minutes in my room when he’d first come over, and then watched me use my vibe to finish myself off. Then we sat in front of my fire and I sat at his feet as he relaxed in the Fuck Chair occasionally stroking my hair or breast. He asked how I was and listened to all my stories. Then he started sharing stories about fucking a couple and other women and I found myself kneeling wedged between his spread knees, my lips hovering over his, our breath intermingling. This is how this whole mess got started. I thought we were connecting and then he asked me to perform outside my skill set.

I felt awful. Feel awful. But I’m also pissed. He used the example of the dirty talk he uses on me to illustrate that he says things to me he knows I’ll like (that he happens to enjoy, too). Like waiting for me in my parking lot for me to leave the house one day and then without a word just backing me back into my apartment to fuck me then leave me. His point was that his talk was catered to me.

But, I now realize after having had some space and solitude to mull it over, I’m transparent. I’m open and forthright and clear as a mountain stream when it comes to my motivations. This man is not. He’s opaque, like a fogged bathroom mirror. How was I supposed to know that me describing group sex with another woman and my mouth buried in her musky, delicious cunt wouldn’t turn him on? Most men would blow their wad in a second to hear a woman utter those words, words that he himself might whisper to himself while he’s got cock in hand.

Jason, however, is different. But I guess I knew that.

Eventually I gave up the discussion and just lay on my back, staring at the ceiling processing things. He stood over me, stroking my face. “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll figure it out.” And he rained kisses down on me knowing I was struggling.

I got up and kissed him, his arms wrapped tightly around my terrycloth robe. “You’re not mopey are you?” he asks.

“No, not at all. I’m just dazed. I’m horny, I’m tired, I’m confused. But I’m not mopey, I swear.” And truly, I wasn’t, but I was irritated that he thought so.

When the door shut behind him, the cold air striking my damp crotch, I made a bee line for my room and my Hitachi, and that’s when I let myself get inside his head; I was horny and irritated, lustful and confused. I have to say… not a bad list of things to be feeling. My orgasms were huge. Or maybe it was more to do with trying to please him (even after he’d gone). Maybe I’m more submissive than I knew. I imagined what he’d want to hear (like a good girl). His hand. Deep inside my pussy. My naked body witness to his impaling another. My desires his desires now. I think I get it now. I think.

What’s good dirty talk to you??