I couldn’t help but laugh at the man wrapped in only a white towel glaring at me in my entryway. Apparently, Downstairs Neighbor, upon being rushed out of my apartment because I was about to get the shit fucked out of me, had hidden behind the corner and when The Neighbor had single-mindedly tried to span the 5 feet between our doors he’d leaped out and scared the shit out of him. A cat might also have run outside in all the commotion of TN’s glares and DN’s booming laughter.
“Oh, TN!” I laughed putting my hand on his stubbly cheek, the door tightly shut and locked behind us. “Don’t be mad!! He had no idea you’d be naked!!” He leveled a gaze at me that made me giggle some more as if I’d conspired with DN to humiliate him!
I laughed some more, just simply couldn’t help it, frankly.
I kissed his cheek and hugged his stiff body and to prove his “anger” he let the towel drop and his erection bobbed heavily between us. I grabbed it and whispered against his mouth, “I swear, DN had no idea you’d be in a towel! It was just a joke!”
He melted against me with a grin and took my hand, led me back to my candlelit room. “Ok,” he finally said still smiling and pulled me closer.
He bent his hand and slanted his mouth across mine, long, soft and sweet surrounded by sandpaper whiskers. I moaned a little as he removed my cardigan.
“You look so hot in this dress,” he said taking a breath. I swelled with pride. My yellow dress, theyellow dress. It always does me right.
He dipped his head back down to the top of my cleavage and I closed my eyes as his scruff left red blooms on my skin.
He returned to my lips and I breathed him in, lost in my love. Our fingers explored the dips and swells of our figures, my face nibbling on his.
He pushed the little straps off my shoulders and the top of my dress pooled around my waist. My breasts filled his hands and mouth and we laughed when I needed help pulling the dress back up and over my double Ds.
He grabbed my white cotton panties and tore them off. “Leave the boots on,” he said lustily and shoved me down on the bed.
I sighed as he entered me and pulled my bottom to the edge of the bed. My knee-high brown leather riding boots framed his face and he turned into one calf and kissed it. I could hear him smell the leather.
His cock was enormous and I was wet as fuck. He leaned down and kissed me and I stared boldly up at him then shut my eyes as he slowly stroked my body with his.
I thought of the strict orders he’d received from his physical therapist to not do any vigorous fucking for a while and groaned. “Don’t hurt yourself, TN,” I warned as I felt his tempo increase. “If you do, you’ll be in big trouble.” I panted the words in time with his thrusts. He only smiled mischievously at me and kept at it.
I tossed my head from side to side as it all began to feel more like torture. An exquisite, stupidly hot and wet, torture.
He seemed to sense my agony and lifted me up fully onto the bed and positioned himself between my legs. For a quick 30 seconds he pumped like horny stray dog into me and I came just as rapidly; little bursts strung together by moans, grabbed skin, and warm breath on my neck.
He stopped then, panting. “Damn you,” I admonished. “I’m all vibe-y. Are you ok?” I shook my hands like little helicopters.
“Yes, I’m ok,” he said. “And that reminds me…” he leaned over, still inside of me, and grabbed my Hitachi. “Here you go.” He flicked it on and lay beside me with my legs over his hips.
It took forever and a day for me to spill over, but with the struggle came the reward: his words, his mouth; he stroked my temple and told me what a good girl I was. And then we cuddled and loved and talked and I dozed stupidly for minutes on end.
Then he kissed me again and squeezed me, tucked me in, loved on Faisal who’s claimed him for his own, and left quietly.
The next morning I awoke naked and in a sunbeam, my body sore in all the right places. My boots lay in a heap on the floor next to my white panties, the vibrator lay like a bone a couple of feet away and my pretty yellow dress hung draped over the foot of my bed.
My wonderful, lucky, get-laid-every-time yellow dress. Thank you, Old Navy.
I dream about sharing my feelings with him and it’s a long, terrifying jump to crystal blue waters below, that feeling of my breath being stolen on the way down, the slap of wetness beneath my feet, the subsequent rush and rise to the top.
In true 7th grade fashion, I admitted to him that I like him “a whole lot.” You might be rolling your eyes at that, but it was a big deal to me.
And I invited him to spend Thanksgiving with my family on the wings of a prayer and when he said Yes I felt as though I’d won the lottery. I feel blessed, y’all.
But my lips remain sealed. I cannot say the words that boom in my heart. Those three silly little words.
I’m waiting for something. For the universe to tell me I can handle losing him. For that moment when he looks back into my tear-filled blue eyes and says, “But I don’t love you, Hy. This is just a ‘thing’ we’re doing. I’m not going to love you. You knew that.”
When I feel strong enough to weather that, my words will tumble.
But in the meantime, I float along among the clouds anchored by his mighty cock, his sweet gestures, his wise words. He roots me on every professional step I take and supports me as I navigate my tangled and painful relationship with my exhusband. He is my number one fan.
The rest of our lives is business as usual as I keep my secret. I send him a daily pic and sometimes a series if I’m feeling particularly inspired and have the freedom and privacy to do so. The weather is turning here and I recently wore jeans for the first time in months. They were a little loose, but I felt sexy and began to snap away.
Click, click, clickity-click.
I strip-teased my way down to unzipped pants and exposed breasts. He was happy to receive them.
A day or two later, I dug out my red panties with the peek-a-boo hole tied with a thick, shiny ribbon. I was curious as to what the view was like and twisted and craned my body this way and that to capture a from-behind view.
Click, click, click.
I was pleased and sent those off, too. Again, he was grateful.
Days changed into nights, cuddles turned into sweet talks, expectations morphed into reality. We tangled our parts less than our hearts. It was sweet, fairy dust; glittery longing with no release.
Finally, finally, we carved out some time to lay down inside one another. Peyton was passed out and The Neighbor was over within seconds of my “all clear” text standing in my candlelit room in black gym shorts. I wore a black spaghetti strap night dress with little sprigs of flowers dusted all over it.
We stood facing each other and he took my hand and pulled me closer, dipped his chin and captured my mouth in a long, sweet song of a kiss. I breathed him in, he inhaled me.
I ran my fingers through his hair and he clung to my bottom and pulled me towards the cradle of his hips. I felt his hardness through the thin cotton of my nightgown; my right strap slipped off my shoulder and I pulled my arm out and let my breast fall out.
We moaned into each other’s mouths and I melted into his warm skin. Every cell of my being sang of love, my pussy pulsed and my breath caught as I realized we were beginning to make love to each other.
He pulled back, breathing heavily, “We haven’t kissed like that in a long time,” he observed.
“No, we haven’t,” I agreed, though I’d argue it was closer to never.
I looked into his eyes shrouded in shadow and then his parted lips and reached forward with my own and sucked gently and slipped my soft tongue to meet his. He removed my remaining strap and I stood only in black, lace panties, then he groaned and bent to free himself from his shorts.
He pushed me down on the bed and dragged my bottom to the edge, licked his palm and rubbed it on the head of his giant erection. He positioned himself at my hole and pressed into me. Nothing happened.
Our eyes locked as we both smiled slyly knowing his first push was always the best, my favorite of favorites.
He pushed harder and I began to spread for him. I gasped a little and smiled more broadly. His mouth mirrored mine and then my eyes fluttered shut as the head entered my body completely and the rest of him eased in as if my body were a hungry constrictor.
He kissed me hungrily as his hips began to move, my body completely lubricated. “You’re not wet at all,” he joked huskily in my ear.
“Nope,” I whispered back with a chuckle, “not at all.”
He kissed my neck and my jaw and sat up and pumped into me, his hands braced on either side of me. Each punishing thrust made my breasts jiggle like bowl-shaped domes of Jell-O.
“Turn over,” he said suddenly. “Flip onto your belly.”
I did as instructed, my feet planted firmly on the ground and he slipped back into me.
“Tell me what you see,” I said thinking of my red-panty pics.
“I see my favorite thing: your beautiful body, your curves, this,” and he ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “It’s total perfection.”
I closed my eyes and let him plow into me and light me up from the inside. My heart sparkled in time with my G-spot, our skin slapped and our moans mingled.
We moved up onto the bed completely and he pinned my knees together as he rutted on top of me, grabbed my top-knot bun and growled into my ear and struck my flanks once, twice, three times.
I lost time, wanted to be somewhere else and nowhere else. Then we were spent.
“C’mere,” I heard him as if from far away.
He pulled me into his nook and I lay there feeling more satisfied than I had in days, recalibrated. My thoughts felt like warm honey, my bones willow branches.
“Let’s go out on the balcony,” I suggested. It was in the low 60s, a rarity in September here. We dressed in white robes, him in a long Egyptian-cotton shin-length thing with my name, “Hyacinth,” embroidered on the lapel (a bridal party gift of mine from years ago) and me in a little short white one.
And there, on a balcony chair cushion beneath my knees and the breeze caressing us both, I sucked and loved on his cock, his knees splayed wide and confidently in that way that men do.
It had been weeks since I’d spent any time on him and I was ashamed. I apologized and he told me it wasn’t necessary. I answered with more sucking and smiled around his girth.
Eventually, he called me off, said he’d gotten a little too sensitive. We walked back into my room and shed our robes and laid down beside one another, the ceiling fan puffed gently on us.
The night was still young so I rolled to my side and grabbed the vibrator, flicked it on and pressed it to my bare mound. TN kissed my neck and jaw, sucked on my lips and my nipple. I climbed the rise quickly and as his mouth returned to mine I began to splinter.
He caught my orgasm in his mouth as I whimpered and gasped into him.
I fell limp and he pulled me to him as he rolled onto his back. I surprised him when I grabbed his chubby cock with one hand and turned the vibrator back on while on my side.
It was a swift ride with my ear pressed to his chest as it rose and fell quickly; his cock grew in my hand as my orgasm approached, spilled out onto us and faded away.
In his arms I thanked him for saying all those nice things about me as he was fucking me. He said it was nothing, that he loved the pictures I sent him. “I think it’s especially sexy when there are things left to the imagination.”
“Really?” I said, dancing on the edge of a doze.
“Yeah, like that one in the series you sent me the other day where your pants were unzipped but your bra still on. That was damn sexy, by far my favorite of the bunch.”
I perked up a little at that, proud and pleased in equal measure.
“Well, I’m glad. I try to be sexy and not just raunchy.”
“You do a good job,” he affirmed.
I mumbled something into the warmth of his skin, wrapped in love and kisses and compliments and told him again how much I liked him. He squeezed me and said he had to go soon.
I don’t know if loving him more will make me braver or more afraid, but as I’ve been told recently I need to act like the grown up and share my feelings and I agree. Just a few more nights like this one and I might feel brave enough to try.
“You ready?” He stood in my apartment, his gym bag over his shoulder. I was dressed in my work clothes still.
“Yeah, gimme a sec.”
He followed me back to my room and flopped down on the bed. Faisal jumped up to purr and meow and twist himself about The Neighbor. I peeled off my barely opaque white v-neck and my breasts bounced.
“Mmmm,” I heard from the bed. I flexed my abdomen and tried to push my insecurities away, focus on this man’s approval. I bent over to roll my skirt down over my hips and sucked in my stomach hoping the swell didn’t pooch out too much.
“That’s right baby, show me those tits.” He watched me beyond the end of the bed as if I were on stage; I clenched every core muscle I owned and stood up straight and smiled as I reached behind me to unhook my bra, trying to look nonchalant and confident. His eyes followed my every move as I tried to morph my body into that of a lithe dancer’s: arch my back, pull my shoulders back, face the audience, be lean and beautiful.
I gathered my workout clothes and scrunched up again to thread my legs into my leggings and cringed at how much I must seem the Michelin Man from the side. I imagined shaking it off, these thoughts invasive and cruel. Where was this coming from??
TN had stretched out on the bed and begun to absent-mindedly stroke his bulge. I tucked my breasts into the little shelf of a sports bra and said, “You know, I was about to jerk off when you knocked a minute ago.” I walked around to the side of the bed. ” There’s still time before class starts.”
The ugly voice inside my head was shouting at me, relentless. I felt awkward in my skin, undeserving, foolish for all of it. Orgasms can be my reprieve from such thoughts. TN didn’t spark them when he dropped by, he’d only walked into a snarling ant pit of self-loathing.
“Well, then let’s get going on that,” he replied as he watched me reach for my Hitachi.
I rested my knee on the mattress and planted my foot on the floor, my left arm straight and strong as I pressed the vibrating head to my crotch. Instantly I was on the magic carpet ride up, up, and up. TN had a front row seat to my cleavage cradled in white, an expanse of belly which I allowed to be whatever it was going to be — though I hoped it looked flat and muscular — and the swell of my hips encased in transparent Lululemon-like yoga pants.
He moaned a little and kept rubbing. I kept my eyes latched onto his hand, then I felt his free hand sweetly trace my breasts. “Is this ok?” he asked.
But it lasted only seconds.
Instead he pulled his shorts down and flopped out his erection, big and juicy before me. His hand began to whir and the sound of fap fap fap deliciously filled my ears. My ride was spiraling its way to the clouds, my lashes fluttered, I could see him staring at me as if I were a unicorn passing outside his window.
The orgasm shook me and just before it stole my breath I managed to whisper, “I’m gonna cum!” knowing it turned him on more than anything.
He quickly and neatly replaced his cock beneath his layers of clothes and pulled me into his arms. I hung on to his middle and laughed, waited a minute then pulled my shit together for the gym.
We worked out side by side, muscles bulged, faces red. I stared at myself in the mirror hating every goddamned music-pumping second of it. The orgasm relief had been fleeting — as I knew it would be — I was again beating myself down.
Other women in the class were athletic specimens, all narrow hips and beautifully wide shoulders, firm buttocks and roundly muscled arms. I was…. not.
I caught TN’s icy blue gaze on my cleavage in the mirror more than once, an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to protect me from myself. Yes, I thought, I have nice tits, but what about the rest of me?? I resigned myself to the Pig-Pen-cloud of low self-esteem and smiled wanly to the other class members as we put our weights away. I really just wanted to go home and lie down. Maybe die a little, hide under a rock, whatever.
When I get like this, seized by self-doubt and hate, I undoubtedly make a decision that will support this belief. That night, it was making Mac n’ Cheese out of a box for dinner — something I rarely eat, but will always make me feel at once comforted and like a complete failure. I ate 2/3 of the box in bed while watching The Taste, took a shower, and texted TN for our nightly cuddle. I wanted to skip it altogether, but he’d asked me to text him and so I did.
I lay there anxiously, tired, a pain pill shivering through my veins. I heard him snap his fingers through my darkened apartment and appear in my doorway. He removed the kitten, shut the door, turned out the overhead lights and flipped on the closet light for ambiance.
“What’s going on?” I asked, nervous, irritable, feeling like utter and complete shit.
“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, that’s what.” He came around the side of the bed and dropped his shorts. I reached out for his erection and it bobbed hot, thick, and clean in my palm. I chuckled half-heartedly and rolled away from him, my whiteness stark against the aubergine bedding.
“What are you doing?” he wondered aloud.
“Making you work for it,” I answered. He growled and pounced on me, wedged my knees apart and slid deep inside my body with one easy stroke. His clean strawberry dusted body thrust into my own vanilla scented one and we made a warm body dessert out of two naked people.
I clung to his hindquarters with my legs and wrapped my arms around his broad, fuzzy back; he grunted and kissed my neck and collar-bone. When he sat up to hitch my ankles on his shoulders I refused. My irritation and discomfort with my body had grown — my belly felt rounder — and suddenly, the fucking routine that went missionary-to-folded-in-half-to-orgasms seemed tired and only stoked my irritation.
I slipped my left leg between his knees and turned on my side. He held my right leg with his hand and nailed me to the headboard. I cringed when thoughts of Troy crowded my sad, addled brain — this had been a favorite position of ours. I quickly rotated again to my belly and I heard the soft smacking of our bodies on my bottom and Troy thankfully exited stage left.
From his new vantage point TN brought his free, lead hand down on my flank. Three excrutiating times. I cried out and went rigid, the sting down to my bone, and then I was granted a reprieve when he got a charlie horse and was forced to stop. We laughed at his misfortune and pulled apart.
I lay next to him and rubbed his massive hamstring chatting easily. I was waging a stupid little war with myself and decided to let him in on the secret; I felt shy and worried about opening up to him about my self-loathing and odd flash of low self-esteem.
“I feel really bad, TN. Like out of control. I don’t like the way I look all of a sudden. I hate feeling like this. I feel so stupid and dumb.”
He crooned to me and pulled me into his arms and tried to rationalize my irrational behavior. “Maybe you think you’re fatter than you are because your tits are so big,” he suggested not unhelpfully.
“Maybe…” I murmured.
“Hy, you’re very sexy and I think you’re extremely beautiful: your tits, your ass, especially your face.” I flushed at the compliments and with shame for needing to hear the words.
I thanked him and took a deep breath to embolden me to open up more. “So, there’s something else.” I heard him hold his breath a little. “When I’m in this kind of mood — feeling down on myself — what I really want is for you to throw me around. But,” and his low timbre joined mine perfectly, “I/you don’t know how to let you/me know that’s what I/you want.”
“Right,” I nodded into his chest.
“Well,” he said sitting up quickly. “Telling me to work for it is kind of perfect.”
He grabbed my wrists and I said quietly, “Work for it,” and held his gaze.
He repositioned himself between my legs and I tried to wriggle away, but he had me pinned. I was tired, yet thrilled at this little game before he had to leave and before I passed the fuck out under that rock I’d been pining after earlier.
He slammed into me, stroked me from the inside and nuzzled my neck, gripped my wrists like he was hanging over a cliff and I came once then twice with big, round blooms of pleasure. It was fast and fierce. Perfect.
He pulled out abruptly and I lay there bathed in light from the closet, my thighs rested on the tops of his as he sat on his heels. He ran his hands up from my hip bones to my ribcage and across the soft, mostly-flat plane of my belly. He groaned approval and apologized that he had to go. I nodded assent and assured him I was ready for him to leave.
He came around the side of the bed and wrapped his hand around my throat, tilted my head back as if to give me mouth-to-mouth and gently suckled my lips, his tongue soft and pliant while his hand gently squeezed — a kiss so unlike his usual hard, punishing, immobilizing goodbyes. I melted away into those lips of his surrounded by a little sea of scruff.
And just like that, for that magical moment, the cloud lifted and I felt a bright, shiny love on me, my idiocy be damned. “G’night, Hy,” he said as he left. “I’ll lock the door behind me.”
“Good night!” I called out after him and then whispered smiling, I love you, as I have begun to do nightly.
The terrible feelings about my body and my looks were there when I awoke the next day and I am still waiting for them to subside. I have committed to health, not looks, and I refuse to fall victim to the old bully of self-loathing. I love my body and what it can do; I love my tits, my hips, my little pot belly. I don’t know where this sucker punch has come from and I don’t know how long it will stay, but I’m going to do my goddamned damnedest to get rid of it. Fuck it to hell.
I’m hoping lots of cuddles and fucking are just what the PhD ordered.
“You look so hot right now,” he said looking down at me from between my calves. “You’re like a little sex package.”
His cock, buried deep inside of me twitched and then he pushed in deeper. I gasped and fluttered my eyes up at him. “I feel more like a sex pretzel,” I replied and pushed back against him from my grip on the headboard.
I couldn’t move. My ankles rested on his shoulders and his weight pinned my thighs to my breasts which tried to escape over my shoulders. I was folded in swells of my own flesh and pinned by the muscular density of a man on top of me.
I was in heaven.
He came home a couple of hours early Sunday and surprised me by waltzing into my apartment unannounced. My bed was stripped and under a pile of laundry. I wasn’t prepared to see him, but my heart jumped when he filled the doorway.
I went to give him a hug, but he suddenly dropped to the floor, looking around under my bed. “Where’s the kitten?” he asked. I stood there with my mouth a little open.
My breasts were heavy and free under my white t-shirt and my little pajama shorts clung to my thighs, but there he was. On the floor. Looking for the kitten I’d gotten the day he’d left. Never underestimate a man’s priorities and brain, I told myself.
Mirthful, I smiled. “Hey! Come give me a hug!” There was a gentle reprimand in my voice — you pay attention to the woman first, not the cat — and I still wobbled on the beam of our relationship happiness.
We hugged and caught up then, a little stilted at first. He told me of his adventures and I of mine; he apologized for not being in touch, but he thought I knew he had no cell reception. Quickly, I unzipped the stifling suit of resentment I’d been wearing, butt hurt at the lack of weekend communication, and stepped out into a light breeze of acceptance. We lay on one another and laughed and touched and sniffed lightly, like two long-separated and friendly dogs now.
He left soon after, exhausted. He thanked me for the cookies I’d left on his doorstep and gave me a kiss.
Late last night he returned, his hair rumpled from an early-evening nap. My bed was made, the house spotless this time. I was in bed watching Mad Men, Peyton slept soundly in the room across the hall, and a candle flickered messily in the corner. The kitten purred and zipped around at his arrival like an ill-working moped.
The Neighbor is like a magic trick for my day. He enters a room and my spirits lift, my heart pounds, the birds sing. Even when I am confused or angry his presence tilts my view from the trash on the ground to the light filtering through the treetops. Sometimes my fear of losing him and us closes in on me and I have to beat it off with a stick, other times I feel serene at the prospect of setting us both free. But he was there in my room last night, determined to be with me despite his exhaustion and my heart swelled, and I didn’t think of anything except welcoming him in.
He walked around to his side of the bed and I went and tucked the kitten up under my arm and joined him in the bed. The kitten, Faisal, was geeked up on the drug that is kittenhood and sped off. TN took the lack of feline distraction as an opportunity to latch onto my breast with his face.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I hadn’t been touched in 5 days. I’d forgotten myself. His absence was so gentle, so quiet. My time was wholly my own and in my own presence, I forgot my own pleasure. No child, no pseudo-boyfriend to keep me occupied. I could have spent the entire weekend with my hand lashed to my cunt and the idea never crossed my mind. Is Hyacinth horny when no man is around to fuck her? What a thought…
I closed my eyes and reveled in the sandpaper scratch of his face on my skin and pressed into his mouth. We tangled and grabbed, gripped and rubbed. Faisal was taken to his room so there would be no stalking of swinging balls.
When TN slid into me I felt like I was myself again: Hyacinth, fuckable, sensuous, wanted, devoured. When he is in me I feel like I am home.
His grunts were as loud as the squelching of my pussy, his words demanding and unapologetic. He pinned me down and pounded into me and my g-spot blossomed big and hard and I concentrated on spiraling it out to my fingertips.
I panted and rolled my eyes into the back of my head and he sat up and folded my legs against my chest and pistoned into me like a jack hammer. I cried out into my arm so as not to awaken my baby.
Soon, he stopped and drooped a little. “I hurt everywhere!” he cried with a laugh and rolled off and took me with him into his arms. His first attempt at snowboarding officially thwarted our usual sexual antics.
I smiled into his skin and retrieved the kitten. He purred and played with us until we settled down to watch Game of Thrones at which point he decided to attack a tinkling feather on the floor.
I felt two strong emotions laying there in his arms. Never one to be truly content for long periods of time, my brow furrowed in the darkness as I tried to put my finger on it, this strange sense of unease. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Quite the opposite, actually. I was wrapped in his arms and watching — we now suddenly realized — a Spanish version of episode 3 with Portuguese subtitles. It was hilarious and conventional, all the puppies and rainbows any self-respecting unicorn could shat out. But my nerves continued to be on edge, scratching at me.
I live in this space of uncertainty. I realize I yearn for what’s on the other side, yet thrive in the workspace before it. I constantly have to remind myself that nothing is in my control, I will survive heartache, -break, -demolition. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again.
This is how I talk myself down from the ledge of permanence and of needing “answers.” The “Do you love me?”s, “What are we doing?”s, and “Am I your girlfriend?”s. I remind myself of my current happiness and how I am merely a sensitive observer of my own life; a willing participant, but nonetheless powerless to bend others to my will. And I relax a little knowing that I’m living my life the best way I know how.
And, ultimately, what I find most reassuring about his return — above and beyond his beautiful boyish face, his magnificent cock and his big, fat brain — is that I can send him titty pics again. That was the worst part of the 4 day separation. I couldn’t send him my uniquely Hyacinth love notes: my boobs, my body, and my smile.
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.
“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.
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.
It was late, 10 pm. I was relaxed, buzzed from the martinis I’d had with an old high school friend passing through town, and dressed in little pajama pants and a white t-shirt. My breasts hung heavy and loose beneath the filmy cotton as I bustled around the kitchen. A pot steamed on the back burner filled with aromatic chicken stock and clam juice. I tossed in the bright pink armor of six freshly shelled shrimp and stirred the risotto on the front burner.
I checked the cooking shrimp and removed them just as there was a knock at my door. I didn’t even bother to look up as I heard the door open and shut. The Neighbor walked in wearing only his shiny black basketball shorts. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said smiling. “It smells amazing.”
“Well, thank you,” I smiled back as I cleaned the scallops and put them in the hot pan the shrimp had just occupied. He walked around the bar into the kitchen. “Aren’t we dressed for dinner!” I laughed as I looked at the two of us.
The original plan had been for me to make him and his closest work friend dinner. He has this idea that she and I should be best friends, so I offered to host dinner and a movie at my place. Turns out she got shy and he had to work late, which suited me fine. It’d given me a chance to see my old high school pal and peruse the grocery store at 9:30 at night along side lonely bachelors and single moms with their tired kids stuffed into grocery carts.
“What are we having?” he asked as he sidled up to me and cupped my breasts. His chin rested on my shoulder and he peaked down to the stove top.
“Risotto with truffle oil, scallops and prawns and roasted asparagus,” I added, “because I know you love that shit. Simple and homey. Will you set the table for us?”
He released my breasts and set to work telling me about his long and awful day at the office. When he was finished with his chore he lay at the entrance of the kitchen and watched me with a smile on his face. I brought him a glass of wine and he sipped appreciatively. “I like this view,” he said and when I turned to look at him he was clearly staring at my bottom hanging out just an inch or so from my pj shorts.
“I’m glad you like it. Like I said, we really dressed for dinner!”
He’d found some candles and dimmed the lights so when we sat down we were bathed in candlelight. “This looks amazing, Hy,” he said.
“Well, here’s to hoping it doesn’t taste like shit!” I laughed as I said my usual little disclaimer before feeding someone.
We ate and talked like old friends, old lovers. We mmm’d and awed over the perfectly cooked risotto (possibly one of my best efforts to date). The heady, earthy truffle oil somehow made the meal more special, the moment more particular. When not another morsel of food could be swallowed he stood up and held out his hand.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Oh, TN, my belly!! It’s so full!” I cried.
“It’s ok. Let’s just go cuddle then.”
I took his hand and he led me to my room where a candle was already lit. He gently pushed me down and climbed in next to me. We threaded our legs together and he pulled me into his nook. As we continued to talk he absent-mindedly fondled my breasts. Then dropped his hand lower.
My belly still felt full, but my whole body was filling up. With love, with lust, with the need to wrap myself around him. I dropped my knees apart and granted him easier access.
His fingers pushed into me and swirled around the slippery skin. He pressed against my clit and massaged it gently, expertly. His expertise further titillated me. “God,” I gasped, “You’re getting so fucking good at that. It’s wonderful that I can trust you won’t hurt me.” So many men manhandle me; I’m too sensitive.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he murmured into my neck.
“Yes. Yes, you have,” I whispered into the space above us.
He kissed me then, then my face and my neck. I let him seduce me, play my body like a cheap fucking fiddle. He set the pace, when clothes came off and in what manner. He massaged my thighs and my belly with his strong hands and dipped his mouth to my cunt. His hot, flat tongue lapped at me like the good little boy he is. Jesus fucking Christ, that kid is good.
He stopped with his mouth and sat up. His erection bounced mightily between us. He braced himself above me with one arm and guided his cock in with the other. Slowly, he stretched into me.
“Oh my God, Hy. You feel so good. You’re so tight.”
I thrilled at the words so rarely spoken. I often fear that I am not tight enough because he never says it and he has such a hard time cumming, but here he was exclaiming it with his own words. A beam of sunshine burst inside of me as I arched up to meet him.
He pumped into me for minutes, hours, an eternity. He growled and clung to me and flipped me around so I could grip the headboard. He split my legs apart and put one on his shoulder, his penetration pinned me to the wall. I felt him in my goddamned throat as my pussy sprung a leak and splattered us with her joy.
I cried and bucked beneath him as he stared down menacingly at me. He switched my legs and continued to lash at my soul with his cock. My tits jiggled with my belly as I was contorted into a sexual pretzel, immobilized with passion, his pussy. Always his pussy.
He stopped then and kissed me. “I want to see you cum,” he said simply as he leaned over and grabbed my Hitachi. I could only nod.
He pounded into me a few more times for good measure then took up his favorite spot of observing: his cock buried inside of me, my legs hooked over his hips, his head in his right hand, his left somewhere on my body.
The vibrations took me instantly and as his thrusts gently bumped into me like a boat in its dock the climax grew and grew. My eyes closed and I imagined what we must look like: two naked, creamy bodies hinged together like mating dragonflies, breasts heavy, nipples pert, candlelight shadows flickered across us.
I cried out and panted and arched my back. “That’s it, Hy,” he crooned. “That’s it.” His paws kneaded my breasts and I lay shaking beneath him.
“I want you to do it again,” he said.
I turned my head to look at him and his beautiful, boyish face was intent. I nodded. But before I could start he sat up between my legs and took me for a few thrusts, forever thrusts. Thrusts that split my brain open and my stupid heart. He was harder than ever and I silently marveled at his prowess… and my luck.
“I love,” I said as he worked himself inside of me, “fucking you,” I finished with a gasp. “I am so lucky to have you.”
I nearly took it back — it was too much, too open — but it was also too late. Wordlessly, he lay back on his side and flipped on the Magic Wand laying beside me. “Another,” he said.
“Ok,” I nodded.
Each orgasm I have is different. Each one has its own flavor, its own imagery. This second one was swift, but low. His thrusts continued with a methodical deviance that drove me wild. My breath hitched and I began to quake. His hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed; my orgasm lurched ahead. So delicious, just. out. of. reach. “Cum for me,” he suddenly said. “Cum for me now, you fucking slut. NOW.”
And then I did.
It spilled out of me like an avalanche and washed away all my cares, my hurts, and my worries. With it came sobs and yowls, a wild animal was released from me. “That’s right, baby,” he said between gritted teeth. “That’s my girl.”
I spiraled down from whatever planet I’d just touched with my celestial body and slammed back into myself with a cry. The tears poured out of my eyes and my cries were loud and ugly. If only I could find this much satisfaction in all of my life, all of my space, fill my loneliness with it and end my worry.
He slipped out of me then and pulled himself up behind me and held me as I continued to fall back down to reality. “Shhhh, it’s ok. You’re ok,” he said as he pet my head and kissed my ear. “It’s ok.”
Before I was fully myself again I pushed him onto his back. His cock was still rock hard, bigger than imaginable. “I want to suck it,” I said looking up at him from under my lashes. “May I?”
He said yes, but assured me he wasn’t going to cum. I promised him I wouldn’t try.
My arms felt weak from my orgasms as I gripped his shaft with my left hand and braced my upperbody with my right. I stroked him gently, lovingly. I flicked my tongue on his leaky aperture and sipped at his precum. I swallowed him whole and tasted my own juices, light and heady.
He moaned and stretched beneath me, pulsed in my hand. I closed my eyes and set a warm, steady rhythm with my soft mouth. My arm trembled, but I ignored it. My head worked like a piston, never slowing, never wavering. Tirelessly I worked his cock. I felt like I could do it forever — love on him in this way — but only a minute or two had passed.
I felt him stiffen beneath me, his thighs hardened like rock, his breath caught. I didn’t change one thing. I remained steady and sucked and lapped at him like my life depended on it.
He exploded into my mouth, thrust into my face as far as I could take him. I felt his hot spurts on the back of my throat. His wildly sexy grunts and pants proof that he, too, is human. Just like me.
I pushed down on him for one last slurp and he began to giggle. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed. “Hy, you’re so good at that!”
“Well, thank you. I try,” I smiled as I crawled up his chest and kissed him passionately. He grabbed the back of my head and pressed me into him, tasting himself on me.
I flopped to his side then, completely exhausted.
We lay there looking at each other. I pet his scruffy face and he pushed into my hand like a cat. My cat. “I really am going to miss you, you know,” he said then.
“Well, thank you,” was all I said in return.
Minutes or hours later, I didn’t really know (though I suspected the former) he got up and sought out his clothes. He tucked me in and gave me a sweet, lingering goodbye kiss. “Have a safe trip tomorrow,” he said as he walked out of my room. “I’ll lock the front door.”
I wasn’t doing very well Saturday night. Nothing had or hadn’t happened. Everything was basically the same. All that was different was my ability to cope, to be tough.
The days had stretched me thin. My people needed a lot from me and I’d risen to the challenge, stretched and flexed and gave and gave, but I didn’t take enough care. I was stupid. I forgot to be gentle with me and then I snapped like a dried twig. I felt rabid and unleashed.
I got home late Friday night, Peyton in tow, exhausted. I put my baby to bed fully clothed and texted The Neighbor as he’d asked me to do earlier, but I didn’t get the response I wanted. He said he was too tired and “sorry”.
He wouldn’t be coming over.
I couldn’t handle it and quietly crumpled in on myself as I kissed my baby goodnight and tucked in the covers around the little body which mine created a handful of years ago. Looking at Peyton’s face I felt ashamed at my own needs and wished I was stronger. I quietly slipped out of the night-light lit room and texted back that I’d had a terrible day and an insignificant spat with a best girlfriend.
I peeled off my clothes and got ready for bed, pulled back my sheets and stood up straight when I heard a noise. Was it the door? He is reliably unreliable in a reliable kind of way. I’d known my text might bring him over, but I also knew I couldn’t depend on that particular response. He can be so caring, so tender and other nights distant and walled off. I never know what to expect from him. I feel simultaneously blind and dumb and powerfully confident.
I went and let him in.
I sat on my bed in my panties and a tank top and he lay on his side, his head held in his hand. “The thing is, TN, is I had a really crappy day. I’ve really spread myself thin the past two days and my mentor left today and I organized a big going away thing for her.” My voice caught in my throat. “Oh god, I’m going to cry,” I said as tears slipped out. “Fuck.”
He quietly looked at me and patted my arm and squeezed my shoulder consolingly. “I’m sorry you had a bad day.” He sat up on his knees, pushed his crotch towards me. “Here. Pet your security penis.”
I laughed at his efforts to lift my spirits and did as he suggested. He pushed me down and latched onto a breast. I let the pain distract me for a second, but my mood wasn’t so easily lifted. He said more kind words, lay with me, but eventually he left after tucking me in and leaving a sweetness behind. I slowly drifted off to sleep. Alone.
Saturday morning I woke up and remembered my dream. I texted, “I dreamt we watched Idiocracy twice. Can we do that tonight?”
“Nope. I got other stuff tonight.”
I shut down. Hard. I seethed with resentment and disdain. “You know me, Hy,” he always loves to say, “I hate making plans.”
I texted back. “Oh, right. Have fun.”
He replied. “K.”
I saw red. I wasn’t even upright in bed, yet, and still I felt angry and venomous. I realized then that my mood hadn’t improved from the night before, if anything it’d deteriorated. This wasn’t rational, clearly. I picked up my phone again striving for balance:
“I don’t think you know how terse you come across on text. Or maybe you do. I don’t know. But my bad mood makes it worse.”
He replied, “Sorry to hear you’re still in a bad mood. That sucks.”
I ignored it and got dressed, lots of things to do — places to go, people to see. We had our first softball practice as teammates at 1. I figured I’d see his face then. Maybe I’d be in a better mood by then.
I rarely feel this way. I don’t get mad or agitated like I should. I experience irritation and crank, yes, but generally, I can keep my shit together, but not that morning. That morning I felt raw and furious. “Nope. I got other stuff tonight,”he’d said. I could just hear him: mysterious, stupidly private. And me, completely and utterly — embarrassingly — irrational about it all.
An hour before practice my phone chimed from its spot buried in my purse which lay on my friend’s bed away from the brunch. I gathered up Peyton, hugged my friends goodbye and checked my messages. TN wanted to know when I was leaving for practice. I told him my plans and he asked if he could go with me. I typed out, “Nope. I got other stuff after,” but hovered over the Send button. It felt too vulnerable in its petulance. Instead I typed, “Sure,” then hit Send.
I raced home and Peyton and I quickly climbed the 40 steps up. I ran to change into more appropriate clothes and I heard the door knock from my bedroom. I was sliding on a pair of leggings when I heard Peyton open the door and TN ask, “Is your mommy home? Can she come out to play?” I rounded the corner to the living room. I looked at him with a flat gaze. “Wow, you look…” he searched for words, “still really not happy.”
“Yep. Pretty much,” I squeezed out. “C’mon, Pey, let’s go, honey.” I gathered up our stuff and we piled into my car.
Two hours of moving my arms and legs, balls smacking into leather, cleats digging into dirt and I felt relief in sweat and other people. TN and I flirted, played well off each other. He pitched, I played first. It was a tango of reliance and trust. His cock outlined audaciously by his loose, grey shorts kept my eyes below his waistline and my libido burning.
Later, after drinks with friends and once again kid-free he came to me in my apartment. “I feel better,” I told him, “but I still need my security penis.” He followed me back to my room and pushed me down on the bed and crawled in next to me. I curled into his nook and inhaled deeply of his manly flavor. I traced my hand down his naked body and flexed my fingers around his flaccid penis. I wasn’t angry anymore, just sad and lost, floating. I needed him.
Our words left our mouths and burst like bubbles above our heads. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This doesn’t even seem to exist half the time. “Suck on my breasts, please,” I said and rolled off of him onto my back.
“What’s the magic word?” he asked.
“NOW,” I said firmly.
He fell onto my bags of flesh with gusto and a smile.
“Get between my legs,” I softly commanded. He positioned himself between my white thighs, but took it further and ripped my panties off, licked his hand and smeared it on the head of his cock and pressed against my hole with his mouth reattached to my left breast.
I was deliciously dry and I felt every inch of him press and stretch into me. He pulled out after a moment of fighting his way in, then slid back in, just a sliver of an eternity further. I stared into his icy blue eyes and watched him watch me, his broad shoulders bearing his weight, my inner thighs wrapped around his warm waist.
Each inch, each thrust felt like a finality, a verdict. I’m owned, I thought. This is it. I can’t get more fucked than this. Finally, he’s here.
He pumped into me until I gushed and slopped around his pole; the round, fruity, excruciating sensations spiraled out from my core and I tossed my head from side to side and gripped the swirls on my headboard.
My phone chimed and I grabbed it laughing — Peyton was due back in minutes.
I ground down hard on him, hooking myself on his cock. My desire spilled over like an infinity pool. I didn’t want it to end, but we disengaged and I lay in his arms. We panted and clung to each other.
“How do you feel now?” he asked.
“Much better,” I whispered. My body still tingled from the climaxes and I felt like I’d won something between us.
My phone chimed again.
Quickly we dressed and he jumped back next door and I ran downstairs to retrieve my baby. Back in my bedroom Peyton said, “Mommy, your room smells like underpants!” You can send that Mother of the Year Award to me now, by the way.
Later, childless yet again, I danced with my devil. I embraced my loneliness, a bottle of wine, and Don Draper, and began to write. I was clad in jeans and a white v-neck with wine dribbled down my breasts. I floated in between despair and boredom when I heard a knock. I jumped.
It was him.
He’d gone to a birthday party. I wasn’t invited, naturally — I’m never invited — but he was home two hours after he left and said he hadn’t had any fun. And he was in my house. “We’re watching Idiocracy now,” he said and waltzed by.
I hid my writing with a click of the mouse and padded to my room. We chatted casually as I removed my pants and socks and changed into a clean t-shirt and cardigan.
We cuddled and watched the movie and I laughed and felt less desperate, less alone, but all alone all the same, as always with him. My heart in his hands, my eyes set on a future without him, crystal clear and bright in the distance.
When the movie ended we could hear the 18 year olds downstairs partying away like maniacs. “Can I stay the night at your place?” I asked, snuggled down into his arms.
“No,” he answered firmly. I felt pulled back into that space far away from him where I am safe from such words and so all I did was burrow further into his embrace. I wasn’t hurt. “C’mon,” he whispered into my ear when he stood up. “Let’s go lay down.”
Clothes were pulled to the side and skin stretched and holes stuffed. My eyes locked on his as long as I could bear it — I don’t feel so lost in the icy depths so much as I feel anchored — then I shut them and let his body kick mine higher and harder like a ball underfoot and chased across one field to the next.
My pussy released a river and I giggled between thrusts when I felt it trickle between the cheeks of my bottom. I unashamedly shared this little human thing with him and he redoubled his efforts, his cock enraged and bulging inside of me. I was just a little girl clinging to her rampaging steed.
Suddenly, he pulled out and flopped down beside me. “I’m getting overheated,” he panted, his beefy hand resting on his rapidly rising chest, his cock still arcing gracefully up and away from his body like a dolphin from the water’s surface.
“I’m going to cum now,” I said suddenly. I clamored out of bed and searched for my vibrator, the thing I’d sworn off for the month of January. I detached the Gonzo piece and plugged it in. “But I want you inside of me.”
He easily slipped back in and pumped into me hard and fast, then lay back down and lifted my legs over my hips so he could bury himself into me. The instant the buzzing head hit my clit I began the climb and his thrusts carried me a step further and further. Tears leaked out of my eyes and I whimpered and clasped at his hip and waist and arm.
The orgasm came hard and huge and I balled as my heart broke and my tightly shut eyes envisioned a woman curled around herself forever alone, but always filled. I shook and trembled as it finished and gasped for air. Someone suggested I try for another one. More of the same, but worse and more beautiful. I wailed and cried out how much I loved his fucking cock and his erection kept punching into me as if it were only five minutes old instead of 55.
I felt my cunt release hot liquid again as I screamed out and lost all modicum of decorum. There was no Hy, there was only a beast, a woman whose heart was shattered and pussy filled all by the same human being. Delectable, devastating, demanding, disabled, debauched, and deluded TN. Sweet, sweet TN.
He remarked he’d never seen me lose my shit quite like that before.
I couldn’t form a thought enough to agree or disagree. I was just a wet and weeping heap.
We disengaged, I sucked his magnificent cock, we talked and kissed maybe? I don’t fucking have any clue, honestly. I love him so much, yet secretly hate him, that he can do that to me. I want so badly to return the favor. He’s letting me in, letting me love, receiving my gifts because, he realized, “It’s a gift to let someone do something nice for me; it makes them feel good. It think that means I really have been listening to you, Hy.”
It feels incongruous to feel this way about him. To love him, yet see no future. But there is no future, technically, only now, so maybe I really do have it. It. That thing that we all hunt.
Finally alone again with Don Draper my chemistry returned to normal and the next morning was delightful, the afternoon, too. The mind and pussy fucks the day before acted like nutrients to a starving person. My strength had returned.
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 cried myself to sleep Sunday night and off and on all day yesterday. Today, I feel slightly better; no tears or anything, though that gutted hollowness I know so well is lurking behind the bend for me. I’m trying to stave it off. I have better things to do with my time than keen like a suffering shrouded woman.
The cold snap that fell on us all Sunday night brings me pleasure, so I’m having an easier time being less crushed than I normally would when I want to skip instead of walk everywhere. My breasts also look bigger in sweaters, so there’s that.
But here’s the thing: The Neighbor doesn’t love me and never, ever will.
I’ll explain all that later…
First, I need to reinsert my heart inside the birdcage. Hopefully it’ll stay on its perch this time, the stupid fucking thing.