I’m certain the Apocalypse is coming, why else would it be spring like in the dead of winter here? I’m sitting on my balcony in my underwear and a t-shirt, The Neighbor’s red and black plaid sleeping bag draped over my legs. My feet are sticking out and I’m not cold.
Downstairs Neighbor hasn’t noticed me. He’s in flannel pajama bottoms, elbows on his knees, earbuds in, zoning out. A cigarette dangles from his fingers.
I heard TN leave 20 minutes ago. He whistles sometimes. I wonder if he does it so I can hear him come and go. I have no recollection of ever hearing him whistle before we got entangled.
The birds are serenading me, the sky is grey and the clouds are in a hurry. The pool boy pretends not to notice me as he vacuums the bottom of the turquoise water.
TN and I had a small fight last night. He gave me 90 seconds to wrap up what I was saying and then he was going to leave. I paused mid-sentence, stayed my hand on his scruffy face, and looked at him. “No, why don’t you just go now.”
I stood up and walked to the front door. “What?” he asked.
“You don’t get to say mean things to me. ’90 seconds’ was mean. You can go.”
He stood there with a dumbfounded look on his face. “I’m not in the mood for you to be angry at me for something that’s not rational.”
I held the door open for him and he left. I let the wind slam it behind him and I went back to my room, heart pounding. I don’t feel like myself lately. The past two nights I’ve needed him. He’s been there, but only partially. I haven’t appreciated it. Rushing me to finish a story in 90 seconds pushed me right over the edge and so I called his bluff.
Who am I?? I am not temperamental. I am even, calm, logical. But for days, I have felt surging anger towards him and zero patience. He keeps coming over, but why? Whenever I ask, he’s there, but then I feel the limitations of our relationship.
I texted him simply, “You hurt my feelings.”
He wrote back, “I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. I still don’t get how I did. You hurt my feelings, too. Fuck feelings.”
“Come back. I’m sorry, too.”
Moments later he was back and we were smiling at each other. I love him so. I think he loves me, too. We don’t have the skills to navigate things like this, necessarily. We fumble like overly sensitive teenagers.
“TN, I’m sorry. I have been in the worst mood lately. I’m feeling extremely sensitive. I shouldn’t have kicked you out.”
“I’m sorry, too. What the fuck is wrong with us?”
“I don’t know. Come lie down.”
He laid next to me as I curled up in my covers and pet his face. He’s been feeling terrible the past few days, too. He pointed out that I hadn’t felt all bad, nor had he, and we recapped the night I lost my shit. His eyes lit up and he became excited. “I’ve never seen you like that,” he said.
“I’ve never felt like that,” I quickly answered back. He jutted his chin out so my fingers could keep scratching.
I know I make it sound all flowery, that I’m “at peace” with everything, and that I’m happy, but that’s honestly the goal, not the 24 hour reality. I feel it sometimes, but others… I’m left with a missed high five.
When he left last night I asked for a kiss. He came back and latched onto my breast. I said, “No, my lips,” and pointed to them. He crashed down on me, but pressed me hard into the mattress. It was silly. I couldn’t move, only feel his breath from his nose and his sandpaper face. I pushed against his shoulders to end it, but he kept pressing me down. I giggled and squirmed out from under him. I get why he does that: it’s less intimate.
What if I were pregnant? I wonder in moments like that. What would I do? The very fact I have to ask leads me to believe I shouldn’t be with him at all. I’m 37 years old, have a promising career, a school-aged child, a master’s degree, but yet if I got knocked up by the man I’ve been dating for 14 months — and with whom I’m in love — I don’t know if I’d keep the baby because I know he’d hate me forever. I don’t want that in my life, or Peyton’s.
Then again, if I were pregnant, it’d be a goddamned miracle since he hasn’t cum in me in weeks and I’m on the pill. Would it mean I was meant to have his baby?
sigh — The philosophy of unplanned pregnancy. Fun stuff.
I sent him this pic last night. Before his first visit and our silly spat. My tits were lit from the laptop on — you guessed it — my lap. During his second visit I asked him if he liked it. He said yes.
“You gonna miss me when I’m in San Francisco?” I added.
“When are you going again?”
“When do you get back?”
“What?!” he exclaimed.
“No, I’m kidding. We get back Wednesday.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize it was going to be so long.”
“Are you gonna miss me?”
He stood up on his knees and towered over me, my head cradled in a pillow.
“I’ll miss some things, yeah. Then I’ll miss you.” His eyes twinkled as he saw the question on my face. “Yes, Hy. I’m going to miss you.”
I smiled. He’ll miss me. His words don’t keep at bay my fear that he’ll see some woman in my absence, but that’s just my heart talking. My brain tells me to relax, that I don’t have him anyway, and that what will be, will be. I hate that Doris Day sings that song so cheerfully, but what a perfect sentiment.
I’m so tired. Of everything. I think half my energy is spent convincing myself this is ok. The other half is spent in an id state of being seeking comfort and satisfaction. What would happen if I were pregnant?? Besides ending my life as I know it one way or another? Would we make a family or would we say goodbye?
I wonder if I’m becoming a better person for this or a more damaged one. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
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.
That lurch in my chest, that belly ache. The wild sense of fear and loneliness has somehow returned in flashes here and there. I can’t decipher if it’s because of the year I’ve had with him or because my life has primed me for fear of loss.
The funny thing is loss hasn’t killed me yet, so why would it now? Fear is an infection on my life. It steals the beauty of a bright blue day with sounds of twittering life on the breeze. It robs the beauty of a moment between lips and thighs and puffs of breath. It decimates the beauty of a feeling between beings, that raw, wondrous energy one human transfers to another. Fear is death of all things beauty.
I’ve lost much in my life, like most — I’m no different from the hipsters sitting next to me. Loss isn’t just a death of a being, it’s also the death of a thing, a feeling, an agreement. Divorce is the death of a life planned and hoped for. The death of love and trust, even faith.
And yet, I’m still kicking. No loss has gotten the best of me. I continue to grow, feel, love. Why am I so afraid, then?
It confounds me that I fear losing TN so much. What would happen to me? I wonder. Well, I would hurt. I would ache and flail and sob and shrivel up a little, but I wouldn’t die. Perhaps I would find beauty in my pain. I believe it exists there because pain is life and life is art. Some put it on our bodies, others turn it out. I put it into letters on pages and sometimes I put it into my pussy.
Pain is unavoidable and grand simultaneously. It’s reassurance that we’re here.
And: I am falling in love with him all over again. That’s why I fear.
I’ve been avoiding writing that sentence — even saying it to myself — for weeks now, but it’s unavoidably true.
I do. I love him. Perhaps I always will, I don’t know.
Switching to the top, becoming his Domme, has transformed me. I feel as though it’s where I should have always been. I feel frantic about it and stupidly calm. He needs me to care, I need him to need me. Why has it taken me this long in my life to surrender to this? Would this have saved my marriage? I’m certain my ex-husband would have plugged into this — wait, I should never speak in absolutes — I’m confident he would have liked it. Maybe it would have salvaged our broken promises from the wreckage.
Feeling TN’s desire for me to care, to take charge, to reprimand him and tug him this way and that lights my insides like a Roman candle. The trust between us is growing, my love expanding, and thus, my fear. I am juggling two kittens and an ax. One wrong toss and the kittens are ribbons and my hand gone.
We have spent night upon night together cuddling and/or inside each other — literally and figuratively. Since last Monday, we haven’t played with our new roles much other than setting light boundaries. The way he speaks to me, for example, is up for review. He gets punished when he says things on the assumption that I am silly or that I am old. It’s a brilliant way of communicating.
Me: I’m going to get an ice-cube for your bottom now.
Him: But the water will drip down!
Me (firm and holding up one finger): That’s 1, TN.
Him (thinking): It’s because I assumed you wouldn’t take care of the drips, right?
Me: Yes. Good boy. (SMACK!)
Me (as I’m cooking us dinner): Could you please put the dishes in the dishwasher away?
Him (smiling): Why?
Me (smiling back): Because of my bad back and because it’ll help me stay organized.
Him (with a face-splitting grin): It’s because you’re old, right?
Me (also still smiling): That’s 2. You are not to make fun of my age any more.
Him: Yes Ma’am.
Touching him, his cock, his lips. I feel as though they’re mine. I require a kiss now before he leaves. He always presents his bottom for a nice smack, but then I pull him back in to feel his 5 o’clock shadow on my face and under my fingertips, his pliant, warm lips on mine. I take what I need and he obliges.
Sunday he donned another pair of my panties and vacuumed my apartment for me. I languished on the couch in my yellow dress, breasts to my chin, and mused that I should probably invest in a nice vacuum cleaner, one that wouldn’t wrench my back each time I used it. He stopped the rhythmic push and pull and stood up straight, and looked at me.
“I don’t think I like that idea.”
“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”
And so the story goes. He wants me to need him as much as I want him to need me, though we dance around labels and real commitment and loving each other as openly and proudly as we are able.
This week I felt myself unraveling. That fear of loss has me stumbling and gasping. He has pulled back infinitesimally and it I feel like it’s the Titanic to my iceberg. It’s ridiculous: He didn’t want to cuddle with me Tuesday night. It was the first night in weeks that we didn’t spend time with limbs entwined. And last night, as we cuddled and he said firmly for me not to touch his beautiful cock with my mouth or pussy, he wasn’t forthcoming with details for his plans on Thursday.
“I don’t remember what they are,” he said, eyes closed, brow knit.
“You don’t remember?” I asked, clearly not believing him.
“Yeah, I don’t. I’m all out of it tonight.”
And just like that, the seed was planted. He has plans with a woman! I thought. They’re probably just friends, but he doesn’t want to tell me. What does that mean? How am I supposed to respond?? I’m like a dog with a bone.
When asked, he assured me that We were cool, that he was just in a bad mood and that it had nothing to do with me. I emphasized that he was welcome to discuss any problems with me if he had them. He accused me of being insecure. I scoffed at that. He had the wrong reaction to deduce that. Yes, I am insecure, but guaranteeing open lines of communication is not the indicator.
When I see him, my heart skips, my eyes twinkle. He loves on me, cuddles me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my hair. He humps me.
When he was vacuuming my bedroom I jumped on the bed, lay on my stomach with ankles crossed. His erection was mighty and straining at the cotton of my panties. He turned the machine off and came around to my face. I patted his meat and breathed on him.
“Lay down,” I told him and we switched spots.
I pulled my panties down over his hips and fell on him with my mouth. I crawled up the length of him and he popped my breasts out of the top of my dress and sucked on them with exquisite perfection. I slid down back between his knees and when I stood up we laughed because his cock was caught under my dress, popping a yellow plaid tent between us.
I reached down and grabbed his shaft. “It looks like it’s mine,” I said. He pulled up the fabric of my dress and I stood there with no panties on with a giant cock leaping out at him. Again we laughed as I took a picture. It really is mine. We both know it, though never say it.
I rode him and he rode me, hearts pounded. It was the old TN and Hy. No D/s, just me losing my shit and him reveling in it. “God, I love fucking you!” he said over and over. I thrashed beneath him naked, my breasts round Jello domes of jiggle, my eyes fluttered to his unable to keep eye contact. If only I could get him to remove one word.
Monday night shifted things inside of me. For a few hours my fear was gone. I know I have no control, I know that life will do as it wills, I know I am insignificant. But for a few hours I was in charge of something important to me: Him and Us.
I scribbled words of devotion all over his body, though he didn’t know that’s how I meant them: “glorious cock,” “yummy chest,” “broad shoulders,” and, over his heart, “Good Boy”. If he ever finds this blog I hope he sees the love seeping out of every word I’ve ever written about him, good, bad, or ugly.
He wrote on me. It was his reward for behaving: “magnificent breasts,” “sexy, horny slut,” “hottest, wettest best pussy ever” with a little arrow to my shaved vulva.
My fear of loss, my need for love. They are constantly warring, constantly pulling me into a million little different directions.
I can’t say more. I feel shy and protective of him now; I am incapable of sharing the details of the D/s encounters, my fingers will not move, but I feel beautifully vulnerable sharing the changes in me and the other wonderful sex and things between us. I think I’m ok with the fear.
I feel like going back into my warm, pre-enlightened cocoon. Sharing feels like I’m as vulnerable as a newborn fawn, spindly legs trembling, the instinct to duck for cover behind my mother’s flank so, so strong.
We continue to cuddle and I continue to open up to more of my own familiar pain, cauterized to my veins so long ago. My dreams haunt me of boundaries destroyed, my voice never heard by those whom should have been listening most closely. Tiny, yet urgent cries lost in the bellowing hot air of those wrapped up in their own hurts and insecurities.
I’m striding forward less afraid than ever before. I’ve never owned him. He may leave at any moment. This is a notion as old as fire and it burns as brightly and blisters the same.
Declarations of love and commitment don’t prevent bereavement in the end anyway. We are all free to morph into new incarnations, to flee and flutter towards the next patch of wildflowers, to flit and flounder.
So for now, I will only share with you Me, not Him and not Us. I have more work to do first.
Friday night I wasn’t feeling well. I’d spent the whole week mildly harassed by a sore throat and then put out of commission entirely by a pounding head and leaking face. I found myself child-free and mostly symptom free Friday afternoon so I texted The Neighbor.
“I’m down for your semen somewhere in my body tonight.”
His response was Old TN: “Not sure if I’m up for it tonight, but probably.”
I sniffed in indignation and headed home, my bed suddenly sounding like the most wonderful thing since sliced bread. My phone chimed again, though. “Just kidding!! Of course I want to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you!!!”
I ignored it and kept driving.
Home, I had some work to do and was on the phone with a business associate when I heard a knock. With the phone to my ear I opened the door. It was him.
I waved him in and sat down at the computer. He followed me and thrust his groin forward. Momentarily distracted by his proximity, I turned my head and was face to face with his enormous bulge. Quickly, I wrapped up my business call and hung up.
“I really want to fuck you. Now,” he said.
He took my hands and pulled me up and I quietly followed him into my room filled with late afternoon light. He shoved me down on the bed and slipped out of his clothes and helped me peel out of mine all the while talking about how much he’d been thinking of me all day and how badly he wanted to bury himself into me.
I felt like I’d found a $20 bill on the sidewalk and wrapped my arms around his warm muscles and happily pulled him down to me. He railed into me and my body wept around him. I let him use me and flip me around like a doll. Pounding and sliding and slipping and smacking. He shoved my face into the mattress and scratched my back as he rode my bottom like a filly.
He pulled on my hair and I was rendered soundless as my neck stretched taut, curved like a swan’s. I writhed and twisted back on him and knew my eye makeup was smeared into grotesque black eyes. I’d been sucker punched by sex.
Finally, we lay and rested. My limbs trembled and he pulled me into him. We canoodled and whispered and laughed. He began to shift and fidget after a time.
“You’re about to leave, aren’t you?” I didn’t want him to go so early. I had hopes for an evening of sex, cuddles, soup and Bull Durham.
“Yeah, is that ok?”
“No, not yet,” and I told him what I wanted. He began to protest and I shushed him. “It’s what I want to have happen. I’m not saying you have to do it. Go ahead and go,” I said releasing him. We gathered our clothes and I returned to the living room and walked him out. He said he might come back later. Suddenly, I didn’t care anymore. My body had given its best for the day and I felt fatigued and empty, sick yet again.
I ordered Chinese food and put on Law and Order: SVU, the best show man ever made, and put on my pajamas. A fluttery knuckle knocked an hour later and I gorged myself on crab rangoons and sweet and sour shrimp and lay reposing like a bloated whale while Benson and Amoro sought to free some single mother from wrongful imprisonment.
I looked at my phone. It was TN.
“I want to cum on your face right now,” was all it said.
My fingers itched, my pussy pulsed and my head responded with a boom of its own.
I texted back a classic TN response of my own: “In the middle of something right now. Can you wait 45 minutes?”
I got a long stream of sad faces for my efforts.
“Ok,” I capitulated. “Come and convince me.”
No sooner had I hit send and he was on my couch beside me, raging erection resplendent beneath his basketball shorts. If he came on my face, would he leave immediately after?? I wasn’t so sure I was up for that. It was Friday night and neither of us had anything else going on and I wasn’t feeling all that hot. I felt on the verge of a fit, but held it together with safety pins.
He began to touch me. My breasts, my neck, massage my curves. And words tumbled out I wasn’t expecting. He was seducing me. Ok, Chinese food belly, I thought, goodbye to you!
I closed my eyes and let him raise the temperature. Soon, he was inside of me and I was tossing pillows aside. His gaze was hot and lurid over me and I felt him come close to losing his shit a time or two, but then he stopped, pulled out and disappeared into the entry way.
“What are you doing?” I called. “Are you leaving?!”
He came back around with his pants back on. “Yeah.”
I flew into a frenzy. “What the fuck, TN??” I yelled searching for my pants and righting my shirt. “You’re just going to come over here, work me up and then disappear??”
He looked genuinely confused and he raced over to console me. I flung his hand off of me and turned away disgusted. “Do you think you can just jerk me around like that?!?”
“‘Jerk you around’?? What do you mean?? How did I jerk you around?”
I sighed as I sat back down and motioned for him to join me. I explained how I wasn’t feeling well, how I had asked for more time before he came over and that I resented feeling like a live doll. “I didn’t think you’d wait for me to cum and I really want to be a part of that. You’ve been so good all week!”
He admitted he’d have likely broken his promise to me and jerked off without me had I not allowed him to come over. “That isn’t ok, TN. We made a deal. I need to be able to trust you to keep your word.”
He looked away. “How can I make this ok? How can I fix this?? I want to fix this!” there was a hint of panic in his voice behind the sincerity.
“I don’t know… I just feel so used.”
“But you’ve said multiple times that you want me to come over for a nooner. How is that different?”
“It’s different because you have to go back to work! What are you going back to right now?? Some internet thing? I’d even be ok with you coming over at 8:20 to say you had to leave at 8:30 to meet friends for dinner. That’s hot, but this?? Not hot. You don’t just come over here, fuck me, then leave me.”
“So, what if I had to go to the grocery store later? Hot or not.”
“If I’m bored?”
“Ok, I think I get it.” He moved around behind me and began massaging my shoulders. I felt ridiculous and silly. Adolescently exposed and embarrassed. Like I’d been caught with my pants down, too damn vulnerable.
“And I’m sorry, too. I just don’t feel 100%. I’m run down and I just couldn’t deal with that right then. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
We hugged and he left. Later he texted to say he had a peace-offering for me that wasn’t his penis. It was another box of Topo Chico for me. He’d noticed I was out again. This was the third box he’d bought me this month. I thanked him and told him it wasn’t necessary, but he said he felt he needed to do it anyway.
Sunday evening while Peyton watched a cartoon I surreptitiously snapped a pic of my breast while I lay on the couch and sent it to TN with a note about how I’d made my list for tonight. Several hours later, with Peyton in bed, I realized I had never heard back.
Irritated, I texted him. “Did you get my earlier text and pic?”
I felt much better physically, basically recovered from the ambush of exhaustion and irritability that I’d suffered Friday night, but now I just felt over this thing between us. It hit me swiftly. The vulnerability I feel entering this D/s thing is mighty and to think he was ignoring me deliberately — well, my first reaction was to shut down, but I squirreled down on it further and didn’t allow myself my knee-jerk response.
Finally I asked if everything was ok.
“No, it’s not,” was his terse reply.
Immediately, I panicked. Holy shit, he’s found the blog, he knows everything. He hates me, he’ll never want anything to do with me. I took a deep breath and steadied my hand. “What’s going on?” I asked, all nonchalant while my belly dropped and I saw my life with him flash before my eyes.
Imagine my surprise when I read the following words:
I can’t get a fucking stain off the toilet bowl no matter how hard I try.
I shook my head and took deep breaths, my brow furrowed into a little thundercloud as my brain strained to make sense of what I was reading. Instead of working it out for myself, I texted that I was about to jump in the shower and he could explain himself when I was out. He called immediately, his voice tense.
“What’s going on? Are you kidding?” I asked.
“No. I’m really upset. I can’t get the toilet clean.”
I remained silent. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond. His assignment was to have the bathroom cleaned by that night, yes, but what did he expect from me?? What did he think I expected? Perfection? And what did he want me to do to him if he couldn’t achieve perfection? My goal was for it to be more clean than the average bathroom, but a stain is a stain. By their nature, they can’t be removed.
I still couldn’t speak, Cruel’s words floated by, “Knowing why someone is being difficult is even harder to learn but well worth the effort to learn given the insight it brings.” I felt stumped.
He chattered on frustratedly about how he’d tried multiple cleaners all afternoon and evening long to no avail. Finally, I asked him what he thought I’d do to him if he wasn’t pristine. He said he didn’t know. We agreed that I’d stop by before midnight to check on his progress as planned.
I showered and digested his words, his energy. What, exactly, does this young man want and need from me? What, exactly, is my job here??
I toweled off and put on my Niners shirt and some soft pj pants and padded next door. He was in the bathtub, knees splayed. The scent of bleach hung in the air.
His bathroom was pristine. New hand towels hung on counter top dowels, the chrome fixtures glistened and there wasn’t one streak-mark on the mirror. The rugs were clean, clean linens were neatly hung on towel bars and the linen cabinet housed freshly folded towels. The reading material was gone and the paper on the roller holder. He had a candle lit. It was a job beautifully done.
“Well done, TN,” I said folding my arms under my breasts. “Very, very good job.” I sat down on the closed toilet and continued to look around. He’d cleaned the base boards. I nodded my approval and told him what a good boy he was. I inspected the base of the toilet. The side closest to the bathtub was covered in dust.
“Uh oh. You missed a spot.” I looked at him and he cringed, his shoulders pinched in.
“Fuck,” he said. “I cleaned the other side.” And sure enough, the other side was spotless.
“I’ll have to take that into account.”
We chatted some more as he stood up, water dripping off his muscled limbs. I handed him a fluffy white towel and told him what would happen the next night. “You are to greet me on your knees, hands behind your back, wearing a pair of my panties. Be in front of the fireplace. And your ass needs to be ready, too.”
“What are you giggling at? Do you have a problem with that?” I leveled a gaze at him and he looked away. “Do you?”
“No, ma’am,” he said sheepishly looking at me. I kept strong eye contact with him throughout my directions and watched him flinch and react with surprise to my words.
“Are you ok with this?” I asked curious about his behavior.
“Yes. Very. I’m excited and a little nervous, is all.”
He moved towards me with the towel at his hips, but I put my hand up to stop him. “No. You did well tonight, but you also need to be punished.” I watched him closely as I said the words and his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “I am not happy with you. You ignored my texts earlier today and that is not acceptable. Do you understand? Particularly when I’m talking about a list of punishments and rewards. You should have said, ‘Thank you ma’am for planning our pleasure.'”
“So, I will reward you by letting you touch my boobs tonight, but I will not touch you. Put your clothes on and come with me next door.”
He obeyed quickly and we walked next door and straight to my room. I locked the door behind us and calmly walked to the bed and sat down.
He massaged my breasts with his mouth and hands, buried his face in my cleavage and gasped for breath like he was coming up for air. I lay on my back on my bed staring at the still fan blades wondering what we looked like to the casual observer: big bosomed woman with a man attached to her, seemingly endlessly. It’s a comforting thought that he thinks that my tits are, as he says, magnificent.
We talked some about my dream the previous night and he asked for me to demonstrate. I flipped on to my belly and had him lay across my legs. He pushed his erection into the cleft of my pj pants. He was hard.
I wanted to keep my word and my punishment real so I switched gears. “Why don’t you pick out a pair of panties to wear tomorrow night?”
He went to my underwear drawer and started digging around. He settled on the white satin pair with teal crushed velvet and lace bows. “More support,” he said with a smile as he tucked his meat in and sauntered over to where my head lay near the edge of the bed.
He asked if his punishment also meant that he couldn’t cause me to touch him. I sat there contemplating my answer as he stroked himself and I watched him grow under the crosshatch pattern of black on the satiny white.
“I’m trying to figure that out myself,” I said, mesmerized. “You were very, very naughty.” I looked up at him and he smiled down at me.
“I’m very sorry,” he demurred. I gave him my hand and he swiveled his hips against my palm as he pressed it against his bulge. It felt alive to my hand, like the warm back of a horse under saddle. He slid the panties down over his hips and he sprung free into my face.
I closed my eyes as his hand caused mine to grip his and move what little foreskin he has left up and over the engorged shaft. Soon, the little vertical slit glistened with a dew drop of precum. He made me squeeze the head and it rolled down under the split of the head.
I took my hand from him and with the pad of my index finger I trailed the bead and let it rest in the cleft of the helmet. The rest of him quivered as I held his erection with one tip of my finger.
“I want very much to touch you now,” I admitted, “but I’m not convinced that you are truly sorry, that you understand how very wrong you were.”
I looked up at him meaningfully and parted my lips. With sudden understanding he said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. So very, very sorry.” I leaned in and captured his head with my lips. His voice still hung in the air, but he was no longer talking. I waited.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he started again and I fell down lower on his shaft. Each time he stopped apologizing and professing his stupidity, I stopped my mouth and my hands. He laughed and moaned and searched for new and novel ways to grovel. I soared and my body buzzed with a deep, down heat.
He pulled away and came around me, pulled my ankles and flipped me onto my back. I let him remove my pants and he parted my knees. “I’m still not going to touch you,” I said.
“But I said I’m sorry!”
“I don’t care. You don’t get to have me until you’re forgiven.”
“Am I forgiven?” he whispered, pressing close to me, his cock sliding over the curls of my mound.
“Apologize again,” I said looking into his icy blue eyes.
He took a deep breath and said, “Hy, I am so very, very sorry. Please forgive me.”
I let the moment hang between us, reveling in the words and the power and whispered, “You’re forgiven.”
As my tongue hit the roof of my mouth to make the “en” he rammed into me and held. “Very forgiven,” I added breathlessly.
We moved together, slowly as in my dream, for many minutes. He nibbled and kissed my neck and I pulled and gripped on his cock with all my might with each long, slow, deep stroke. The lights were on, but I saw only creamy navy skies and sparkles behind my lids.
He sat up and held my ankles together and rocked into me. “God, I love fucking you,” he managed to say. I flung my head from side to side, aching everywhere, hot and itchy and searching and feeling lovely.
“I want to see you cum,” he said pulling out of me. The Hitachi and its Gonzo attachment had me arched and exploding in less than two minutes and I lay smiling under him, tired and ready for him to leave. It was 1:20 in the morning.
I squeezed his hand as he left my room and I took a dose of NyQuil smiling at the vast difference a year makes. A year ago, I was being spanked and yanked around, literally and figuratively, and today I am being offered apologies like freshly baked cookies. Warm, and delicious.
Tomorrow I evaluate The Neighbor’s bathroom. It’s his first assignment and the second time we’ve planned on taking advantage of his newfound submission to me. I’m nervous, so I’ve made a list.
A list to guide me, to give me ideas. A list to bolster my confidence and keep me motivated. And a list to test myself and my own boundaries.
He’s going to discover how serious I am about having a clean toilet seat to put my damn ass on — Jesus fucking Christ I’m tired if staring at C++ books and holding the roll of toilet paper in my hands. The last thing I want to have cross my mind is that he spends time on the toilet. Like time enough to learn something for work while on the toilet. BARF.
Either way it goes, the evening begins with him on his knees, hands behind his back, ass prepped and ready.
It’s anybody’s guess if it will be a tits or no tits night for him. Frankly, I don’t care. This is going to be so goddamned awesome.
I wonder if any other dominant ever makes lists. Or if I’m the only one nervous enough to need a feather in her trunk.
At 11 am, I laid in bed with Peyton snoozing softly beside me — around 7, I’d awoken and gone in and transferred my warm, rag doll baby to snuggle next to me.
I stretched and smiled, sunk deeper into my mattress and suddenly recalled my dream: The Neighbor’s cock buried deep inside of me, my ass in the air, him oddly perpendicular to me, and sliding his length slowly in and out. I clenched my pussy around him and he exclaimed, “Oh my god, Hy!! Do that again!” And so I did.
I worked my muscles around him like my life depended on it, and the long, slow strokes from his hips were bringing me as close to orgasm as they were him. I rocked my bottom back on him, tilting against each thrust and he groaned some more.
There was no ball-slapping, pelvis-slamming fucking like the night before. This was sensuous and concentrated.
And then I woke up before my body spilled over the edge.
I texted TN to tell him he’d fucked me good and we’d possibly created a new position.
“So Dream TN is creative?” he texted back.
“Very. It felt goooooooood,” I replied.
I laid there some more, checked into Twitter for a second, then heard a knock.
Betting it was likely him I stole to the front door clad only in panties and my Obama t-shirt — you know, the one with the ubiquitous image of him looking thoughtful and engaged.
The peephole confirmed it was him and I let him and a blast of cold air in.
“Jesus, it’s cold out there!” He shivered. The temp had dropped 30 degrees overnight.
“Do you have Peyton?”
“Yeah, I do. What’s up?”
“Oh, I wanted to see if you wanted to see a movie.”
“Yeah, I can’t, sorry. But we’re about to go to breakfast. Wanna come with?”
He stood there contemplating for a long moment. This would be the first time the three of us would do anything together. “Ummmmmm,” he looked pained as he said it. “No. No, thanks.”
I wasn’t bothered by his response, or surprised. I changed the subject quickly. “Don’t you like my outfit?” I stuck my ass out and twirled.
“Mmm. I do. I think Obama would approve this message!” He closed the distance between us and latched his mouth into my nipple, just over Obama’s right ear.
He pulled away and regarded me with a heated gaze. I thanked my lucky stars for the millionth time that my child sleeps like the dead. “I love those panties of yours. I really like the buttons, even if they’re not functional.”
“Oh, they’re functional,” I purred as I undid the top one. His eyes lit up and he motioned for me to keep going.
Halfway down I paused, shy. “I haven’t groomed all week…”
He came back to me and slid his hand down the front of my panties. “Ooh! You’re right! But I don’t care, keep going.”
I undid the remaining buttons, my panties flipped open to the sides with his paw curled around and down. One of his fingers slipped inside of me and his mouth returned to the president’s ear.
I moaned a little and hugged him closer. He stood up and pulled his hand out, sniffed his finger and made an approving sound as he headed back to the front door. We said goodbye and I closed the door.
A second later, the phone rang. It was him.
“I just want to say I’m not a dick.”
“I didn’t say no to breakfast with you and Peyton because of Peyton. I just really, really wanted to go see a movie right now. I don’t want you to think I said no because Peyton would be there.”
I smiled. This man who loves me “this much, but not that much,” certainly makes me feel loved “that much” a lot of the time. I’m certain he has no idea.
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.
In a fit of bad decision-making, I have decided to join Twitter. Don’t ask me why. I’m not even sure myself.
Regardless, I’m there, and I even put a widget down at the bottom so you can follow me. I’m @adissolutelife. I want to interact more with my readers and friends. I can’t promise to be a good twitterer (or whatever the fuck they’re called), but I promise to try.