A Dissolute Life Means…

 

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

But some of that is behind me, thankfully.

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

I’m excited!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was about to cum in under a minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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