Bright English mornings.

Hy stands on a small rug in her boots with Jean Claude's giant shoes and sunlight
A domestic scene.

I am not darkness or anger, nor hate or despair. I am sunshine and sweetness, pleasure incarnate, a playground of words and sensation that slips hot and silky down the gullet of my life and warms the belly of my soul.

I want to rip myself open for him and roll in our blood and semen and juices and fall asleep to baritone giggles and my own soft exhalations of peace. His pile of meat cradled in my hand, his hand on my hip, lashes to lashes as our chests rise and fall together, drunk on each other and happy.

When we are through twirling with comets and tasting each other’s sweat I want him to know exactly how I like my coffee because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me while the moon shone bright in the night’s sky. He is here for all of it. All of me. And especially the morning and long hours that follow.

He’s seen all of me, suspended and cascading. Swallowed me whole and is still thirsty for more. There is no possibility of him ever getting his fill.

Truthfully, I want him to bore into my center and spread like a fever, never to leave, incapable of leaving.

And then we have coffee, mine black. His with a splash of whiskey.

 — Excerpt from my, “I am Whiskey in His Coffee, in the Eroticon Truth anthology, 2018 available here.

When I wake up to the sun I am always alone for either I or the man I was with has typically stolen off into the night like a shadow, the intimacy we shared washed away with each step like tears in the rain.

I don’t know how to be when I see a naked shoulder and peaceful, stubbly face. I wonder how I must look, honestly.  Will he find me as fetching in the singularly innocent sunlight as he did under the cast of the lustful, boozy night before?  The tall Englishman I met sure seemed to.

Six-foot-four with magnificent, wild dark brown hair that glinted with the occasional silver thread and walnut colored eyes we met on a big dick website because when you have one and you crave one it’s a good place to start.

For weeks we chatted and talked on the phone.  He’s close with his family and friends, fit, loves his career, is paid handsomely and attends business meetings regularly not far from where I live.  This could parlay into something beyond our March days together, I didn’t know.

We planned on meeting on a Monday and getting a room.  If things went well he’d take the rest of the week off and tour the country with me.  Then tragedy struck a week before my trip: his uncle passed away.  There would be a funeral to attend during my stay, but he was committed nonetheless.  He wanted to meet me.

And so I woke up in that terrifying morning gaze twice, fingers and bodies entwined, smiles and snatches broken wide and open, all filled up.  I was out of my body and terrified, yet happy and at home.  This is what normal people do, I thought.  They wake up together.

On Michael and Molly’s font doorstep we’d kiss goodbye, sweet and fervent, all too quick after so much time.  Fifty-two consecutive hours spent together ended with, “I’ll see you in June.”

And then I cried in Molly’s arms.

::

We met at noon at a swanky London hotel in Kensington where I poured my heart out about my secret double life – the blog, how I was Hy, my tits on the internet – all before we’d even dropped off our bags in the room.

I paused and charged forward. “Do you still want to hang out??”

“Yes.”

And instantly the two parts of my lives zippered together. 

We strolled under dinosaur and whale bones and wove our way in and out of the crowds like old companions laughing, talking, sharing, and under gigantic tapestries and paintings I found myself hoping he would kiss me in some empty room at the end of a great hall.

When night fell, still and seated at dinner with the wine flowing, he told me how much he liked me and how much he was enjoying our time together and I bloomed and flirted shamelessly.  Confident my advances would be returned, his cool British demeanor replaced with enthusiasm and warmth, we melted into one another along the dark London streets back to our room.

There, under the gentle guidance of some delicious English sparkling wine, we played with each other.  First Hang Man to riotous laughter, then with our bodies lit with exploration – stop and go, learning, pivoting – followed by a cool dark dawn with fingers entangled, face-to-face, and hours of talk peppered with dozing.

I blow dried my hair while he worked on his computer below my elbow, a towel wrapped around his waist.  I applied mascara in the bathroom mirror while he brushed his teeth.  The most prosaic of things novel and new.

I had survived my first morning with a man.

On Tuesday we traversed the city to his car and headed south to Brighton on the English Channel.  We ate ice cream in the cold, bright afternoon sun and sat on deck chairs on the pier and watched the people go by.  Too shy and out of my element to make the advance myself, I could only wish he’d kiss me at the end of the windswept pier behind the carousel.

My inexperience with a date lasting longer than 6 hours had begun to take its toll on me and I was fraught with insecurity and fear, worry and disgust that I had done something wrong.  He was done with me, tired of my shit, I told myself.

Emotions tumbled through me as he led me from place to place in search of what he said was the perfect Brighton souvenir for Peyton, some thing called a Brighton Rock.  “He’ll love it!” he assured me.  “It says ‘Brighton’ all they way down as you eat it!”

Words were streaky jumbles and I found speaking difficult.  I fought to appear normal until while crossing a lush, green courtyard I nearly burst into tears as we passed a man playing Stand By Me on his electric guitar.  I felt unmoored and lonely, lost.

I circled back around to buy a second to compose myself and dropped two 50p coins in his guitar case.  The tall Englishman didn’t seem to notice my struggle, though he had stopped to wait for me.  He never let me out of his sight.

That night in a little village inn somewhere north in Sussex I took a slug of wine, sat in one of the two red chairs and cried after he stepped outside.  “I’ve got to call my mum.  I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

Each tear a streak of fear and anxiety.  This kindness, this ease was too much for me, and I just couldn’t read him.  If a man isn’t pawing at me, is he interested?  Am I?

He appeared to be the type of man I’d want to know: educated, globally minded, kind, thoughtful, funny, sexy, and loyal. He understood complex situations and was sensitive to his own limitations. “I’m penny wise and pound foolish,” he told me.

I breathed through my tears and held my beating heart as I heard him approach from down the hall.

His face was drawn.  “How are you?” he asked.

“I’m ok.  I’m wrung out.  How are you?”

“I forgot to pack a suit, so I’ve got to sort that out, and I really think my mum needs me there.  I feel guilty for enjoying myself with you…”  We decided together that we would cut our trip together a half-day short so he could go home to his parents to prepare for the funeral on Thursday.  The decision felt good.

I poured him a glass of wine as he plopped down in the chair opposite me.  Maybe this was hard for him, too.

Later, in the dimly lit brasserie, we spoke sweetly to one another about our connection and expectations.  We would see each other again in June, for sure, he said.  “I have a meeting in America.  I’ll come out a week before or after.”  I agreed.

And a little while after that, after three courses and cheese and port, I sat on his lap on that same chair in our room and he stroked me through my black tights until I came like a cat in heat and left a wet spot on his jeans.  My fingers dug deep through his wild man hair and my mouth devoured his like I was starving for his flesh.

On my knees I set him free and impaled myself on his meat, gagged and drooled and dove down again.  A hot, wet mess from cunt to cock we tangled on the bed, and in the dark against the white sheets I found myself at the end of his cock buried beneath the waves of our lust and his long, probing fingers which dipped delicately into my asshole.  I was finally where I wanted to be.

And so I came.

Long, hard, trembling, I shimmered beneath him and kissed his neck and growled into his ear.  Fuck.

I slept a dreamless sleep, then in the indigo belly of dawn, I nestled in his nook, my ear on his heart and my hand on his warm chubby cock.

Lub-dub, throb. Lub-dub, throb.

Heart, then cock. Heart, then cock.  I told him what I felt and heard.

“Really…” he said.  I heard a smile.

“Mmhm.”

I rolled on my side, back to his front, guided him in.  Our last morning together.

We rocked and rolled and moaned together until we climbed to our knees where he buried himself into me like a desperate man reaching for something.  He was in my throat, my middle, my everything and when I felt his fingers pull my cheeks apart I begged him to touch me in my dirty little place again.

He slammed into my one hole and tapped and prodded at the other until my climax shook us both and took everything from me.  We flopped into each other’s arms.

“I’ve never been able to do that with anyone else,” he panted. “That angle doesn’t usually work for me.”

“I’m not like anyone else,” I replied, pleased.

“No, clearly not.”

We fell asleep in each other’s arms then spent the morning eating breakfast in the 400 year old inn’s dining room and exploring the garden outside our window.  Big shiny crows kept busy in the distance and purple hyacinths grew in the flower beds at our feet.

I had survived my second morning with a man.

::

On our last day together as we drove north towards his mother’s house I broached the topic of my writing.  “I rather like the idea of you writing about me and me not knowing what you say.”  I would write as if he’d read it anyway I told him.

“What would you like your pseudonym to be?”

“Jean Claude Van Long Dong.”

I laughed the most this last day, free of worry and doubt, hungry for the moments we had left.  We stopped at Hampton Court Palace and strolled through the halls and bed chambers of Henry VIII, and sat on a bench in the garden lined with gumdrop-shaped yew trees.  We kissed as the fountain’s mist kissed us and walked with our arms around each other to the back canal.  A herd of royal deer gathered not far away.

It was time to go.

A couple of hours later at Michael and Molly’s he helped me in with my things and said hello to everyone.  He could only stay for a minute or two — he was trying to make it home in time for dinner and taking me here was quite a detour.

I stood on the front step, he on the ground.  “Thank you for everything.”

We kissed.

“I’ll see you in June,” he said.

“Yes.  June.”

I turned to open the door then looked back over my shoulder.  He was watching me again. We smiled sadly at each other and I walked inside, saw Molly standing there and burst into tears.

“Oh, Hy,” she said and opened her arms.

I hate goodbyes and I want more mornings.

 

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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22 thoughts on “Bright English mornings.
  1. Your writing is like nursing a delicious chai latte (home made of course) and sitting in winter sunshine listening to the birds, noticing the colour of the sky and feeling a fresh morning mist on my skin. The details, the interesting turns of phrase, the raw emotion and the images it conjures. I am loving your work, Hy.
    Eve recently posted…Shockingly Bad SexMy Profile

  2. Good for u and lucky him i hope u have so many mornings that it seems like old news almost taken for granted because my dear u really do deserve it and we love to read about it……BRAVO!

  3. This is so beautiful – I’m sobbing. So happy for you Hy. You’re so good at mornings and you deserve so many more. Roll on, June!

  4. Hy,
    This is your first piece of writing I have had the pleasure reading. You write, beautifully! I couldn’t stop reading, not just because of the story, but the way you told it. It was like falling down an inflatable slide; episodes of being jolted and other times just being weightless.
    Hopefully at next year’s Eroticon I will get to speak to you person rather than me smile aimlessly across a room!

  5. I enjoyed reading this so much. It pulled me in and held me there. Your writing is so rich in description and I loved the contrast in style between writing about the love and the lust and the memory.

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