Password Level achieved.

I dig his little idiosyncratic spelling of “cum.”

“Fuck I can’t wait to get soaked in your fucking cumm,” he texted at 8 am Sunday morning. “Can we start now?” I asked where he was.

“The country club.”

We had plans later that day for me to come over again and watch the next episode of Game of Thrones. He would text more throughout the day. A video of him playing with his hardon (“I have never sent anyone something like this,” he’s told me), little notes about the day dragging on and his eagerness to see me. Finally I was able to commit to arriving at 4 pm.

Two weeks earlier I’d arrived around 6:30 for GOT. Sushi was on its way and I brought a bottle of his favorite, a Malbec — and some American Spirits Yellow at his request.

“You’re so nice to me,” he purred into my neck as he wrapped his arms around me from behind while I set my things down on the kitchen island.

I had butterflies; he oozed sex. The kind of sex that was terrifyingly exciting, the kind that nurtured an apprehensive unease and simultaneous thrill not unlike looking up at the massive roller coaster with 14 corkscrews and 3 loops at 100 mph and wondering how you’ll survive it.

But survive it that night I did. Sushi never came as it was supposed to, but I sure fucking did.

We rewatched the week’s previous episode and I spread my knees for him while he stared intently at my pink puss. His reverence and delight emboldened me to show him what I otherwise am shy about. His fingers pulled my lips apart and dipped inside. He disappeared into his room and came back with a fuchsia colored silicone egg with a long tail.

He squeezed it and it buzzed and pulsed then he slipped it inside of me. He’d bought me another toy, apparently. How thoughtful.

The toy was only a novelty, though, and soon we were naked in his bed writhing and grappling with one another like Grecian wrestlers. His cock, thick and angled just-so, pressed my release buttons and I drenched the bedding and screamed and bucked with joy.

His depth of desire has no bounds, nothing is off limits. It’s like I’m a mountain to be conquered and no crevice or swell is off limits. His tongue bathed me from head to toe, his fingers found every hole, his cock, too.

We showered and he peed on me again, delightfully. His watchful hazelnut eyes on my blue ones, registering my reaction. I smiled at his mischievousness and turned my bottom towards the stream unbothered.

We paused only long enough to watch that week’s episode, curled up on one another on the couch. When it was over we were naked again. My Hitachi – thoughtfully plugged in by him – drove me up over the moon as he railed up hard and deep inside of me. My cunt rained on us both and I sobbed unabashedly, spent, completely soaked in my own cum, and entirely out of my body.

I had watched him, as if from a seat in a theater, pull my cum which had pooled in his belly button and spread it across his chest and lick his palms clean. One hand guided my hips and his other pressed on my clit as I gyrated wildly on top of him uncaring of how things jiggled or swung. I was nothing but my electric pleasure and he was the conduit. His cock, ever hard, fascinated me and seemed inhuman, robotically stiff. Who the fuck is this man??

We would take periodic breaks for a cigarette, a sip of wine, or a bit of weed. Did I even walk the earth that night or did I simply float from couch to bed to backyard in a ghostly coital haze?

He finally came while in my ass with the Wand buzzing mightily against my mound. I think I found God.

We padded back into the living room and finally sorted out the sushi situation. I ate like it was my last meal then left at 11:30 with a chaste peck on the corner of my mouth from him at the door.

The following Saturday (on my custody week) found him drunk and drugged to the extent he canceled on me an hour before we were to meet. “Crushed” is too strong a word; I felt crumpled. I did a new thing where I said how I felt and left it at that, then held my breath for his reaction the next morning and was relieved that it was human; I could look forward to our next GOT date.

I arrived as promised at 4 pm with a bottle of white, my Hitachi, and his requested box of Yellows. Driving through his posh suburb by the golf course I felt my skin burn with anticipation and wickedness. On the street children played and mothers hovered, trees literally dripped with swinging, laughing kids as I drove towards my suburban den of iniquity.

Butterflies roared in my belly as I rang the doorbell. His great big, black floofy dog barked and the door cracked. His bare shoulder, then face, peeked out. He smiled and pulled the door open for me to step in. He was naked, his cock ramrod straight. He grabbed me and kissed me passionately. I tried not to press the chilled wine against his bare skin.

This Sunday was more of the same, except I was worried if my ass could take another pounding so soon after one from the night before with The Vet. Spoiler alert: it did just fine. We toked, we poked, we joked.

Out back taking long, slow drags off a shared cigarette I announced after countless orgasms and buckets of our cum – his included – that I had officially reached “password level.”

“‘Password level’?” he asked.

“Yeah, like, if I were captured by the enemy if they made me feel this good I’d tell them anything they wanted to know,” I could swear the rose bushes shook with a giggle at me. “I’d make a real shit spy.” He laughed, seemingly happy with himself.

“Fuck, you are so goddamned sexy! UGH!” he said as he snatched his hand off my knee. “I can’t touch you anymore! I have nothing left in me, but if I do, I’ll try and I’m just so tired,” he said mostly to himself. I could barely sit upright in my chair.

He had used the pink butt plug on me that I’d brought over. My plan had been to use it on him while I sucked him off, but he had other plans. After our second shower – and even before GOT started at 8 – under the thick blanket of lust that lay upon us he spread my ass cheeks and buried his tongue in my hole. I squirmed and squealed, horrified and titillated all at once. He licked and sucked and ate like it was a piece of juicy fruit until I felt a prick and a push and he was inside of me.

He pumped while I came and cried and then he was gone, but something else was inside: the butt plug. He lay down and pulled me on top of him and as I double penetrated myself with his meat he passed me the Hitachi. Dear Lord, please have mercy on my soul.

I screamed like a wild animal and clawed at his pale skin. He hissed as a rush of liquid spilled down over his abdomen and cried out with me when we came like thunder together. I shook uncontrollably, kissed his neck and stifled my sobs. My feet didn’t touch the ground again after that. How could they possibly?

We showered a last time then went to have that cigarette where the rose bushes laughed at me. Finally we watched the show and I absentmindedly played with his cock. I had absolutely nothing left in me. I was a bag of flesh and bones, him too, I assume. He’d cum twice and showered three times with me. I lost count of my orgasms after number ten.

When it was time to go I gathered my things. He’d brought me my Hitachi and cleaned butt plug and I put them in the paper bag that had carried the wine. I laughed that it looked like I was leaving with a bottle, when really it was a bag of sex toys.

He wrapped his arms around me from behind and I turned my face to kiss him. He dodged my lips and kissed the corner of my mouth and walked me to the door.

Face to face I tried to kiss him goodbye, but his lips landed on the corners of my mouth again, but I didn’t care. I smiled, happy anyway even if he couldn’t kiss me, and thanked him for yet another wonderful time, then floated out to my car.

I’m pretty sure the rose bushes were still laughing: password level achieved.

Life imitating art.

C’mon, Baby.

“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.

“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever.  I don’t want to stop.”  His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.

I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his.  This didn’t even feel real.

Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real.  Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real.  Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real.  Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.

“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.

“I wish you could, too.”

He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby.  His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder.  I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.

He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails.  I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.

I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him.  Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day.  No one is ever interested in my day.  But Peter is.

And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle.  When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height.  We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs.  Oh, Peter.

Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night.  No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all.  Eat your heart out, perfumers. 

We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms.  Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.

No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.

And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.

 

 

February Photofest
Masturbation Monday

Spending time in pink.

I have spent a lovely afternoon and early evening in the arms of Peter.  His long, long limbs entwined with mine.  Soft, beautiful words falling all over my everything like snowflakes on flower petals on a comet tail.
Now I know how pink feels.
Little Spoon reporting for duty.
February Photofest

I am a fantasy.

I gripped his throat as I bore down on him, clawed at his chest and pinched and twisted his nipples.  My hair hung about my shoulders wild and messy, and my breasts bounced as I rode him until I wore myself out, slumped down by his side and sunk into the mattress and an alcohol-laced sleep.

In the early dawn light his hips pulsed slowly against my rump and I sighed.  I was tired — but he persisted and so I engaged.

I played with his fat morning wood not absentmindedly until he asked that I climb back on top of him.  I obliged.  Tore open the condom, rolled it on.  “Guide you in,” I told him as he lay below me with his arms above his head.

What had been wet had dried and the push in was yummy.  I rocked and he guided my hand back to his throat.  I guided his hands to my breasts.

I worked on him, gently crushing his throat with my hand and rocking my hips, punishing his little nipples.  I filled his greedy mouth with my breasts and he suckled as he curved up inside of me again and again.

I rode him until I exhausted myself and slumped down by his side, deja vu. He began to pulse against me again.  I lifted my legs over his hip and he pushed back inside of me and curled around to my breast and latched on.

Later, as he jerked himself off beside me, he whispered that he wanted me to make him my bitch, code to grab his throat again.  I looked into his eyes and felt a million miles away.  I pinched his nipples and scratched his abs, whispered to him that his jizz was mine.

He came in a tumble and soiled my hand and filled his belly button.

I dozed for a little while, spooning him.  He pulled me closer into his back and seemed to fall asleep.  My alarm went off, the sun had crested and the room was bright, the sky a light grey.  I quickly and quietly dressed as my phone chimed with my ride’s arrival.

He stirred and rolled over, sat up for a peck and a hug and I left, exhausted.  I’m not sure I like fulfilling fantasies.

You don’t know me.
February Photofest

I am a Super Mom.

Picture first, then all the words.

Peter is a ray of sunshine in my cloudy, lonely, busy, lovely, exhausting, fun and complicated life.  Each week we send a few texts; sexy, funny, flirty.  We narrow down a time to meet and we make it happen.  In my office on rare occasions, but mostly in my little apartment with dozing animals and late afternoon sunshine as our backdrop where I get to see the green of his eyes.

Yesterday he darkened my doorway with a smile and a sweet kiss hello.  I gave him a Topo Chico and he sat on a kitchen bar stool while I wedged myself between his knees and we talked forever like we always do and I melted against him.

“I like this height thing,” I said and dipped my head just a smidge to kiss his soft lips.

I’m barely taller standing than he is sitting.  We laughed into each other’s smiles and ran our hands along each other’s arms and chests.  He cupped my breasts and moaned, pulled my “Super Mom” shirt up and over my head.  My bare breasts bounced between us and I arched my back.  He knew what to do.

I held his dark head to my breast and leaned into his wet, suckling mouth, pulled back and tore his work shirt off and matched up our nipples and wriggled a little.

He stood up and towered over me.

“Well there goes that height equity,” I quipped.

He took my hand and I led him back to my room.

Eyeing my bed I laughed, “But we’ll be equal again in a minute.”

Naked and astride his narrow hips I stuffed him inside of me and rocked and rolled on him with abandon.  He grabbed the hams of my ass and massaged them against his shaft until we both lost our shit entirely. Moaning and groaning, cussing and thrusting.

His beautiful face focused on mine as I sought release atop him, careful to leave no marks on him with my clutching, pawing hands.  He tasted salty and sweet as he gritted against his own pleasure, my green-eyed beast of a man.

Once, twice, three times I lost myself in his breath and deep, wet kisses with him buried entirely inside of me.  I grabbed my Hitachi and pressed it against my mound as he twitched and gently bucked against me.  I came like a banshee that time and collapsed on top of him as he finally let go and came with me, dumping all his delicious jizz into my hungry little body.

“Fuuuuck,” we said, and laughed and panted together conspiratorially.

We talked and giggled some more until I noticed the beautiful late afternoon light filtering in through my window.

“Can I take some pics of you for the blog?  The lighting is so good right now.”

He said yes and I fluttered around him adjusting sheets and clicking my phone and pressing my body against his and clicking some more.  I felt shy and awkward, but really didn’t want to lose the light or the opportunity.

I mentioned writing something about this moment and he said he’d want to read it.  I admitted to having already written about him.  “Oooh, I want to read!” he said as he buried his face in my breasts.

I held him close and laughed.  The truth is I’m nervous to have him read me, but am willing.  He didn’t press and I didn’t offer more.

I clicked the camera a few more times – click click click – before we showered and washed away all remnants of our sex with the little green and white stripped bar of soap a girlfriend brought me from New Zealand.

“Does she ever leave town?”  I asked.  He knew what I meant.

“She’ll be visiting her sister’s new baby in January for a whole weekend,” he answered.  “Would you like to have an overnight??”

“Fuck yeah, I would,” I said and pulled his face down to mine for a kiss.

I gathered the socks for him the dog had squirreled away while we were busy and  finished our tryst with more smiling kisses on my tip toes.  Time with Peter is at once long-lasting and quick and I wished I wasn’t saying goodbye.

“Bye, gorgeous,” I called to him just before he rounded the corner to the stairs.

“Bye, sexy,” he called back.

I locked the door and finished getting dressed then scurried off to an event for Pey, filled to the brim with Peter.  Just like a good Super Mom should.

 

Ed. Note: Pic posted with Peter’s permission.

Sinful Sunday

He’s a magic man.

I’m on my balcony with my black coffee and horrible sunburn.  The dog is dozing in the warm morning breeze at my feet.  Anita O’Day is crooning on the record player.  And when I think about straddling his face Saturday night I feel a twitch and a pull deep in my center.  His tongue thrust inside of me, his arms wrapped around my thighs and my padded headboard softening the rhythmic banging of my head as I could barely keep upright.

I am convinced Elliot’s mouth is a gift from the Gods.

His lips are soft and full, his grin – which he claims to use sparingly – is broad.  His kiss is expert, next level, perfect.  A mixture of soft and firm, biting and loving.  And his tongue strokes like an Olympic crew member: swift, long and strong.  And that’s just on my mouth.

On my breasts and nipples he handily – immediately – mastered whatever magic it is that I love.  A pulling, biting, full sensation on my nipple that wraps around my flesh and burrows into my core.  Not too sharp, but undeniably there.  I have not had to beg, “Harder,” once.

With my pussy spread wide above it his gentle hunger alone made me burst.  Those warm lips and wet tongue lapping deep inside of me as I writhed and rode his beautiful scruffy face surprised me, though I’m not sure why.  He is good at this.

And then the words that come out of that perfect mouth have completely bewitched me.  Who is this married man from across town who says all the right things??

The more we talk, the more we discover what we have in common.  I didn’t know there was another person on the planet who dreams of visiting Michelin starred restaurants or whose children are as defiantly precocious and individual as ours are, both eerily similar in demeanor and language.  Yet we are so different, hopefully complimentary.

He prefers deep connections over wispy liaisons.  If I told him I only wanted to see him for sex he wouldn’t be interested, but if I said I no longer wanted to have sex he’d want to keep my friendship.  I’ve never even had the question posed to me before.  A man who wants to know me??  What sorcery is that??

His interest in everything I have to say seems vaguely familiar, like from a different time when I was a different girl.  Before I had been ground down, half-way swallowed, and spat out.  My stories don’t seem “too long” even to my own ears and he’s eager to hear more.  He’s told me more than once to be myself as I share my reticence to retell another sordid story or send him a sexy pic.

Hy: Can I show you another pic?
Elliot: If you’d like, of course
H: Now I got bashful lol
E: Hahaha, why??
H: I don’t knowww. I’m extra aware of over sexualizing our interactions and I don’t want to be annoying about my pics. That’s two separate ideas. Oh, and you told me you weren’t motivated by sex so I don’t want to turn you off either bc I’m hyper sexual-ish haha. All that equals suddenly feeling unsure about sending more pics/feeling bashful
E: Ah. Well, like I’ve said before, I like you, so be yourself, because there’s really no point in being a watered down shadow of you. If I got annoyed at your interest in sex & the way you express it, would I be someone you wanted to spend your energy on anyways?
H: Well, no, but maybe it’s a matter of patience and timing? I know I’m intense and I try to be sensitive to others’ needs to take it slow(er). Though now that I’m saying that your point still carries. Haha ok, I’m not used to being invited to be myself with someone, clearly haha Thank you for that 😚
E: 😘 You do you!

Our date on Saturday lasted nearly 12 hours and we never stopped talking except when his mouth was busy with other things.

He arrived a little past 5 and and we were together till 2.  I gave him gentle tips on how to float better in the pool and sat weightless on his lap while we kissed.  I showered quickly and got dressed  to accommodate my scorched legs: a long black sundress with unbuttoned buttons up to just below where my thighs come together.

We called a car and headed to a local burger restaurant, drank beer, split our burgers and swapped halves shared harrowing teenage stories and future dreams and decided to walk across the river to our final destination, a basement jazz bar.

There was one table in the back waiting just for us.  He drank Jameson and I a cold white wine and when he told me that I was beautiful and smart and sexy and that it rattled him, I told him how he rattled me.  His kindness, his openness, his sexiness.

It was past midnight before we even knew it and we rushed home suddenly conscious of the clock.  Back in my candle-lit bedroom he bemoaned the late hour.  “We have got to start doing this first thing.”

He picked me up and threw me back on the bed and I quickly wriggled out of my dress and panties while he ripped off his own clothes.  He crashed down on me and I hung on to him like I was climbing a tree.  His long, lean limbs endless to my reach.  His cock was large and throbbing in my hand as he brought me to climax with his.

I whispered about having a condom or not and he shook his head.  I was wondering what size I should grab him when I noticed the stiffness in my hand receding.  “Fuck,” he said.  “I’m so sorry.  I got in my head…”

“Shh, no, it’s fine.  Your penis will be with us eventually.  I don’t care.  Sex is so much more than that.”  And for the first time I actually meant it.  Sex is so much more than a cock inside of me with him.  It’s his everything.  It’s the way he makes me feel, the way he tastes, his skin beneath my fingertips.  It’s not the sum of orgasms – though he gave me many – or the pounding of a pussy, it’s the sum of the energy and ours is electric.

As if on cue his mouth, soft, warm and delicious, like a warm gooey cinnamon roll, found my pussy.  I played with his haunch by my head and fondled his balls and tugged on his hiding cock.  When I finally got to kiss him I tasted sunshine and happiness on his lips.

“God, I want to fuck you so bad,” he growled in my ear.

“I want to fuck you, too.  It’ll happen.  I’m in no hurry.”

And then I sucked his cock and coaxed the blood to fill it, my eyes locked on his up the plane of his torso.  He pulled me up off of him and kissed me again and I climbed up further and settled on his gorgeous face.  I rocked and moaned and closed my eyes.  I searched for him with my cunt and found him as open to me as I was to him.

I came and he swallowed and I marveled at his capacity to give so much, to make me feel so safe.

We lay entangled, our breath shared, and gazed into each other’s eyes.  I had no fear of what I might see there.  No fear of what he’d see in mine.

“You are so pretty,” I said.

He laughed.

“Dammit!  I was just about to say the same thing to you!”  He dipped his head to kiss me and I pulled him closer with my leg slung over his hip.  “Seriously.  You are so pretty.  It’s not fair,” he murmured against my lips.

I got lost tracing his lips with my fingers and scraping my nails gently against his whiskers.  I stared at his lips, that mouth.

“I have to go…”

“Please, just stay a little while longer.”

He relaxed into my arms and we kissed again, every inch of our bodies pressed against one another, alone together on my little island bed in the candlelight.

At 2:30 am he was gone and I texted.

“I’m laying here in the dark exhausted, sunburn screaming, dog snoozing and all I can think about is you and your magic. It’s almost as if you didn’t leave and your soft lips are still on mine and I’m still breathing your breath. You straight up voodoo 😘”

And he replied.

“Mm, your enthusiasm makes the magic happen. I made it back up north. Sweet dreams…. 😘”

Oh, that magical mouth.  Oh, that magical man.

 

 

 

 

Want to join in on writing Every Damn Day in June?:



Last night he made me dinner.

Last night Elliot darkened my doorway once again.  He ducked his head and stepped inside and I reached up and gave him a sweet kiss hello.  He held a bag of groceries in one hand while the dog’s tail banged on the paper loudly.  Finally he was here.

I had only just gotten off a work call and was frazzled.  The laundry was hidden moments before he arrived and there were still things I needed to clear away.  I busied myself while he put the perishables in the fridge and the dog continued to whack things with his tail.  I peeled off my corduroy blazer and hoped he noticed my new tan lines against the violet of my strapless dress.

I twittered and fluffed around him while he uncorked a bottle of red I’d bought.  “You seem nervous.”

“No,” I assured him, “That was just an intense meeting.”  I made sure to avoid eye contact as I said this.  I was nervous.

I was nervous because with each passing moment I like him more.  With each passing hour I see more of a human I want to know.  With each passing day I feel his spirit and humor.  With each passing everything I am crumbling into dust.

We took our wine and sat on my blue velvet couch.  My feet tucked under his thigh and his long legs folded out into whatever available space he had.  We laughed and talked about human things: our jobs our days our babies our mothers.

We remarked on the impossibility that we were sitting there so close.  He had written me despite my very clear disinterest in married men.  And I had responded because there was something there.

And then suddenly the conversation turned to his wife.  “So, just to be clear, we’re basically still waiting, right?”

“Oh,” he said smiling.  “She said ‘Yes’ about three days ago.”

I jumped and hit his arm.  “Elliot!!  Why didn’t you tell me!!”

“Well, I didn’t think it was something I should text you!” he laughed.

“Of course it is!  That way I wouldn’t be worrying about this amazing married man who I super like possibly leaving my life because I can’t handle not being with him sexually and freaking out that I’ll lose out on a friendship too!”  I stopped only to take a breath.

“Seriously!  I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

His grin ate his face and he pulled me down onto it and we breathed each other’s puffs and smiled together and I wished I’d hidden the laundry on my dresser, too.

::

We finished the white wine he’d brought while at my little dining room table.  The house smelled like brown sugared carrots and balsamic reduction with smokey salts and my heart felt like exploding.  I cleared our plates and returned to the table and got lost in his whiskey colored eyes.  I hung on every word he uttered.

“I better do the dishes,” I said and got up and headed to the sink.  I’d changed into a white t-shirt and stretchy cotton skirt, no bra, somewhere around the time he was deglazing the pork pan.  He sidled up behind me and cupped my breasts on the outside of my shirt.  I leaned into him and looked up, he bent down and caught my mouth.

He lifted me up onto the counter and our hands roamed as our lips locked.  I pecked at his neck and undid his buttons.  He pulled my shirt up and off just as I got his off of him.  I spread my knees and pulled him against my bare breasts.  His bulge above the counter top cradled in the pocket of my thighs.

So much is in a kiss.  It is care and skill, thoughtfulness and play.  A kiss is hope and it is momentum.  A kiss can start and sustain, it can also smash me to smithereens and shoot me to the stars.  I may have appeared to have been in my little kitchen with a large man between my legs, but I was actually in orbit. Did you see me last night twinkling in the night’s sky??

I lit candles in my room and he made a joke about my laundry.  I probably told him to shut up, but who really knows?

His magical mouth was on my breasts and pulling on my nipples.  His long fingers stroked and his hand slammed against me as I moaned and spilled out my weak heart onto his warm skin.

I tugged off his black American Tall underwear and filled a little more than two fists with thick hot man meat.

“Look at you!” I admired what was in my hands.  “You’re no fucking fruit fly!!”  He laughed uproariously – he’d been gleefully torturing me about “being hung like a fruit fly” for days not knowing anything about the anxiety that produced in me.

“I am quite happy with what I’ve got.”

“As well you should be!!”

I stuffed as much as I could down my throat and he moaned.

“Show off.”

We played and kissed and I came and he played with me some more.  Curled and cuddled into each other we dozed and I told him my fantasy to have a man who loved me no matter what or who I did.  Someone who was happy that I had a married boyfriend and a fuck buddy and a sub and who understood I was still his.

He squeezed me tightly and kissed my temple.  “I hope you find that, too.”

He operates under the notion that when I find someone who can give me “more” than he can that I will end our liaison.  What he doesn’t seem to believe is that he has already given me more than I’ve had in years.  Possibly ever.  I won’t be ending this any time soon.

It was getting later by the minute and I was still in orbit inside the ring of his long arms.  I rolled onto my back and his left hand hooked into me and I came crying into his mouth, his swollen, pulsing cock in my hand.  We dozed again.

When I stirred he woke, too.  “I have to go.  I’m so tired and have to be at work at 7.”  I kissed him long and slow, my fingers tracing the whiskers on his jaw.

“Wait…”

I switched on the Hitachi and pressed it against me.  His hand full of a breast and his mouth plying mine with comet tails.  I cried into his mouth as stars burst through me and I sparkled away.

I turned into him, nose to nose, and traced his lips with my fingertips.  “I am crushing so hard on you,” I leaked out.

“When will you believe that I’m not going anywhere, Hy?  I don’t let just anyone in.  I take this very seriously.”

“I’m trying, it’s just so hard.  I like you so much.”

“I like you, too.”

He made moves to leave again, but I convinced him to lay with his head on my breasts folded in my arms and we sailed through space together for a few more heartbeats before he had to get dressed.

We passed through the apartment making sure he didn’t forget anything and as he was leaving I stepped up on my kitchen stool, now slightly above his eye-level.  He wrapped his arms around me I melted against him and played with his hair.

“Saturday.”

“Yes, Saturday.”

I hopped down and walked him to the door where he bent down and kissed me again.  I floated back to bed and haven’t landed since.

An InLinkz Link-up

This life has a price.

For the last 3 weeks there have been no men in my life, but “no men” for me means something drastically different from what it does for the average woman.  It means I don’t see anyone in person, a distancing from my online pots, and my Instagram and Snapchat accounts – the ever-present, looming, wet-tipped hardon of my life – also take a backseat.

Men are everywhere for me, inescapable, a pleasant white noise at best and nails on a chalkboard at worst.  I’m under no misconceptions that my lifestyle and my choices exact a toll on me.  Nothing in life is free and that includes love, sex, and even the magic found in each.

A few weeks ago I fell beneath several grunting, thrusting bodies.  I collected spooge in my ass and pussy, kissed hot, fat tongues and puckered assholes.  I drank sparkling alcoholic things, highlighted my cheekbones, and tenderly cared for the lips between my thighs with the diligence of a working girl.

I was ravenous, high from one hot tryst to the next hotter tryst.

The Aussie’s gorgeous giant slab of meat split me in two as his furry chest tickled my heaving breasts.  His pale skin and eyes and dark dusting of hair across his muscled body reminded me of The Neighbor.  We spent the afternoon holding hands and making out on a busy tourist-trap street and fucked like animals under the curtain of night.  He tasted of booze and the Ben and Jerry’s he insisted we buy him; his cock tasted like an A+ feels.

He’s a temporary resident, a long-term visitor, busy at the local university doing nerdy things.  I love that a science-y foreigner managed to bury 9″ of fleshy steel in my ass.  Our second date included a quickie in his dingy co-op bedroom.  A bottle of wine split between us and with little formalities.  I was there for a reason.

He set down one of his two wine glasses, climbed on the bed and straddled my hips with his feet.  I unwrapped him like a present and let him disappear into my face.  We tore off our own clothing and I backed up to him like a mare in heat.  He slid in long and hot and came deep and rolling while holding my waist from behind. I wished I’d won the argument to pull his curtains back to view any foot traffic outside.  I do love to give a good show.

We spent another 10 hours together doing uniquely university things, drinking beer and befriending strangers.  I awoke on his bed to him reminding me I had to get home to take care of the dog.  That dog is my savior.

The Universe decided to send me another well-endowed foreigner a week later.  The Doctor was in town for a convention of brilliance and as a European he and his wife had a different kind of sensibility about monogamy.  His hall pass was also a direct pass to my ass.  Twice.

After dinner we tore the bed apart in his upgraded hotel room.  A night of teasing and talking made us sizzle and the origin of his accent eluded and enticed me.  He delighted in mystifying me, but once I’d wrapped my lips around his cock he’d whispered its Baltic origins with a chuckle.

We lay entwined on the couch after our first round and drank the bubbly we’d gotten.  Deep thoughts, deep words with a stranger passing through [me].  He asked if he could fuck me in my ass bareback.  I said Yes and he bent me over, spit in his hand and slowly pushed in.

I froze from the intensity, clung to the couch like a drowning woman as orgasm seized my body.  He moved gingerly, then with longer strokes as he felt my ejaculate splatter on his bare toes.  I came again as he filled me up in my dirty place.  A first for me.

We showered and kissed, his skin slick and as ever such a novelty to me.  I never get to taste these intimate moments with my lovers.  The tender moment of wiping away bubbles or caressing the smooth curve of a wet buttock, the little hanging pouch between his legs.  A place where a man is as vulnerable feeling as a woman: bathing and relaxed.

On the bed atop a blanket of towels he took my ass while I lay on my back.  I thrashed and moaned, cried from the unbearable ecstasy of the impaling of my body.  He cried out, dumped more jizz up my ass, and crumpled on me panting.

I set my alarm and fell asleep in his arms and he walked me to the door at dawn.  I grabbed some coffee and a croissant from the continental breakfast downstairs on my way out and smirked at the two young men staring at me from behind the front desk.  Thanks, Hilton.  I’ll be around.

The next week was a man from Seattle and he wanted a date for Friday night rather than having to hang out with his colleagues.  We met at a hotel with comfortable couches and ate truffle fries and drank wine.  The music pulsed and the floor began to fill.  I took him by the hand and led him to the hall with the single-use restrooms, pulled him into one and locked the door.

I unbuckled him, turned around and lifted my skirt.  He pressed his little dick in me and pulled my hair as I came on my shoes.  He followed suit inside of me.  I splattered water on the water my body had dumped to dilute any scent.  We scurried out, still holding hands, and canoodled on the couch.  We agreed shortly after that it was time to say goodbye.  Goodbye, Seattle.

Those were encounters which energized me.  They were on my terms, the men were fun and open and listened to every word I said.  I was done when we were done; there was none of the mismatched energy after an encounter.  No, “Why the fuck hasn’t he texted???”  The last week before I took a break, though, I had too much.  Not sex, but too many men in my space and on my energy.

I made dinner for my friend who cat-sat for me while I was in London, had a date with an Asian American man with the whitest name ever who made jokes about it and helped me with two bottles of sparkling rosé.  I met with a long-time pen pal about being my sub, and topped it off with the man from Seattle.

Four dates in 5 days, constant fire and bubbles in my belly.  Seduction becomes as second nature as saying Hello for it all starts at Hello.  And all the texts, the emails grooming the men for meeting me and falling in love with me for 12 hours or less to get what I want.  It costs me something, this dazzling nature of mine.

And before that there were all the men from what can only be called a March Madness.  Michele, and Jean Luc, JJ, Garrett.

It’s at once a fun game and an exercise.  I’ve needed the rest and reflection for in it I have recovered from my gorging.  I must have needed the reminder that I could go hard if I wanted.  It’s impossible to maintain.  I want something intense and sexy, I want there to be an actual future with someone.  I guess I should stop saying Yes to all the sexy visitors.

Nah, who are we kidding??  I’ll always say Yes to a passerby.  They’re the very best kind of man who leaves because I already know they will.  That’s a price I can live with.

 

 

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.

 

Erotic.

Stuck.

Your cock choked and purple at attention in my warm hand, beautifully bound with a wide, golden ribbon, wrapped with a bow.  Your gift to me.

How I yearn for its obedience and your loss of control which I catch on the wind as you set it free.  I collect it like so many wild flowers on a morning walk, my pile of power a sumptuous, heady fragrance.

I look back over my shoulder at you, wriggle down on your hips, clasp your throbbing meat in my hands and slowly milk you.  Long, friendly strokes, light slaps, a tug on your bulbous scrotum.

Your cries caress my ears, your semen spurts dutifully into my hands, my smile curves upon my lips. The leather around your wrists groans with the strain of your body arching into its ecstasy. Just like I wanted you to.

Mm.

I hope to continue my travels along the lanky lines of your body, the pale valleys and cut ridges, the tender spots of your emotional domain.

I’ll miss you while you’re gone.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest