Early afternoon lunch.

Hold me.  I need a fucking hug.

He texted me every day for two weeks.  Parried and played with words, flirted and flitted about my little phone screen.

I told him I could be free either Friday or Saturday nights, but it all depended on Pey and my parents and which night they wanted to spend together.  He said he preferred Saturday and then it all worked out.  Saturday it was.

No, he didn’t need help picking something to do because he was brand new to town.  He’d be happy to figure something out.  Yes, he’d follow me to the table to check out my sexy rear end because he prefers meaty women like me.  Of course he’s certain I look cute every day.  Wow, he thinks I’m really pretty!  Morning darlin, he said practically every morning.  What are you wearing today?  And we’d joke at how filthy such an innocent question sounded.

And then on the bright, cold morning of our date I read the following text:

Early afternoon lunch

No punctuation.  No context.  No more anything.

I responded with question marks and confusion and lots of space so he could play with the rope.  By late afternoon I couldn’t help but send one last text to at least acknowledge the event that was occurring:

I get the feeling we’re not having our date tonight since I haven’t heard from you since that 8 am text about an early afternoon lunch…

*More silence*

All the words, all the darlin’s, all the flirty, flitty, parrying, and playing amounted to one big fat fucking black hole of my energy and hope.  And a last minute appeal to a girlfriend so that my rare Saturday night would not go to waste.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Forgettable.  May you get a nasty rash and wake up 30 minutes too early for the rest of your selfish and impolite life.  Now excuse me while I go deal with my quiet, impotent rage over the betrayal of a simple social contract: do what you say you will and if you cannot then you say so.

Have a nibble on that for your bitch time slot early afternoon lunch, why don’t you?

 

February Photofest

Floating along in 2019.

Holla.

It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project.  I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again.  It kinda feels good.  Too good.  Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.

Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995.  I liked it there a lot.  It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.

February Photofest

It was like walking by a perfumed woman.

One minute it was there: real, wonderful, delicious in its lingering scent. Like a garden around the corner in full bloom.

And then, as if swept away on a breeze, it was long past me and the space between us convinced him he was wrong: it was nothing to pursue or look forward to with me.

He had decided he would cancel our date tonight and any further engagements.

The Magical Sub was not so magical after all.

And I was right.

I choked on tears in the car when I got the first warning text at 12:30 expressing his reservations. I was headed to the grocery store to buy supplies. I sat in the parking lot instead and replied, calmly and warmly. Four hours later he finally confirmed he’d had a change of heart.

No matter, really.

I’d driven straight home and crawled under my covers in my workout clothes and cried off and on into my pink velvet pillow shams for the rest of the afternoon.

The house was a mess and there was no food. I’d gone to no trouble. Fuck him. Fuck it.

I didn’t respond to his last text apologizing and saying he felt like an asshole. Well, yeah. You should. Not going to argue with you; I’m going to walk away with my head held high, tyvm.

Prior to this afternoon he’d excitedly asked me about my rope skills and sent drooling emojis about seeing me again. There were lots of warm smiles and exclamations from him.

I guess the bright cold winter air sobered him up.

I can’t quite understand why I even keep trying, to be honest. Such a waste of my everything.

FUCK OFF. xx

My last Sinful Sunday of the year. Click below for everyone else!

Sinful Sunday

This ain’t gonna be easy.

I’m at Ground Zero for my new life project, Dating Like It’s 1995, and already I am feeling the burn.

I recently met a hot, sassy fella on Fetlife.  He’s 15 years my junior and just moved from another state.  Like, on Friday.  He’s never subbed before, but I am attracted to his energy and his cheeky sense of humor and confidence, so we agreed to meet up Friday for drinks.

I hadn’t heard from him since I wrote my post this morning until about 15 minutes ago, so that’s about 4 hours of life in 1995.  If I thought staying on track was going to be hard on my end, articulating my desires to others may prove even more difficult.

Exhibit A:

Hy:
And I gotta be honest. It’s kind of a bummer that I have no emails to look forward to on FL now that we’re texting lol

Him:
[…]
Lol whys that?

Hy:
I hate texting… but I’m using it like IM right now, so it’s bearable

Him:
You enjoyed looking at my dick everytime I txt u?

Hy:
Because emails mean you have given or are getting 100% of someone’s attention. With true texting (not IMing) you get only a fraction. People are at stop lights, between meetings, on the toilet, etc lol

Ha No

I hardly noticed it once we started talking

Him:
Lol needy much👅

I must just be all.over you huh

Hahaha

Hy:
OMG

Hardly

Him:
Oh youll.love my loving don’t you worry

I gtg tho my phone is dying and I need it fpr my car registration

Hy:
And no, please don’t be all over me. I just prefer communicating with someone with all of my attention and getting all of someone else’s. No distractions. Like in 1995 (were you born yet? lol). Full convos, etc.

K – have fun

What have I gotten myself into???  Maybe it’ll just be easier to live on a mountain top with my Hitachi and an occasional foray to a Navy port city.

Finding a D/s dance partner is one long and lonely night.

I have always known why I want to dominate.

It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge.  It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.

I want to dominate so I may trust.

A year ago I met Nate.  I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings.  He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers.  I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.

He found me on CollarSpace.  Approached me like a normal man, but respectful.  Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique.  Simpmanding.  Demanpering?

We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine.  His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table.  We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.

He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties.  He was usually dominant he said.  He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax.  I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.

At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces.  His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes.  “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.

We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going.  He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs.  At 3 am we were virtually alone.

He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business.  His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated.  He wanted the freedom of no control.

He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me.  When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.

We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out.  He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain.  “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.

“Nope.  Not at all,” I laughed.

Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives.  The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage.  His eyes bugged when I opened the door.  The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.

For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie.  A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.

I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold.  And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.

Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me.  I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.

My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly.  His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience.  Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.

I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air.  He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.

Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies.  It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate.  I wanted to trust him.  I wanted to trust him so badly. 

My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans.  We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate.  He was eager, willing, and listened to me.  I felt heard.

The very last time we were together things felt a little off.  He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space.  I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.

I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders.  His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.

I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon.  He was so open to me, waiting, trusting.  I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.

The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined.  A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have.  The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me.  I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure.  I shook with the effort to  take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!

“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest.  “You have to stop pushing on me.  You’re about to fling me right off.”  We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.

He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock.  It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.

He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles.  He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.

I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom.  He was embarrassed there may be a mess.  I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.

We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened.  As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside.  I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window.  My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.

He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony.  He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour.  I’d needed more time to come back into myself.  He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.

We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings.  We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting.  I felt good about the chat, so did he.  And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.

He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us.  I wished him well and accepted my fate.  We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat.  He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.

Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more.  My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.

Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out.  Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it.  It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist.  It’s not all a complete loss, though.

Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me.  I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.

And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.

He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting.  Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March.  I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me.  Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term.  I seem to be really good at that.

This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate.  There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master.  My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world.  Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing.  I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high.  It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.

I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.

Men are so precious: How to weed out the idiots with your online profile

Let me set the stage.

I have a lengthy and well thought out profile on FetLife that outlines my requirements for a sub (fit, hung, significantly bigger than me to name a few) with an additional requirement nestled in it to vet the lazy, self-absorbed, and/or impatient.  It’s a line towards the bottom where I ask them to tell me what their favorite vacation destination is.  I have this kind of question in all my profiles, actually.

Remember that story about Led Zepplin or some ridiculously huge and famous band whose tour rider was 45 pages long and towards the back, but not at the very end because it’d be easy to spot, was buried a request to have their M&Ms sorted into different groups by color? [Update: it was Van Halen and “no brown M&Ms.”]

Yeah, well, if they showed up to a venue and there weren’t sorted M&Ms they’d walk out the concert promoters wouldn’t get paid.  It was a quick and easy way to know their rider hadn’t been read and they weren’t interested in rewarding folks that half-assed it.  Likewise, I’m not interested in dealing with a sub (or regular man, for that matter) that half-asses it with me, either.

The other thing you need to know is that I bother Ferns with my sub-tales all the time and as soon as I read the last message I copied it and sent it off to her with my thoughts.  Like, instantly. Thank god she loves me.

::

[My thoughts are in bold italics.]

Amongtheclueless
27M Sensualist
5w
Candidly speaking, I love your profile and would like to get to know you. If that feeling is mutual I would be quite happy. I have a lot to offer in the some of positive sexual energy and friendship. Im a pretty creative, intelligent, and naughty type. Hope to hear from you.
Happy to share more pics too, I actually reduced my images on here to be a bit more privacy oriented after it came to my attention that others were cat-fishing me.
[Lame ass form letter, but he’s hot and hung, so…]

Hy Jones
43F Domme
3w
Have you read my profile?

Amongtheclueless
3w
Yep
[Clearly he has not]

Hy Jones
3w
Prove it ;)
[I immediately regretted the winky face]

Amongtheclueless
3w
How so?
[Are you fucking kidding me??? BUT HOT SO…]

Hy Jones
3w
Read my profile and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Amongtheclueless
3w
favorite vacation part? I love Paris. Riviera. France.
[What a fucking idiot.  I let it sit and 3 weeks later I get:]

Amongtheclueless
6h
Not interested ?

Hy Jones
1h
It’s not flowing, kid. This entire thread has been me pulling teeth. I haven’t enjoyed or been impressed by your correspondence. So, yeah. At this point I am not interested.

Amongtheclueless
45m
Kid? Get off your high horse. You’re not above anyone.

You can’t respond to this conversation because Amongtheclueless has deactivated their account, you’ve blocked them, or they’ve blocked you.
[BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA]

[Immediately copy and paste and send to Ferns]

::

It’s painful to read this for so many reasons, but this is what dating is like: someone routinely totally and completely misses everything that’s laid out in front of them, gets pissy, huffs off and learns absolutely nothing and goes and does it to someone else.  Me me me me me me!  TL;DR: it’s sum’ bullshit.

The additional preciousness of this correspondence is that he says to a Domme he’s hoping to hook up with, “you’re not above anyone.”  Oh man hahahahaha I can’t even!

Needless to say, I recommend to one and all to bury a little request of the reader/potential lover into your profiles.  It makes culling the herd that much easier and you might get a good fucking laugh out of it, too.

Dodging bullets and finding solace.

Last Friday I was sad about Elliot.  Sad for what could have been, sad that we’d never be special, sad that it had to end.

I texted him my heaviness.

“Today I’m feeling a little sad that the timing of things was bad for us. I really liked what we were doing: all the talking, the hanging out, etc. It was a sweet and fun 4 weeks in the beginning, a real treat. How you doin?”

His response?

“Sorry you’re bummed. I’m OK, doing the back to school thing, getting ready to go out of town for work next week. Making a concerted effort to be in touch with my parents.”

The ol’ “I’m sorry you feel that way” line.  It plunged me a little deeper into my sadness, but then something odd happened: I popped back up like a buoy.  I had dodged a bullet.

During our ill-fated and brief affair he told me repeatedly that he was an “asshole” and that sex wasn’t that important to him.  I couldn’t believe him, outright refused to really, but in the end I had to believe and take action.  I can’t be with someone who is so mired in depression and introversion and finds himself incapable of giving even the littlest glimmer of something.  And I definitely can’t be with someone who considers himself disinterested in sex.  I ignored my exhusband’s claims and that bought me a one-way ticket to sexual misery.

In that same text exchange I clarified our relationship and we agreed we wanted to continue with a friendship and professional association (we have complimentary careers).  Relief washed over me, I saw the lighthouse.

I didn’t think about him again until he texted me Monday morning asking for some advice.  We chatted, got him sorted out, made jokes.  I put my phone down and forgot about him all over again.

Until that night when he texted me again from a remote work destination.

“I’m at a place called Busty Bob’s that has 25¢ oysters. Probably not gonna try those.”  It was a reference to our first date where the oysters gave me food poisoning and I had to cut our date short and it was then he decided he wanted me in his life.

We chatted some, he made more jokes, I replied and then it stopped.

Today he’s crossed my mind and I’ve gone to text him several times, but have stayed my itchy fingers.  Our friendship will unfold however it should, but in the mean time I’m going to turn towards sunshine, not rain.  Like Peter.

Sweet Peter whose aversion to condoms never stopped him from wanting to have a good makeout sesh and make me cum a few times.  We met 3 years ago shortly after things ended with The Neighbor.  He never apologized or felt bad for not being able to fuck me with his dick, he just switched gears and ate at the apex of my thighs like the whistle had blown and finger fucked me to oblivion while making love to my face with his soft, supple mouth.

We liked to hang out in my hot tub or go for a swim.  He bought a pair of swim trunks that have permanent residence on my bathroom hook for whenever he comes over.  “Other friends can wear them, too,” he told me knowing I was a busy woman.  He was always a pleasure to be around.

He’s tall, 6’6″, 10 years younger than me, has dark hair and green almond-shaped eyes.  His body is lithe and pale, his mind quick, and he’s got a hall pass from a begrudging girlfriend who’s my age.

It wasn’t until things with Elliot began to unravel that I threw caution to the wind and on one of our afternoon trysts let him fuck me bareback.   I don’t know why I did that – it just felt right – and the results were miraculous.  He was rock hard and delicious.  He strained to control himself and slowly stroked us both with long pauses and pull outs.

“I don’t want this to end too quickly,” he kept saying.

We rolled around entwined, laughing and kissing during his pauses.  He’d say the kindest things and I would squeeze him and nibble his neck careful not to leave any marks.

He filled me up twice that afternoon and we lay in each other’s arms and I told him all my woes with Elliot.  My heart was breaking over one man and yet I found solace in the arms of another, so tender and kind.

We’ve met nearly every week since that fateful condom-free week.  As the tears fell in my alone time, he filled me up when we were together.  The loss of Elliot made all the more bearable for the tender kisses I got from Peter.

Heartbreak is better spent together.

 

 

 

An anti climax.

It’s 11:30 pm and I just woke on my crouch for a second time tonight. I’m exhausted and displaced and need to lie down.

Today I rallied at a protest downtown and then I had a first date and it was weird because it wasn’t with him but he’s off somewhere far away and I’m not supposed to not date anyway so here I am dating.

I’ll fill in the links and badges and banners tomorrow morning. For now, the dog and I must transplant to the bedroom.

G’night.

Extrovert recharge.

What I needed tonight was just what I got: two men’s full and undivided attention over cocktails, red meat and giggles.

All quite innocent except for all the sex talk.

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.

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