He fucked me to oblivion.

Soon to be unwrapped.
Soon to be unwrapped.

I wasn’t doing very well Saturday night. Nothing had or hadn’t happened. Everything was basically the same. All that was different was my ability to cope, to be tough.

The days had stretched me thin. My people needed a lot from me and I’d risen to the challenge, stretched and flexed and gave and gave, but I didn’t take enough care. I was stupid. I forgot to be gentle with me and then I snapped like a dried twig. I felt rabid and unleashed.

I got home late Friday night, Peyton in tow, exhausted. I put my baby to bed fully clothed and texted The Neighbor as he’d asked me to do earlier, but I didn’t get the response I wanted. He said he was too tired and “sorry”.

He wouldn’t be coming over.

I couldn’t handle it and quietly crumpled in on myself as I kissed my baby goodnight and tucked in the covers around the little body which mine created a handful of years ago. Looking at Peyton’s face I felt ashamed at my own needs and wished I was stronger. I quietly slipped out of the night-light lit room and texted back that I’d had a terrible day and an insignificant spat with a best girlfriend.

I peeled off my clothes and got ready for bed, pulled back my sheets and stood up straight when I heard a noise. Was it the door? He is reliably unreliable in a reliable kind of way. I’d known my text might bring him over, but I also knew I couldn’t depend on that particular response. He can be so caring, so tender and other nights distant and walled off. I never know what to expect from him. I feel simultaneously blind and dumb and powerfully confident.

I went and let him in.

I sat on my bed in my panties and a tank top and he lay on his side, his head held in his hand. “The thing is, TN, is I had a really crappy day. I’ve really spread myself thin the past two days and my mentor left today and I organized a big going away thing for her.” My voice caught in my throat. “Oh god, I’m going to cry,” I said as tears slipped out. “Fuck.”

He quietly looked at me and patted my arm and squeezed my shoulder consolingly. “I’m sorry you had a bad day.” He sat up on his knees, pushed his crotch towards me. “Here. Pet your security penis.”

I laughed at his efforts to lift my spirits and did as he suggested. He pushed me down and latched onto a breast. I let the pain distract me for a second, but my mood wasn’t so easily lifted. He said more kind words, lay with me, but eventually he left after tucking me in and leaving a sweetness behind. I slowly drifted off to sleep. Alone.

Saturday morning I woke up and remembered my dream. I texted, “I dreamt we watched Idiocracy twice. Can we do that tonight?”

His reply:

“Nope. I got other stuff tonight.”

I shut down. Hard. I seethed with resentment and disdain. “You know me, Hy,” he always loves to say, “I hate making plans.”

I texted back. “Oh, right. Have fun.”

He replied. “K.”

I saw red. I wasn’t even upright in bed, yet, and still I felt angry and venomous. I realized then that my mood hadn’t improved from the night before, if anything it’d deteriorated. This wasn’t rational, clearly. I picked up my phone again striving for balance:

“I don’t think you know how terse you come across on text. Or maybe you do. I don’t know. But my bad mood makes it worse.”

He replied, “Sorry to hear you’re still in a bad mood. That sucks.”

I ignored it and got dressed, lots of things to do — places to go, people to see. We had our first softball practice as teammates at 1. I figured I’d see his face then. Maybe I’d be in a better mood by then.

I rarely feel this way. I don’t get mad or agitated like I should. I experience irritation and crank, yes, but generally, I can keep my shit together, but not that morning. That morning I felt raw and furious. “Nope. I got other stuff tonight,” he’d said. I could just hear him: mysterious, stupidly private. And me, completely and utterly — embarrassingly — irrational about it all.

An hour before practice my phone chimed from its spot buried in my purse which lay on my friend’s bed away from the brunch. I gathered up Peyton, hugged my friends goodbye and checked my messages. TN wanted to know when I was leaving for practice. I told him my plans and he asked if he could go with me. I typed out, “Nope. I got other stuff after,” but hovered over the Send button. It felt too vulnerable in its petulance. Instead I typed, “Sure,” then hit Send.

I raced home and Peyton and I quickly climbed the 40 steps up. I ran to change into more appropriate clothes and I heard the door knock from my bedroom. I was sliding on a pair of leggings when I heard Peyton open the door and TN ask, “Is your mommy home? Can she come out to play?” I rounded the corner to the living room. I looked at him with a flat gaze. “Wow, you look…” he searched for words, “still really not happy.”

“Yep. Pretty much,” I squeezed out. “C’mon, Pey, let’s go, honey.” I gathered up our stuff and we piled into my car.

Two hours of moving my arms and legs, balls smacking into leather, cleats digging into dirt and I felt relief in sweat and other people. TN and I flirted, played well off each other. He pitched, I played first. It was a tango of reliance and trust. His cock outlined audaciously by his loose, grey shorts kept my eyes below his waistline and my libido burning.

Later, after drinks with friends and once again kid-free he came to me in my apartment. “I feel better,” I told him, “but I still need my security penis.” He followed me back to my room and pushed me down on the bed and crawled in next to me. I curled into his nook and inhaled deeply of his manly flavor. I traced my hand down his naked body and flexed my fingers around his flaccid penis. I wasn’t angry anymore, just sad and lost, floating. I needed him.

Our words left our mouths and burst like bubbles above our heads. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This doesn’t even seem to exist half the time. “Suck on my breasts, please,” I said and rolled off of him onto my back.

“What’s the magic word?” he asked.

“NOW,” I said firmly.

He fell onto my bags of flesh with gusto and a smile.

“Get between my legs,” I softly commanded. He positioned himself between my white thighs, but took it further and ripped my panties off, licked his hand and smeared it on the head of his cock and pressed against my hole with his mouth reattached to my left breast.

I was deliciously dry and I felt every inch of him press and stretch into me. He pulled out after a moment of fighting his way in, then slid back in, just a sliver of an eternity further. I stared into his icy blue eyes and watched him watch me, his broad shoulders bearing his weight, my inner thighs wrapped around his warm waist.

Each inch, each thrust felt like a finality, a verdict. I’m owned, I thought. This is it. I can’t get more fucked than this. Finally, he’s here.

He pumped into me until I gushed and slopped around his pole; the round, fruity, excruciating sensations spiraled out from my core and I tossed my head from side to side and gripped the swirls on my headboard.

My phone chimed and I grabbed it laughing — Peyton was due back in minutes.

I ground down hard on him, hooking myself on his cock. My desire spilled over like an infinity pool. I didn’t want it to end, but we disengaged and I lay in his arms. We panted and clung to each other.

“How do you feel now?” he asked.

“Much better,” I whispered. My body still tingled from the climaxes and I felt like I’d won something between us.

“Good.”

My phone chimed again.

Quickly we dressed and he jumped back next door and I ran downstairs to retrieve my baby. Back in my bedroom Peyton said, “Mommy, your room smells like underpants!” You can send that Mother of the Year Award to me now, by the way.

Later, childless yet again, I danced with my devil. I embraced my loneliness, a bottle of wine, and Don Draper, and began to write. I was clad in jeans and a white v-neck with wine dribbled down my breasts. I floated in between despair and boredom when I heard a knock. I jumped.

It was him.

He’d gone to a birthday party. I wasn’t invited, naturally — I’m never invited — but he was home two hours after he left and said he hadn’t had any fun. And he was in my house. “We’re watching Idiocracy now,” he said and waltzed by.

I hid my writing with a click of the mouse and padded to my room. We chatted casually as I removed my pants and socks and changed into a clean t-shirt and cardigan.

We cuddled and watched the movie and I laughed and felt less desperate, less alone, but all alone all the same, as always with him. My heart in his hands, my eyes set on a future without him, crystal clear and bright in the distance.

When the movie ended we could hear the 18 year olds downstairs partying away like maniacs. “Can I stay the night at your place?” I asked, snuggled down into his arms.

“No,” he answered firmly. I felt pulled back into that space far away from him where I am safe from such words and so all I did was burrow further into his embrace. I wasn’t hurt. “C’mon,” he whispered into my ear when he stood up. “Let’s go lay down.”

Clothes were pulled to the side and skin stretched and holes stuffed. My eyes locked on his as long as I could bear it — I don’t feel so lost in the icy depths so much as I feel anchored — then I shut them and let his body kick mine higher and harder like a ball underfoot and chased across one field to the next.

My pussy released a river and I giggled between thrusts when I felt it trickle between the cheeks of my bottom. I unashamedly shared this little human thing with him and he redoubled his efforts, his cock enraged and bulging inside of me. I was just a little girl clinging to her rampaging steed.

Suddenly, he pulled out and flopped down beside me. “I’m getting overheated,” he panted, his beefy hand resting on his rapidly rising chest, his cock still arcing gracefully up and away from his body like a dolphin from the water’s surface.

“I’m going to cum now,” I said suddenly. I clamored out of bed and searched for my vibrator, the thing I’d sworn off for the month of January. I detached the Gonzo piece and plugged it in. “But I want you inside of me.”

He easily slipped back in and pumped into me hard and fast, then lay back down and lifted my legs over my hips so he could bury himself into me. The instant the buzzing head hit my clit I began the climb and his thrusts carried me a step further and further. Tears leaked out of my eyes and I whimpered and clasped at his hip and waist and arm.

The orgasm came hard and huge and I balled as my heart broke and my tightly shut eyes envisioned a woman curled around herself forever alone, but always filled. I shook and trembled as it finished and gasped for air. Someone suggested I try for another one. More of the same, but worse and more beautiful. I wailed and cried out how much I loved his fucking cock and his erection kept punching into me as if it were only five minutes old instead of 55.

I felt my cunt release hot liquid again as I screamed out and lost all modicum of decorum. There was no Hy, there was only a beast, a woman whose heart was shattered and pussy filled all by the same human being. Delectable, devastating, demanding, disabled, debauched, and deluded TN. Sweet, sweet TN.

He remarked he’d never seen me lose my shit quite like that before.

I couldn’t form a thought enough to agree or disagree. I was just a wet and weeping heap.

We disengaged, I sucked his magnificent cock, we talked and kissed maybe? I don’t fucking have any clue, honestly. I love him so much, yet secretly hate him, that he can do that to me. I want so badly to return the favor. He’s letting me in, letting me love, receiving my gifts because, he realized, “It’s a gift to let someone do something nice for me; it makes them feel good. It think that means I really have been listening to you, Hy.”

It feels incongruous to feel this way about him. To love him, yet see no future. But there is no future, technically, only now, so maybe I really do have it. It. That thing that we all hunt.

Finally alone again with Don Draper my chemistry returned to normal and the next morning was delightful, the afternoon, too. The mind and pussy fucks the day before acted like nutrients to a starving person. My strength had returned.

I am becoming a Domme.

Being dominant isn’t easy — I can’t even bring myself to capitalize the words for talking about myself.  It seems too self important, too damn cheesy. I’m a neophyte “Dominant”. I have no desire to truly put myself above another? Does that make me less dominant because my desire isn’t to be above, but in control of?

This new area of my psyche — and of The Neighbor’s — that we have begun to poke around in is wondrous and strange. Being dominant over him perfectly incorporates much of what has come naturally to me most of my life: leadership, caring, intuition, and control.

As a mother I have been in charge of a life and all its minutiae; as a woman raised in a relationship-centered culture I am intuitive and always anticipating someone’s needs and thoughts (thanks, sexist world, for that). My personality is bold and fearless, despite my attacks of ridiculous bashfulness and I’m creative to the bone; and control is the elusive thing I have yearned for in all my relationships, and knowing that it’s a parlor trick of heart and mind makes it even more tantalizing to me.  Like spraying myself in a cloud of perfume in the middle of a dump. I can pretend I’m somewhere else for a minute or hour or two.

We’ve gently explored our roles over the past few weeks and exhausted our brains talking about limits and expectations. I know his hard limits and I have been reading exhaustively what it means to be a “good Domme.”

I don’t want to humiliate him unduly. I want him to trust me, to give himself and his body over to me completely. I crave being needed, feeling important to him.

I’ve gently rebuked him when he pointed out the obvious, fearful I would miss it. He’d tried to squirm away from me when I placed a wedge of ice on his round, rosy bottom due to a pleasant belt-heavy punishment because he wouldn’t stop grossing me out about something.

“My jeans will get wet!” he’d protested. I held him down and smacked him smartly then blotted the wetness dry with a fluffy towel I’d spotted hanging over my foot board earlier.

“You need to trust me, TN. You need to understand that I will have thought of everything already, that I will take care of you before even you know you need it.  Unless being neglected is something you get off on, you need to understand that I also need to take care of you.” He sighed then and sunk deeper into my mattress as I let the ice melt more easily than his walls seem to be. But I am a patient woman.

Being dominant, to me, means I am in charge of this young man’s everything. His desire, his pleasure, his care, his pain, his fears. When I can meet his mistrust and dismantle it with a few softly spoken words and a kind, but firm hand, my heart soars.

He comes to me more and more with a twinkle in his eye, testing me, begging me to take the reins. I am growing more confident with each encounter and he is learning my limits and when we can switch. He forgives me when I stumble and I remind him how much power he has in this, yet NO isn’t an option anymore.  We’ve struggled with that one just a little.

Throughout our year-long plus affair he has wielded NO against me like an angry rider at an old nag. NO to this, NO to that. Sometimes with a polite thank you stapled onto it, sometimes cruelly applied, but he was like a child learning his rights and powers with grown ups and I went along with it. Until now.

I understand that NO for him is part of his emotional journey. A word that, until the last two years, was virtually absent from his vocabulary.  His childhood based in neglect and powerlessness forfeited him that basic human right to NO. He reclaimed it, abused me with it, and now I have gently demanded it back and he has willingly — trustingly — given it back to me.  I think he gets it.

I have asked to be the gentle keeper of his NO because it would destroy this delicate balance we are braiding together if he misuses it. His NO, claimed by him to thwart or challenge me, stops me dead and takes away all my dominance. It rocks me to the core in a more deeply intimate way than his regular nos did — those stung and stunk like shit, but they didn’t disembowel my ego.  I depend on his trust to go along with my demands in order to remain dominant in his presence.

We have a safeword, and he may use that, of course, but he may not tell me NO. He is beginning to understand his responsibility to me more, to the discourse between us. I’m not certain his former Domme explained any of this to him. They had a brief affair wherein she physically dominated him, certainly, but I’m unaware of the emotional dominance she demanded of him other than ordering him around.

She entered the playground an established Domme; she knew what she wanted and what she was doing and he deferred to her immediately and naturally. He’s seeing behind my velvet curtain, can see me struggle.  Maybe I have to work harder to gain his submission.  Hence the ban on NO.

Joy floods my heart when I know he’s baiting me so I’ll spank him and I feel balance when I redden his bottom and get to kiss it softly to make it better. Pushing my own limits to feel inside of his shell turns me inside out and inflames my desires for him; that he hands himself to me so willingly kick starts an engine in me I had no idea existed several weeks ago.

Then there are days, days like last week, when he clearly wanted to be in charge and I realized that I had power over that, too. I let him take it.

I gave it up and he took my foul mood and my soft body to bed and I emerged from the cocoon of my darkened room a little happier and a lot more centered.

It’s a process. I’m learning. I don’t always do it right.

A week and a half ago I wanted to exert some long-term control over him and therefore banned him from cumming unless I caused it. Ultimately, I’m tired of his hand stealing the pleasure of his jizz from us together, and I think it’s also an easy exercise to prove his loyalty to submission with me. He’d agreed, but slipped up two nights ago.

I frowned at him and spanked him once. “I’m not pleased, TN. For the love of God. All I want is your semen in my body. Somewhere. Is that too much to ask?? I don’t mind that it’s hard for you to cum, but do you think you could help me out a little bit? Keep your hands to yourself if you think there’s even the slightest chance we’ll fuck later?” He was silent, I was cross.

He looked down, ashamed. “I slipped up,” he said quietly.

“Ok. I need to think of a punishment for you. Lemme think, but you’re back on the No-Cumming regimen. Understood?” He nodded and went about with vacuuming my apartment, clad in a pair of my silky white panties trimmed in teal velvet and lace.

Eventually, he stripped out of my underpants and swung loose in front of the fire, vacuum in hand. I snapped pics and waited for him to finish. When he was done and flicked the machine off I said, “Ok, I know what your punishment is. You must clean your bathroom, rugs and everything. If you don’t, you aren’t allowed over here.”

He gasped. “Noooooooooooo!”

“No, really. I’m serious.” I’d promised myself I would not have my butt touch that toilet one more time in that condition.

“So, what if I never do it?” He was challenging my dominance and I had no smart, reasonable thing to counter with. I had stepped into the trap all parents know about: The Follow Through. I had laid out a consequence I was not actually willing to enforce and, just like a child, he immediately saw the weakness in my statement.

I’d overestimated him; I thought he’d play along like a grown up, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to be dominated, told what to do like a child. He needs a very firm, authoritative hand and I hadn’t quite realized it until that dreadful second I felt my power slip away.

Later, as he left that night, he twisted my nipples and sucked on the swells over my shirt, I hugged him close to me as my mind continued to search for a solution.  I didn’t feel good about our earlier exchange, but didn’t know what else to say. As the door clicked behind him and the cold draft dissipated around me it suddenly came to me.

I quickly pecked out the following text:

Let me start over with my newest demand. Erase the rewards and punishments we discussed from your brain. Just do as you’re told. You have until next Sunday to clean your bathroom, ok? I’ll review your efforts Monday night and respond accordingly.

His reply?

“Yes ma’am.”

Something is happening below my feet. It’s like the worms are wriggling and pushing the flowers up faster. TN is responding to this kind of care and love from me like a wilted houseplant. His attentions are more vibrant, more dependable, just more.

Laughter and fun — true Hyacinth fun — has therefore leaked into our dusty basement playground, as well. A bright, 4×4 beam-sized ray of sunshine slicing through the cobwebs and depravity. You see, it all comes down to humping.

It’s a dirty little secret of mine: I hump those I love.

I used to bite them back in college. I had a girlfriend once — a girl I didn’t particularly love — once have her feelings hurt because I’d bitten her two roommates, but not her. I show my affections in strange ways.

These days, I only hump. I humped my first love and second, and I’ve humped most of my girlfriends whom I love. In recent days, I’ve begun to hump TN – like a crazed Chihuahua. He laughs hysterically and tears squeeze out of my own eyes as my loud laughter joins his. It’s bizarre and ridiculous and fucking funny, y’all. What am I doing humping grown people anyway??

So, it was a sweet surprise when he started requesting it from me and doing it to me in turn. He’d lay on the floor and beckon to me, beg me to hump him. And just last night, as he was reluctantly leaving me and my sore throat, he came back to my bed, climbed on top of me and gyrated.

When he stopped, he just rested there, sunk down into my neck and hugged me tight. I squeezed and patted him back, smiling into his warm skin.

I may have been wrong about everything.

Maybe he really does love me after all — in his own way — I may have more of his heart than any woman may ever.

This could have something to do with him feeling safer with me under the constraints of a D/s relationship or maybe it has something to do with almost getting dumped by me again last week. A man’s realization of how close he’d come to his own death is a powerful thing and certainly requires changes.

He pledged his faithfulness to me that night of the almost-breakup. “I will be faithful to you, Hy, I promise. I will tell you before I look for another woman.” He remained non-committal, otherwise, but that pledge evaporated the crazy inside of me that was beginning to build.

“Hy, I’m not looking to date anyone right now. I can’t. I don’t want to lose this.” It was a sobering and comforting thought. After sacrificing love and commitment in order to keep doing this with him, it’s nice knowing he’s also sacrificing something. I feel like we’re more evenly matched and I feel more powerful, more worthy of dominating him.

He claimed that I do, indeed, receive love “of a certain kind.” I will cede this point to him. I do.

I’m holding my breath and waiting for the colossal sucker-punch waiting for me now that my defenses are lowering by the hour and my heart has opened more, instead of shutting down like it was supposed to. I thought the seasons were changing into something entirely different from this. I thought it was ending, but, like the coming spring, it’s blossoming into something new altogether. Fuck me.

photo 2
My heart, my universe.

His cock will be in me at midnight.

My malaise is somewhat percolating below the surface whenever we are apart; when we are together, it’s blown away like a cloud of gnats.

The Saturday before Christmas — after buying him a winter coat — The Neighbor gave me my first Christmas gift: a purple Rabbit.  Its cool, beaded  body sunk into me while his face latched onto my breasts.  It was overwhelming and my body rejected its ministrations.  It felt like a cold, little cucumber with hiccups.

So, his cock took over and he fucked me until I cried, pinned me on my back and stared deeply into my eyes as the daylight poured in through my bedroom windows.

He left me in a puddle and came back at 8, his handsome, boyish face plastered with a smile and his big paws holding one of those round fruitcake tins.  “It’s your second gift!” he said beaming.  I opened the lid and it was a gorgeous, 9 inch dildo.

“TN!!  It looks just like you!!”

We laughed and giggled at the likeness and he bent over my chair behind me and kissed my neck and nuzzled my cheek as I covered my face, overcome with emotion and bashfulness.

“Let’s watch a movie tonight,” he suggested.  I gathered up my cigarettes, a bottle of wine, popcorn, and of course the dildo, and marched next door.  I was quite literally vices on two legs.

I stuck the dildo on the coffee table and it stood guard as we snuggled down into each other to watch Tom Cruise do some impossible mission.  Half way through the movie, his cock distracted me and he tugged me back next door with his doppelgänger cock tucked under his arm.

“Why don’t we just fuck in your bed?” I wondered as I followed.

“The vibrator is here,” he replied simply.

Clothes flew off, a candle was lit, his mouth found its way between my legs.  His tongue hot, soft and pliant tucked inside of my folds and his five o’clock shadow scrubbed my soft inner thighs.  Cock in cunt, plundered.  Kisses, sighs, words of beauty.  Then two cocks inside of me.  I cried out as it burned and I stretched.

I relaxed and breathed around them both.  His eyes lit up as he began to move.  I drenched the man and the imposter and cried and shook as I sucked them both deep inside.

“Jesus Christ, that’s so tight,” he moaned.  I whimpered back and guided his hips to the smallest of thrusts.  Too much, too tight.  I felt womanly and proud.  A baby came through there.  I gave life and now I was giving pleasure, showing him something new and wondrous we could do with our  bodies.

My tears leaked down my face and he kissed them away and I pushed out and around and then he was alone inside of me.  He bucked into me hard and fast and I cried and I felt my ejaculate slip down the crack of my bottom and pool beneath me.

Vibrator and orgasm, hooked fingers, a wriggling, helpless fish I was.  I bawled and sobbed and couldn’t think, couldn’t see but for the stars.  He hushed me and pet me, made fun of me.  I managed to garble out a chastisement of my own, “If you’re going to make me lose my shit all the time, then you are not allowed to tease me.  You must only be kind to me.”

He chuckled and agreed and pulled me closer while I returned to my body.

Then, he left town the next dawn and with his absence the cloud of gnats returned.  I felt alone and adrift, heard little from him while he was gone, but, I know, more than anyone else got from him.

When he returned the day after Christmas I had Peyton and was slumped with sadness.  He’d been texting me from the airports, keeping me apprised of his whereabouts.  At approximately the time I’d guessed he’d be home I heard a thud of a neighbor’s door.  Five minutes later there was a knock on my door.

“Hi!” he said, coolly, handsome in his new pea coat.  “I have your last gift!”  I’d forgotten he’d told me there’d be three.  He brought his hand out from behind his back and handed me a small, white box.

“What is it??  I can’t open this if this is of an adult nature.  I have Peyton.”

“Ok, just look at the return address.”  It said something, something Hitachi.

My eyes flew open and I looked at him and squealed.  “Attachments?!”

He nodded and walked inside and covertly opened the box for me while Peyton told him all about the Christmas haul.  I hugged him and thanked him and welcomed him home.

He stole over later that night when sugar plums were dancing in the room next door and pounded me with his fat, glorious cock and held me and told me all about his awful holiday.  We spoke more about the sex party we were planning on going to the upcoming weekend and I continued to feel together, yet separate.  Happy and sad.  My life is sweet and savory.

Thursday night he visited again, and again I cried and l clung and sucked him dry.

The landscape, the season, the emotional canvas I have with him is not unlike how two magnets work.  They’re only drawn to one another when in proximity.  When I am separated from him I am filled with doubt about what it is I’m doing with him.  Can I handle this?  Am I tough enough?  Do I want to be?  My exhusband thinks I’m wasting time  — well, as does everyone else — but he doesn’t know what I get from this.  I’m still not sure, entirely.

No wait.  I guess I get a sex party.

I also get a sex party pre-party where he fucks me up one side and down the other in our hotel room; I get to hear how beautiful and sexy and awesome he thinks I am; I get to travel with him to distant cities; I get to share his unique sexiness with a wonderful friend and be ourselves; I get to suck on his glorious cock and be taken to physical heights I never knew existed; I get to blow him in a room filled with people where a pile of girls are making love behind me; I get to suck his cock and then let two other girls suck him off as I slobber on their men around a campfire; I get to take a couple back to our room and fuck him while she and I hold hands and our men stuff our pussies; I get to have him devour one breast while she laps the other — soft and sweet on the left, harsh and demanding on the right; and lastly, I get to hear him tell me that he will look back on our time together with nothing but fondness when it ends because, “Before you, I was nothing.  I was no where.  You made me somewhere and something.  I stabilized you, but you made me be something.”

And this afternoon I got to try out what I’m calling the Gonzo Hitachi attachment and when I was spent and my body done quaking I took a picture of it and sent it to him not knowing he was next door.  But soon his cock was shoved down my throat and Gonzo was buried back deep inside of me as he told me what a good girl I was.  His fingers hooked back inside of me after I came again and he brought me a warm g-spot climax and then left to return to the office.

I am alone for the next two hours until he comes back to me after visiting two of his friends’ parties.  I was not invited.  I wrestle with how that makes me feel, but then again, I get him for the rest of the night and our plan is to have him buried deep inside of me at midnight with champagne cascading down the swells of my breasts and the tips of my nipples little bubbly shooters to his open, eager mouth.  Shrooms will be laced in our tea and we will be on a different plane of being, full, vulnerable and determined to never forget each other for the next several hours.  And certainly the rest of our lives.

Happy New Year, Internet Boyfriend.  Be safe, love big, and I hope everyone gets their rocks off in glorious fashion tonight.

photo 1
Tits and bubbles.

 

 

 

A heart still beats even when it’s laying on the floor.

I cried myself to sleep Sunday night and off and on all day yesterday.  Today, I feel slightly better; no tears or anything, though that gutted hollowness I know so well is lurking behind the bend for me.  I’m trying to stave it off.  I have better things to do with my time than keen like a suffering shrouded woman.

The cold snap that fell on us all Sunday night brings me pleasure, so I’m having an easier time being less crushed than I normally would when I want to skip instead of walk everywhere.  My breasts also look bigger in sweaters, so there’s that.

But here’s the thing: The Neighbor doesn’t love me and never, ever will.

I’ll explain all that later…

First, I need to reinsert my heart inside the birdcage.  Hopefully it’ll stay on its perch this time, the stupid fucking thing.

Breathe, Hy, breathe… it’ll be ok, honey.

I need to be preferred.

My heart thudded in my ribcage, my breath caught in my throat.  It was dark in my room and only the sweet-smelling candle gave light.  What had happened?  Why was I awake?

My pulse loud in my ears I stood up and walked to the front door.  Though I hadn’t heard anything, it was the only explanation.  He had knocked.

I opened the door and a gust of wind blew by me.  I caught his heels running into the mouth of his cave.  My sleep-fogged mind scratched its head.  He quickly returned before I could even think to shut the door.

“Here,” he said and handed me a prescription bottle.  I was still confused and just looked at him standing there braless in a white v-neck and black lace panties.  “For your pain.  You asked me earlier?”

“Oh, right,” I mumbled.  “Come in.”

He followed me through the dark and winking apartment.  Christmas tree lights illuminating my questionable decisions as usual.  “Lay down,” I said simply and he went to his side of the bed and climbed in.

I flopped down beside him still disoriented, my heart still not back to its usual 60.  He patted me and rubbed me.  We haven’t seen each other like this in days.  I felt like I’d been missing him.  Maybe he felt similarly because his warm hands didn’t leave my body.

“Mmm.  See-through panties!” he exclaimed.  I rolled over and showed him my round bottom.  He spanked me and I rolled back on my belly and giggled sleepily.  His hand crept to the cleft of my legs and I lifted my hips.  His fingertips began a slow circle over my lace-trapped clit.

A small ball of heat appeared in my center and I gently lowered and lifted my hips.  My back pain completely forgotten amidst my purrs of contentment.

His hand left me and pushed on my hip.  I rolled onto my back and he returned to me.  My lashes fluttered and I could see him staring at me, his head held in one hand while his other pushed me into the brightness of arousal.  I looked at him as I could, but his gaze, so lustful, so him pushed me back below my eyelids.  I concentrated on the sensations between my legs and in my gut.

He stopped and I realized I was panting lightly.  “Did you like that?” he asked rhetorically.

“Yes.  Yes I did.”  My hand ran along his torso, his clothing suddenly an offense I couldn’t bear.  “Take off your clothes.”

He played coy for a second and I repeated myself.  He removed his shirt and ran my hand over his muscular abs covered in his light furry hair.  “I feel them.  I always feel them,” I crooned as I kissed each little pack.  “Now take these off,” and I tugged on his shorts.  “I said all of it.”

He peeled them down and I curled up on my knees, perpendicular to him and fell on his shaft with my mouth.  He was huge and hard.  His hand came down on my flank 1, 2, 6 times.  Each smack I winced and whimpered, but didn’t hurt his tender member gingerly captured in my mouth.

“Get on your back,” he ordered.

I didn’t move.  “No.  I’m going to suck you.”

Then he hit me on the lace.  I grinned around his glorious cock.  “I said, ‘Get on your back’!” he said more forcefully.

I sucked harder and I heard him moan and he leapt in my hand.  He was close.  I was thinking about his jizz drenching my mouth, lips and throat when I felt another sting.  “NOW, goddamnit,” he said through gritted teeth while pushing me off of him.  I went to dive back down and he grabbed me by the shoulders and pinned me down, spread my knees, and slid into me.

A tumble and a wrestle, a small battle of wills where I felt us slip into our rightful, comfortable places with the sounds of a sloppy wet pussy.  *click*

He drove into me slowly and bumped into my cervix.  I winced and curled my hands around the bars of my headboard, tilted just so so he could get past it.  He went slow, feeling my heat wrap around him with each long, unendurable thrust.

I began to whimper as my arousal spread across my chest and tendrils wrapped their way around my hips and pelvis.  My cervix lifted like a good girl and he began to slam into me; I no longer had to tilt.

His beautiful face looked down at me, a slight curve of a smile on his lips.  Everything I’d thought of the past few days were bubbles popping one by one overhead.  Yes, I love him.  Yes, this is complicated.  Yes, he cares about me.  Yes, it’d be nice to have more.  Yes, I’m ok with what this is.  Yes, I feel special.  Yes, I don’t give a fuck about any other woman.  Yes, I feel unendangered in his life.  Yes, he wants me.

I wrapped my legs around his pumping hips and locked my ankles and drew him in closer, harder, deeper.  My pussy’s squelching and the bed’s disgruntled squeaks joined my moans and helpless cries and The Neighbor’s pants.  A symphony of passion.

He sat up and rested on his haunches and I pushed my bottom up onto the tops of his thighs and wrapped my legs tighter around him, my arms overhead pushing me further down his rod.  He chuckled and then fell forward and wrapped his arms around me, kissed my neck and began to move again.

He sat back up and put my ankles together over my face.  I began to sob and cover my face.  The intensity of pleasure centered around my cunt more than I could bear.  I began to gush, my hot juices running down the crack of my bottom and pooling beneath me.  He slammed into me harder then gently left me.

“Stand up on and lean over the bed,” he said.  I pushed myself up on trembling arms and wiggled off the bed.  He handed me my vibe and entered me from behind.

I collapsed on the mattress and held the vibrating head to the bulkhead of my desire.  I began to shake and tremble.  He twisted this way and that inside of me.  It was too much for me to cum; I was overloaded.

He gently lifted me up on to the bed and hooked his fingers inside of me as I replaced the Hitachi on my mound.  He was gentle knowing that if he was too forceful I would gush and be done too soon.

Slow and rhythmic he pet me.  My mind’s eye saw him glowing in candlelight, looking down at me affectionately, attentively and the swirling, curling mass of pleasure released the waters of my sex and the pool beneath me spread like a dead man’s blood.  I came hard and deep and cried and bucked.  He gently hung onto me and when I was done he climbed over me and laid down.

I sobbed and laughed for ten minutes.  “What’s the square root of 49?” he asked me.  I couldn’t remember.

We laughed and slowly pet me as I curled up into his arms and waited to return to myself.  His penis was chubby, but done.  I was disappointed that I couldn’t get him to cum, but he was busy telling me how awesome that had been for me to worry about it all that much and I let it go as I would a leaf in the wind.

Monday night when I’d told him Jack and Emma were definitely coming over this weekend he was excited; his face lit up and he bounced in his seat a little.  “I won’t cum until they’re here, or with just you!” he’d promised.  I’d only smiled and beamed inside at his acceptance of this new and strange thing entering his life and at the prospect of lots of his cum.

Laying in his arms last night I decided to broach one of the things on my mind.  “So, I want to talk about this group sex stuff.  I’m going to need different things from you.  It’s just how I am.  I know what I need based on my experiences with Troy.”  He nodded and urged me to continue.  “Like, for example, I’m going to need to hold your hand at that party.  And I’m going to need to feel like you think I’m the most beautiful woman there.  That you prefer me.”

“I know, Hy,” he said gently.  “You’ve mentioned this before.” I cringed under my own absent-mindedness and continued to play with the languid meat between his legs.  “Don’t worry, I understand completely.”

I sunk deeper into the mattress and splayed my fingers through his chest hair.  “What are you worried about with all of this?  How are you feeling about Jack and Emma coming over?  Jack wants to do a ‘Sunday brunch with champagne, croissants, and lechery’.”

“I’m worried that I’m going to freak out and shut down.  Or that I won’t be able to get hard.  I’m pretty sure I’ll be ok, but I’m just not sure.”

“Well, what do you want to do with them?  I’m not even clear on what I want to do other than have them watch us.  Jack has Emma on a ‘no-refusal’ weekend as her Dom.  And don’t forget, if you start to freak out, I’m there with you.  You’re not alone.”  He nodded his understanding.

“Do you want to fuck Jack??”

“Not particularly.  I’ve never been attracted to him, but he’s a wonderful playmate and a sweet guy and he’s hung like a mule.  I trust him, but no, I’d never feel like I had to fuck him.  If you told me to fuck him while I sucked you, however… that’s hot and I’d do that.”

His face split into a huge grin and he stroked his chin like an evil genius.  “Hmm,” he said, “That would be hot.  What if we both fucked you together?  How would Emma feel?”

“Emma is his sub.  She’ll do anything he wants.  He absolutely adores her, cherishes her.  They have a wonderful bond and therefore she’s never jealous.”

We talked some more about the intricacies of group sex, how much I loved it and I could sense his exploration in his thoughtful questions.  He was poking places in his psyche he’s never bothered with before.

He got up to dress and had a hell of a time finding his clothes trapped in my twisted bedding.  I laughed and stretched out to turn on the light.  “Wow, Hy.  You look really beautiful right now,” he said suddenly as his eyes rested on my body.  “Your just-fucked hair, red cheeks, the spank marks.”

“Well, thanks, TN.”

He found his clothes and slipped them on and came around and captured a nipple in his mouth.  He stood and began to walk away.  “Wait.  Come kiss me.”  He drew closer and I pulled him down to me and he crushed my mouth with his.  He pulled away and I looked him in the eyes.  “I’m not some pussy-hole, you know.  You kiss me.  Sometimes I think you freak out when you think we’re getting too close.”

“I don’t ‘freak out,’ I just pull away.  We’ll talk later.”

He began to say something, then dropped it and returned his mouth to mine, deep and passionate.  I rose and walked him naked to the front door and said goodnight smiling sweet smiles.

I don’t believe in forever.

Early morning ride to the airport after our fuckfest.

San Francisco will always have my heart.  It alights my senses: the sounds of the MUNI trains clacking down city streets, the smell of eucalyptus, the feel of tender fog tendrils crawling along my skin, the taste of chewy sourdough and rich black coffee, and the sight of rolling, bucking hills mastered by civil engineering and brute ingenuity.  It’s a masterful city and one I haunted as a teenager, but it also reminds me of who I used to be.

I used to be a lost girl in search of her tribe; a group of people who would accept her for who she was, who would play with her, celebrate life, their bodies, their minds, and each other.  When I was that girl I drowned in pain.  I tried so hard to make my life fit here, but it proved impossible.  So I left.  And found my tribe many miles away in a foreign world filled with a different kind of folk.  My folk.

As that young, lost woman I bought the line that forever existed in many different forms, though my life proved differently at every opportunity.  I’m not sure if it was just denial or my clinging hope that pushed me through the pinhole of forever-thinking, but regardless, there I was.  Always searching the face of the boy I had just slept with for the “Hy, you’re The One.  I couldn’t help but realize your awesomeness during that drunken fuck we just shared,” or the friend’s face for her deep and abiding sense of love and reciprocation for me after I had just emptied my bank account to take us out.  I thought everything was supposed to last forever because I was a good person.

What a goddamned fool I was.  Nothing ever lasted forever.  Ever.  My parents’ marriage ended, people died, moved away, grew apart, whatever.  Life happened and life is not forever by its very meaning.  Forever is a security blanket, not a reality.  It’s a foolish relief.  It’s not fucking real, y’all.

When I got married, I forgot about this — conveniently, obviously — but my ex-husband, bless his heart, was a big believer and I thought if this genius of a man could believe in a forever-us, then I surely could, too.  It still hurts to think of how colossally right I was — or maybe I was wrong — about forever.  I stood in front of my very closest 75 friends and family and pledged myself to this man, our love and to that relationship forever.

And then I called every single one of them to tell them I was wrong.

I want to remember that feeling of failure and fallacy as I move forward with my life.  Love is not forever.  Nothing is.  No feeling, no mood, no situation.  Nothing.  It is ever-changing.  It’s what makes life so goddamned beautiful and breath-taking.  Give it a minute and something will happen.  Life is bigger than me or you.  It is everything.

My relationship with The Neighbor may not make sense on a long-term plan, but I don’t believe I would be any more guaranteed if I were in a committed relationship.  TN and I have been doing what we do for nearly a year now and I have never had a relationship this long, this close, and this passionate.  Ever.

We fight, we make love, we grow together, we back away, we do it all again.  The fact that I still have interest in this person after 12 months of intensity elevates this to a different animal for me.  “It could end tomorrow” is more real than if he and I promised it wouldn’t, but I don’t believe in promises, remember?  They’re not fucking real.  I’d only be fooling myself.

My heart would soar if he ever said, “Hy, I love you,” and I would feel that completeness that spoken love brings to my ears, but then I would wonder when it was going to end.  Can I really see myself being with this young man long-term?  My heart gets squirrelly when I imagine TN and I as a “couple.”

Yes, when he opens his arms to me and speaks in future tense I balk and question the path.

What’s the fucking point?  In seven years we’d likely grow apart anyway like everyone does, it’s my own personal theory.  Think about it: seven years all melted down to daily exposure and a body will likely fritz out at the seven year mark.

Since our time away he has gone above and beyond my wildest hopes.  Texts, phone calls, cock shots, sexy videos, words of encouragement.  I don’t know who he is anymore and I find myself blooming with romantic feelings then slicing them off my heart as quickly as they sprout.  I cannot afford to go down this route again.  Not with him, and most surprisingly I now realize, perhaps with not with anyone.

I appreciate his attention and his affection, but in the greater scheme of things, they will fade over time just as my feelings for him will.  It’s the cycle of love and life and living.  Everything ends.

I am glad that I have found my tribe in my new city and I’m glad that I know the love of a child as a mother — I’ll grant that is the one true and undying love in this world — the sad, lost girl is a thing of the past.  I’m done angling for a “future” with TN.  I’m going to live each day as if it’s my last, each week as if it’s a luscious last meal.  I’m not going to hide anymore.  I’m going to open up and be more me because I have nothing to lose.  It’s already all been lost.

Jasper Johns would likely not have approved of my little display at the SF MOMA.  I know the docent didn’t.

TN loves me now.  I know it and one day he will, too.  He’ll think back on how much he missed me when he was away, how much more he missed me when I was gone.  He’ll remember how he used the key under my mat and strode across my empty apartment to my dresser, opened my panty drawer, and picked out the prettiest pair he could find.  Then he’ll remember how he put them on under his shorts and texted me a photo with the words, “Getting ready for softball.”  He’ll remember the phone calls he made, the glorious video of his hand a blur on his cock, milking it for me and gently replacing it under the mesh of my black lace.  He’ll remember all the covert pics I sent him as I meandered through San Francisco and his ardent replies of encouragement and glee.  He’ll remember what we had with a sad longing because it will be lost by then.

I have given up on forever, but not on love.  The two are mutually exclusive.   Forever fucked me a long time ago and I just want to get fucked today.  And loved.  That’s what’s real and worth shooting for.  And that’s what’s gonna happen.  Watch me.

He invited me to a potluck.

“You home?” he texted. “I just knocked and no one answered.”

“No,” I replied. “I was, but then I left to get baby-blocking pills. Home in 15.”

When I climbed the stairs with my new suitcase I fumbled with my keys and the kitchen mats under my arm my mother had bought me. His door opened. He looked handsome and sweet in his basketball shorts and shirtlessness.

“Hi!” I said beaming. He beamed back. “Were you waiting for me?? What are you doing?”

“Yes. I had my eye on the peephole for 20 minutes waiting for you!”

“Ok, come on in,” I said swinging the door open.

We walked in and I futzed around chattering about nothing as I put my things down. Arms free I opened them and walked towards him. I’d decided to hug him as I would any friend after a time apart. He walked into my hug and held me tight. “You did it!” I said squeezing him. I felt his arms tighten around me and his head bury into my neck.

“I did!” he mumbled into my skin.

I stepped back and rubbed his arms and walked away and went about tidying up my apartment.

“I want to lie down in your bed,” he announced.

“Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

I joined him and flopped my suitcase on the bed. “Are you packing??” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t. Come talk to me!”

I put my chore aside and cleared a space for me to lay next to him. He wanted to know all about my days away from him, every little thing I did. I went through each day, laughing as I set milestones around the pics I’d sent him. He touched my leg, my arm. I leaned between his.

“C’mere,” he beckoned. “Lie down.” I did.

His hands found my skin as we continued to talk. I reached back to adjust my panties and pulled a rip in the lace. “Goddamnit,” I complained, “I just tore my panties! I made a hole!”

“Lemme see,” he said leaning over me. “What about this hole?” he asked with a dirty smirk and a grab for my pussy. He made hard, circular motions on my clit over my panties.

“Well, there’s a hole in there, too,” I teased.

His hand worked magic. I had trouble finishing my weekend story. When I was done he pulled my panties down and pooled his shorts on the floor, spread my knees and positioned himself over me.

“Ok, tell me about your weekend,” I said as he dipped his fingers inside of me.

“When my parents met me at the airport,” he began, “the car was packed and my brother was in there.” He removed his hand from me and gripped his cock instead and aimed it at my wetness. “We went immediately to the cabin,” he said as he slid inside of me.

I struggled to concentrate as he slowly, gently fucked me. His words never wavered as he pumped against me. I gripped the metal swirls of my headboard and did my best to listen.

He spoke of history tours and museums, “That’s when I bought you your souvenir — I’ll have to bring that over later,” he said to himself as he continued to thrust. His face was placid, his hips were rabid. I was a laughing, titillated mess.

His story finally over we forgot to talk anymore. He pounded into me and my pussy squelched around us. I kissed his neck, grazed my teeth against his jaw and kissed his ear. He buried his face in my neck and hair and kissed me, sucked on my breast and pistoned away like a mechanical pony.

I tossed my head back and forth and watched him through my lashes. His eyes never left my face.

He stood up and pulled out, exhausted. “I need a break for a second,” he panted and offered me his cock. I took him in my mouth, my pussy a light, fragrant bouquet in my nostrils.

“Mmm, I taste good,” I mumbled around his meat. “You should try this for yourself some time.”

I continued to slurp and suck and grip until he gently pushed me back and told me to scoot over. He spread my knees and pulled me to the edge of the bed and kneeled down. His mouth descended on me with gentle pressure. I told him to use his fingers to stretch my hole and he obediently followed directions.

I panted and writhed under his ministrations. My hands tingled, I saw stars. I needed a break and begged him to stop. He lifted his head and climbed up on top of me. I pulled his face down to mine and kissed me off of him like a layer of frosting.

He fingered me, he fucked me, he sucked me, he loved me, he hit me, he watched me. I fucked him back, bucked on him, loved him, watched him back.

Standing on the floor, my bottom hanging off the edge, he parted my legs like the sea and watched my tits bounce and flounce to the rhythm of his cock. His face beautiful in the soft light of my room, his shoulders broad and arms flexed.

He reached behind him and handed me my vibrator. I came hard and loud around him. I quivered and cried as he told me I was hot and beautiful, how good it felt. He handed it to me again and another orgasm screamed through me.

He pulled out and pulled me with him as I sobbed alone. “Hy, it’s ok. Come here,” he crooned and opened his arms. I moved into the crook of his arms and cried into the fur of his chest. His fingers traced the lines of my back as I tried to gather myself.

“I’m sorry,” I squeaked.

“For what??”

“For making your erection go away.” He’d gone soft during my second orgasm.

“Aw, it’s ok. It’s tired, don’t worry.” I still felt bad. Then again, he is only human and an hour of vigorous, hard fucking can undo any man.

We lay tangled together for a while until I got antsy. This is when he usually leaves. I felt it. But I was wrong.

I got up and handed him his glass of wine. He made no move to leave. Instead we lay in bed and I asked more questions about his weekend. He was happy to be home, back where he belonged, he said. “That reminds me, lemme go get your gift.”

He slipped out and was back in a minute. “Have you heard back from Jack and Emma, yet?”

Last night I’d received an email on Adult Friend Finder inviting me to a sex party in another city in November and December. I’d mentioned it to The Neighbor and he was interested. I’d immediately texted my friend and ex-lover Jack to ask what he knew about it. TN wanted to know if Jack and Emma would be willing to help him feel comfortable being watched while having sex. “I’ve only ever been watched once, and that was with Marian. I’m nervous,” he’d told me.

“No, not yet. Lemme check.” I tick-tacked away on the laptop as he pulled out a slim white, rectangular package for me. I stopped typing and looked at it. It was a beautiful metal bookmark.

“Oh, TN. Thank you! It’s beautiful!” I felt awkward and flattered in equal measures, the hot laptop warmed my naked belly ignorant of my emotions. The price tag was still visible: $18.

This gesture, this nice, non-keyring-with-flashing-first-name gift, floored me. It was kind, it was sweet, it was thoughtful. It wasn’t him. But, I guess it was.

I opened it and read the inscription on the packaging as he told me more about the artist. “He wanted to incorporate nature into all his designs and felt that art and the world should coincide as one, not compete.”

I put it down and searched my email for any response from Jack and Emma. There was none.

“Are you really serious about this sex party?” I asked.

“I am. I’m really interested.”

We’d go the end of December. After our 5k in early December. After a night spent shrooming together with Downstairs Neighbor. After plans of spending Thanksgiving together.

“What are you doing next Saturday?” he started to ask me as I folded the computer shut. “Oh fuck, you’re in San Fran, aren’t you? Fuck. I was going to ask you to go to a potluck with me. Oh well, you can be there in spirit because I need you to tell me what to cook and how to do it. I need an Italian themed salad.”

I laughed lightly and gave him a recipe for something decidedly not a salad; a tomato, garlic and basil concoction that melts in your mouth and makes bread the vehicle to heaven.

Eventually, the clock, though still early, crowded in on me. I stood and dressed in a t-shirt and pj shorts and went to light some firewood. He followed. He nibbled on Peyton’s Halloween candy and we talked about my trip tomorrow — both my nerves and the pedantic what’s and whens — as I sat in front of the fire.

He intermittently sucked on my nipples and I seductively played with myself between my words of cooking wisdom for his potluck. It felt stupidly normal, stupidly awesome.

“I am so happy to be back he said,” lying on the floor and tossing a softball in the air. “Being back makes me realize all that I have here.” I looked up from my recipe notes and bounded over to him and playfully flung myself down on him, pinning him down.

My free-spirit burst at the seams as I playfully humped him and he wrapped his arms around me and giggled at my antics. I kissed his cheeks and hopped up off of him as quickly as I’d descended and returned to my spot on the couch to finish his cooking instructions. It was as honest a reflection of my feelings as I could possibly muster.

I studied my note and gathered myself back up.

“I’m getting antsy,” he gently warned. “I need to go home soon.”

“I know, I’m hurrying,” I answered with a smile.

I finished my recipe and handed it to him. He bent down and kissed each breast in turn and then me. I walked him to the door and I confirmed that he’d be up 6:10 am so we could leave by 6:20.

“G’night, Hy,” he smiled over his shoulder.

“G’night, TN,” I said back and shut the door. His words of wonder at what he would do for the next 7 days rang in my ears, his words of longing for my pussy, his words of praise. They all enclosed around me like a giant hug and have moved with me from room to room.

“I had to tell the sex party people that you’re my boyfriend. I hope that’s ok,” I’d said worried.

“No, it’s ok with me,” he’d answered.

Has something happened? Has something changed? Is there a happy ending to this??

Interlaced with these frilly sentiments are jack hammer reminders of old words, cruel and dirty. I haven’t forgotten a thing, but goddamn does it feel good to try to forget.

 

 

My boobs cheer him up.

The Neighbor has been strangely open and needy with me since he departed for his trip home.  He doesn’t usually admit he needs anything from me — he prefers the deserted island type existence — but he’s been very vocal about what he wants and needs from me the past couple of days.  Vertical cleavage, apparently, cures all his ails.

And so I’ve sent him 20+ pics of just my cleavage peppered in with some hardcore shit.  He gushes and thanks me — so unlike his usual self — and I smile and oblige him.   He sends me glorious cock pics and told me he bought me a gift.   A gift?!  I’m guessing it’s a key chain.  My hopes are definitely not up.  However, I’d bet my last dollar he didn’t get anyone else a gift.  Anyway, I fucking digress…

As my own stressful trip to San Francisco looms I’m wondering what he’ll be like as home base for me.  I’ve checked in with him if it’s been several hours of silence, asked him how he’s doing, given him words of encouragement, sent him boob pics.  My gut says he won’t do shit for me and that’s pushed me away from this whole thing the past few days.  I am not allowed to rely on him, as per our unspoken agreement; he may rely on me till he’s blue in the face.  It’s bullshit.

He posted on Facebook today — another great rarity — and I found myself lost in some of his pics.  Either his ex-girlfriend or he lifted some kind of privacy lock because I can see a lot more pics this time around.  She’s dark-haired, like him, and not at all attractive.  I know she put him through the ringer, didn’t care about sex, demanded he stay over 6-7 days a week, and forced her will on him in nearly every way, yet in every picture together he’s got his meaty hand on her waist, he’s smiling with her, he’s leaning in.  He’s with her. 

It made me realize that we will never have an old album like this.  Our pics are secret and I usually haven’t tagged him in whatever I do post online (I’m a reticent and permission-only tagger).

Behind the scenes Ella (whose blog is down these days but whose voice is louder than ever in my comments) ripped me yet another new asshole because I’ve seemed more lovey-dovey towards TN lately.  She thinks I should shut it all down because he’s evil incarnate and I keep saying I don’t want to and he’s not that bad.

She’s probably right that I should shut it all down, but I’m not ready, yet.  I’ve lightened up, but part of it is really because I’m expecting a lot less and enjoying more of what I do get.   Right now this is mostly comfortable.

However, the album of him and his ex has torn open my old wound and it smarts as I look at her and think, “She was the right age, she had the right parenting status, she had the right marital status.”  It goes some distance to think, “And she also sucked monkey ass,” but he loved her — or at least thought he did — and he’s never gotten to that point with me despite saying he loves everything else about me and our relationship.

So, I’m nervous about my travels and I’m sad about this stubborn sliver of reality that’s gotten under my skin.  I’m nervous because I hate the obvious sometimes and prefer to live in a warm hug of fantasy — sue me — but we’ll see what happens.  Maybe he’ll inundate me with warm check-in texts and cock pics.  If he does, it may buy him a little more time with me.  If he doesn’t, it just means the ride is that much closer to ending.

And I’m sad because I really can’t keep on like this is as “fun” and “easy” as I say it is.  It’s also somewhat humiliating to see him actively not choose me.  Someone who’s never done things to him like his crazy ex-girlfriend did and who’s done things to him that he’s only ever fantasized about.   I’m like a helicopter: on paper I don’t fly, yet in reality I do and he still doesn’t have the capacity to fly with me.  The Hyacinth Ride is a lot more special than he’s treating it and I’m getting bored with his ambivalence.

And if I could post my life with TN on Facebook, here’s what it’d look like this weekend.  I’d call this album, BOOBS FOR TN, and tag him in every goddamned one.  Maybe his ex-girlfriend, too.

From my game.
Not at home.

I aim to please.
Fifty people standing around didn’t stop me.
Next morning, braless and with my girlfriend asleep behind me.

 

He said he was really sad this morning, so I sent him this. He said, “Much better, thank you!”
The last one I sent. Several hours ago he was complaining again of being miserable. I asked him if he’d like some boobs. He said, “Not now, I’m not ready to feel better yet.” I told him to let me know when, one was on deck. He just texted me to say he needed boobs “stat.”

Even I can’t stop the seasons.

Love and interest are fickle friends.  For months I was moon-eyed over my young lover.  I noticed when his car was home, if his lights were on.  I held my breath when his door slammed shut — would my door rattle from his knuckles 2 seconds later??  Seeing his boyish face made my day, hearing his deep, news-broadcaster voice tickled me, and seeing his fit, hair-dusted body made me want to unwrap him like a Christmas present and pounce.

But something has changed.

It is the autumn of my affair with The Neighbor.  Spring brought passion and bursts of colors; highs were the only notes on the breeze.  Summer was long and arduous — I barely survived the heat of my own emotions, his refusal of me, and our irrefutable chemistry.  Today, it is fall.  The leaves of my love are turning and will soon waft to the ground like so many dizzying streaks of gold.  When winter comes, the blanket of cold will insulate me as I rejuvenate away from him and our strange, misshapen relationship.

I don’t know when or how it happened, but it did.  His glorious, meaty cock still haunts me and I admit to lusting after it, but my conquering of it is no longer tied to my heart.  If I get to wrap my fingers around hot pinkness, then so be it.  If not, oh well.  I will live without sex.  A piece of Hy dies as I write that.

Saturday night was a dazzling night in our hobbled relationship.  As asked, I woke him up in time to get ready.  It wasn’t my fault that calling his name and gently shaking him didn’t work and my only option was to slip my hand beneath his puffy white comforter and find his sleeping manhood with my hand.  What else should I have done?  Honestly.

I stroked him slowly while I watched his face, his eyes covered in the black mask that had come with his bondage kit.  His breathing was even and ignorant of my presence.  I increased the pressure of my hand and he jerked awake.

“What the hell??”

“Wake up, TN,” I said smiling.

He pulled the mask off and looked at me bleary-eyed.  He rolled onto his back so I could get full access to his erection.

“Can you wake me up like this every day?”

“You say that nearly every day.”

“Well, I mean it.”

I ignored him and continued my ministrations.

It wasn’t long before I swung a boot clad leg over his waist and slowly slid down on him, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my ridiculously tacky sequined wolf shirt sparkling in the candlelight.  His cock hit me in my throat and I flushed with warmth as I rocked on him.  He gripped my waist and I increased my tempo.  Tremors skittered across my skin as a climax snaked its way through me.

He reached for my breasts, but pulled his hands back with a laugh when he got nothing but sequins.  I laughed, too, and bent over and kissed him just as I released around us both.  “I guess I’ll have to take a shower now before the party,” he murmured into my mouth.

“I guess so.”

At the party he was attentive and hovering.  He encouraged me to eat off his appetizer plate, refilled my glass, and was sure to be shoulder to shoulder with me whenever another man came within my orbit.  I was amused and smiled to myself.  Silly Neighbor, I thought, tricks are for kids.

Our chemistry ultimately belied our ruse of easy, close friendship when an old friend of mine cornered him and asked if he and I had ever dated.  His “No comment,” clearly an admission of guilt, her smile of satisfaction an admission of her pride of sniffing us out.

Our dance continues, but the song is ending.  How many loving, connected conversations can we have?  How many tiffs easily repaired?  How many mind-blowing sexual encounters?  How many tears, hugs, kisses, games, and parries before we admit it will never be more than this?

He thinks we will be friends in 10 years.  He thinks we’ll be close friends in 10 years.  How do I tell him that it might not happen?  That I see no such future between us?  That things are winding down?

He came over last night because he was sad.  I rubbed his chest, made him laugh, and finally slipped my hand into his shorts to grip his pretty, pretty penis and rub it to a big, full handful.  He flipped me on my back and filled me to the brim.  The lights were on and I struggled under his steady, smirking gaze as I slowly, embarrassingly lost my shit beneath him.

I drenched my bed and us, climaxed and orgasmed around him, heaved and sobbed little dry sobs and then we talked some more.  He was back to being sad and anxious about an upcoming trip home.  I told him he’d do great, that he had this.  He’d be back before he knew it.  He lazily traced lines on my arm with the pads of his fingertips.  It was close to 2 am and my yawns came more frequently.

We joked about the sexy pics we’d exchanged lately.  The one of him with his fat cock hanging out of his jeans and poking up past his t-shirt-covered belly button and the one where I’m stretched out on my side pulling down my pj shorts.  I wanted him to make that his phone wallpaper and vice versa.  I’m going to stump for it.

Good morning.

“What do you do with the pics I’ve sent you?” I wondered.

“I keep them all.  They’re on my phone,” he paused for a beat then said, “And I appreciate every single one of them.  Very, very much.”

Words like those from him are like cool drafts of water on my parched throat.  “Well, I’m glad.”

More yawning.  More snuggling.  More laughing.

Then he realized the time and dressed.  I called him over to me before he left, “C’mere.  Let me give you a hug.”  I stood on my knees on the bed, letting the sheets drop, and held out my arms.  He walked into them awkwardly.  I kissed him on the cheek and squeezed anyway.  This is what friends do, after all: they support and love.  “You’re gonna do great.  I promise.  Good luck.”

He squeezed back and put his other hand gingerly on my hip before he pulled away.  “Thanks.”

He walked out of my room and I called out, “Safe travels!!” then, “And thanks for the fuck!”

I heard him laugh as he shut the front door behind him and I snuggled down into bed.  The towel covering the epic wet spot pleasantly rough on my bare bottom.

I remember the month of July as the month I couldn’t breathe and food tasted like packing popcorn.  I laid nearly comatose every spare second I had in bed watching Cheers in between fleeting hookups and interactions with him and going to work.  I knew then that it would pass.  I knew it.  I’ve been through worse and came out alive, after all, but fucking Christ was it unpleasant.

I had to let myself be a pathetic, sniveling shit for a few weeks in order to move to the next season.  I molted.  It wasn’t obvious then because I hadn’t fully emerged yet, but I’d like to think it’s more apparent now.  I forget about him most days and I check my libido at the door like a good, stoic German woman should.  She has better things to do than lead with her pussy all day.

I wonder what the future of this blog will be as I enter this strange limbo of autumn.  I am extremely busy — too busy to go hunting — but this is a blog about my dissolute life and I’m not feeling all that dissolute.  I’m beginning to feel like now Hyacinth is that best friend I made at summer camp, but I really, really don’t want to see her go.  Not just yet.

I still want to be dissolute.

When I walk away, he comes running.

I got bored this afternoon.

Thursday night The Neighbor and I had softball games at the same time.  For the first time in weeks I forgot he was even at the park with me.  His team’s red shirts little laser dots on the neighboring field, my green team’s bright, grass green jerseys like blades of grass on ours.  It was a splintered Christmas theme.

After we slaughtered our opponent, we regrouped on the bleachers and drank our leftover beers.  Peyton and my friend’s kid ran amok and swung like monkeys off of anything they could get their hands on.  We passed cigarettes around when the children weren’t looking and called each other names.  I idly noticed that TN’s team was also hanging out on their bleachers.  I couldn’t even muster the energy to shrug.

Tuesday night with TN was liking going to a restaurant.  “Yes, I’d like the salad to start, the fish of the day, and a good, hard fuck for dessert.  Thanks.”  My heart didn’t flutter once Wednesday and I was shocked to realize at the end of the day that neither of us had contacted the other.  In fact, I’d forgotten to completely.  A clear departure from the old Hy.

Old Hy would have concocted some reason to text, would have felt sad that he hadn’t texted her.  She would have danced with despondency, but not this new Hy.  New Hy has honey badger style: she don’t give a shit.

So as I stood enjoying myself with my teammates, friends, and child, full and tough as nails I watched TN run from his team to me.

“Hey, Hy!” he said smiling.  My friends who’ve known him this summer said, “Hey, TN!”  I waved and asked him how his team had done.

“We killed them!”

“Good for you!  We did, too!”  We high-fived each other as his team trickled past like slow moving blood cells down the sidewalk to their cars.

“So,” he said, “Do you want to come to Bob’s for a drink with my team?”  He looked at me expectantly.  I struggled to keep my jaw from dropping.  Oh, how I’d hoped for a moment like this all summer long and now here he was offering himself to me when I had all but forgotten about him.

I looked to my girlfriend with whom I carpool.  “I’m down if you are,” she said.

“Ok,” I turned back to TN.  “Looks like I’m in.”

“Great!”  He ran off to grab his backpack and bat and quickly returned and stayed with us until we bled out into the parking lot.  Tina caught him stroking his bat suggestively to while saying, “Hy, don’t you just love my bat?  Isn’t it just the perfect size and weight for you??”  Her eye roll could have launched a trebuchet.

At the pub the kids ran to the playground with peals of laughter, a fire roared in the stone pit and people hunched over their beers.  I ordered a beer and sat next to him with the rest of his team.  4 am girl wasn’t there.  She’d dropped out due to an injury.  TN lit up and would occasionally put his hand on my lower back.  He introduced me to everyone and I teased them that we’d kick their asses next week in our match-up.  Between buffalo wings, my cheap beer, TN’s attention, my friends, and looking after Peyton I felt like a one-woman band.  Boom-clang-ping-boom! and on and on.

TN’s team left and he remained behind with me and my teammate, Ashley.  We played cornhole and laughed until he decided he’d turned into a pumpkin.  Ashley and I didn’t even bother discussing him once he’d left.  She’s been on this ride as long as I have.  What’s the fucking point?  You might as well discuss the stripes on a zebra.  Goddamned pointless.

Thirty minutes after TN left, I followed.  I carried Peyton up to bed and did the sweetest routine known to man.  TN had forgotten his to-go salad so I texted him, “I have something you might want.”  During my readings to Peyton I heard the telltale ping-ping from the kitchen.  When the baby was asleep I padded out and checked my phone.

“Yay.  Where?  Naked in bed,” was his message.

I texted back, “Come and find out.”

I peeled off my clothes, grabbed the to-go box and put it under the covers with me.  As soon as I’d pulled the sheets up to my chin I heard a knock on my bedroom door.  TN pushed it open and came in, my candle sputtered spastically at us.

“What do you have?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Oh… you know,” I answered suggestively.

He walked closer and when he reached for me I threw back the covers and handed him his salad.

“Here you go.”

He stood there dazed.  “My salad??  That’s what you were talking about?”

“Yep!  What’d you think??  Aren’t I funny!”

“Yes.  Hysterical. Can I get in bed with you? I’m cold.”

“Sure.”

He climbed in next to me and we laughed at my awesomeness. I rolled on my side and he stroked my arm then reached down and began to rub me.  He hit my nub with startling precision.   Heat flooded to my face and I let out my breath.  “Wow… you’re actually really good at that.”

“Really??” I could hear the smile in his voice.

I looked at him and nodded.  He continued to rub and I continued to wade in the surf.  “I have to check on Peyton in a minute or two.  I promised I’d go back in.”

“Just as well, I should go.”

New Hy volleyed, “Ok, sounds good.”  He continued to slide over my silky panties and my wet cunt, neither of us totally willing to break the spell.  I sat up and pulled the covers down off of his waist.  His erection strained beneath his slippery shorts.  I pulled the waistband down and took the glistening aperture of his cock in my mouth, salty precum spread across my palette.  I pulled his shorts down further and gripped his cock.  The tape on my left ring finger gently abrading his shaft.   He moaned and I forced my face down to his pelvis.  He moaned louder.

“Goddamn, that feels good.”

“Mmm mmm,” I mumbled back.  Then, “Ok, I have to go check on my baby.”

“Ok, I better go anyway.”

“Alright,” I said as I pulled my tank top back on.  He followed me out into the hallway and grabbed my breasts.  I leaned in for a kiss and his tongue danced with mine.  “See you later, Neighbor.”

He let himself out and I returned to Peyton who was sleeping peacefully.  I returned to my bed and to Frasier, smiling.

I parried with TN from a position of balanced power, confidence and disinterest.  I am on the offensive no longer a whimpering heap of shit.

Tonight is my friend’s party; he stopped by earlier to see when we were leaving.  I answered the door pantsless wrapped in an afghan.  I blushed from head to toe, out of breath with guilt.  Immediately, he knew what I’d been up to.  My rush to the door was to prevent him walking in on me.  I saw the interest dancing in his eyes and my redness spread.  He grabbed my breasts and snuck the blanket out of my hands.  I stood before him pulling my see-through t-shirt down.  It was all pointless, my blushing, but blush I did nonetheless, ever the shy seductress.

Tonight is yet another day in the ongoing struggle for my independence from him and his beautiful, fat, pink cock.  I am stuck in the web of his friendship obviously, bu let me not continue to twist myself in the web of his desires.  I want so much more than just sexual release with him.  I used to want it all, today I feel like it’s a disservice to only want his sex.  It’s not fair to either us.

And so I remain light on my toes, my love for him fading like the best friend you made at summer camp. She never fits in with your real life back home, it’s like sitting too close to the ballet.  Or maybe in this case, like sitting too close to the sword fight.

En guarde, friends.  En guarde!

My injury won’t keep me from gripping hard.