The Neighbor is a motherfucker.

I’m meeting The Neighbor in an hour for a movie out.

I’d rather he just come over, open my robe as if it were wrapping paper and jam his giant dick inside of me.


No talking. No kissing. No apologies.

Before any of that, however, I’m going to have to suffer through an icky boy movie. I’ll do it, though, because after popcorn, I’m going to slip back into this robe.

He’s going to untie the bow, peel back the cotton and light up like a kid in a mother-fucking candy store.

He is a mother fucker, after all.




I have ridiculous fantasies.

My fantasies are laced with many things: arsenic and broken dreams, wishes and cobwebs, cum and happy tears.  They are my dearest longings and my most fantastical, embarrassing creations.

He fucks me with his giant cock and he plans a fun weekend for the three of us.  We watch leaves break free from the tree tops and flutter to earth.  We hold hands. 

He asks me about my day then begs me to fuck his tight, little starfish.  He cries with passion and I leave bright, red welts on the canvas of his body.  We roll around inside each other then catch our breath in our corners, just out of arm’s reach.

I come home to flowers and an extra grand in my bank account just because he can and he knows I need it.  I am safe, but challenged.  He lusts after me night and day and teaches me how to make a soufflé while clad only in an apron. 

He reads literature, erotica, and that nerdy boy stuff with swords and rings and quests.  He thinks 50 Shades was utter bullshit and believes I’m brilliant.

He personifies chivalry and doesn’t think I’m greedy because I like gifts great and small.  He loves Peyton and feels blessed to be in our orbit.  Sometimes he even tells me he misses us both. 

We watch Real Housewives together and he lets me blow him when he plays video games.  He wants me around.

He is close with his amazing parents and plans regular trips home with me in tow.  He fingers me on the plane under the blanket and sneaks me into the lavatory for some mile-high fucking.  Sometimes we get away for a weekend just the two of us for no reason.  He loves the adventure of travel. 

I feel pampered and special.  His attention energizes me to succeed.  He is my biggest fan, my loudest cheerleader.

His hands never tire when he’s kneading my tight muscles, rubbing my thick thighs, and curvy calves.  He is one step ahead of me in every way.  Bored?  Hungry?  Tired?  Cranky?  Worried?  He’s got a plan. 

He opens both doors and his heart, but knows enough to keep some things private.  He is a mysteriously open book, a cliff-hanger.  I turn the page again and again.

He is globally conscious and recycles whenever possible — it’s the right thing to do.  He’s a Big Brother to a little man.  He likes to bake and fill my home with warm, delicious scents then frost my tits with his jizz, his hand a blur.

He is the star on the top of my tree, the binds on my wrist, the cock in my pussy, the hard, golden crust atop my crême bruleé.  He is my everything, my friend, my fan, my safe and my passionate place.

He is a figment of my imagination — a lofty, ridiculous fantasy — but he is also part of every man I’ve ever known and hope to know.  A patchwork man threaded together by my sappy heart and twisted mind, my vision of perfection.

Good thing he isn’t real. 

I’d never live up to his hype.

I fantasize about blowjobs and being a good girl.

Cardigans are my friend.

It was 65 and muggy and the light grey eyes I’d come to expect each morning would soon be on me. I tried to rest nonchalantly against the wall near the bus stop, but felt anything but inconspicuous with a washed-off coffee stain on my shirt and larger-than-fucking-life tits jutting out arrogantly from my cardigan.

All too soon, I saw him walk up.  His comely daughter tagged behind, her nose buried in her phone.  She rides the bus with me and we never speak.  Her father and I typically exchange small talk until the bus arrives; awkward, yet obligated words.  He’s tall, lanky, Irish.  A transplant with silver hair and matching scruff.

I remembered the pic I’d just taken and sent off to The Neighbor with the note “I’m feeling better about my body.  Will you please fuck me tonight?” and stood a little taller.  The past few days I’ve been plagued with self-doubt and body dysmorphic thoughts, felt heavy and saggy.   This kind photo spun me around and opened my eyes.  I knew this married man found me attractive; his furtive, nervous glances couldn’t possibly be anything but guilty approval of my body.   And I wondered what it’d be like to debauch him for no other reason than because I know I could.

I wondered at the sound that would escape his lips, the taste of his warm, turgid flesh.

I imagined a springy nest of hair, a bouquet of clean man, and a tremble beneath my hands as I gripped him back in my apartment, my bus ride skipped and his daughter on her way without my silent presence bouncing nearby.

He would speak softly about how wrong it was, that he shouldn’t be doing this, that his wife hated to suck his cock. Stilted, Irish lilting.  Magical and halting to my ears.

I would smile up at him, his erection dividing my face with its fleshy stripe and he would be lost on a sea of conflict as pleasurably confusing as watching a stallion mount a mare.

Then I would flick the glistening aperture of his cock with my tongue, unafraid of his body’s response to me, and then suck in the head, letting the helmet catch on my lip like a hook.

My eyes would close then as I lost myself to lavishing his cock with attention. My legs would quake, my pussy would pulse and in seconds he would be fumbling for purchase in my silky hair as he cried out and burst wildly into my mouth and his hips bucked against my face.

I’d stand up slowly as he stumbled backwards to a chair and I would follow him, grinning, and slowly close my tingling, cum-coated lips on his.

It would have been years since he’d tasted himself and he would tell me so.

And then, I thought, I would tell N. all about what I’d done. Every lurid, debauched detail and I would hope he approved.

“Good girl, Hy. Good fucking girl,” he would tell me.  And with encouraging words he would hustle me to my bed and convince me to touch myself.  I would look down on my phone at each chime and see pictures of him “applauding” my dissolute behavior by way of his hand bluring the hardon he’d say I’d created. fap fap fap fap fap, Hy! fap fap fap fap fap

I’d imagine the sound it made — much as I’d imagined the Irishman’s exclamations as I unzipped his invisible pants — and then I would grin stupidly that I had pleased him and I would cum hard and cry out; shudder, then still.  Happy to have had the fantasy.  Happy to have a friend with whom to share.

I have a fantasy about a married man, Part 2.

I’m all about follow-up posts apparently this week.  Part 1 is here.  And who knew this would be more than a 2-parter?  Not me, certainly.  Enjoy!

He pushes the door open and I walk through, making sure to brush my breasts against him as I pass.  The room has two beds and a clean, modern look. I casually toss my purse on a chair and pull the curtains open.  The city sparkles below, the river curls lazily on its back as if inviting me to do the same.

He has kept pace with me and as I stand gazing out the window and kick my shoes off a beat later he is pressed behind me with his hands cupping both breasts.  I throw my head back and expose my throat to his mouth.  He nibbles my ear and traces his teeth along the chords of my neck, kneading my breasts, puffing deep-throated grunts along my skin.

I feel the bulge of his erection on my bottom and I press back more.  He bites me and I moan.  His hands slip beneath the thin cotton and free each heavy breast.  I moan louder.

He presses us both closer to the window until I must catch myself on the glass.  I hear him fumble with his britches and then his rod is caught in the folds of my dress between my legs.  I spread my feet just a little.

He falls forward on me and I brace myself under his weight.  He hikes up my skirt and finds my hot flesh, inflamed for him, dripping.  His fingers gently part the folds and dip inside, his cock is still safely tangled in fabric.

“Jesus Christ, you’re wet, Hy.  I thought you made this shit up.”

“No.  I never make it up.  It’s real.  And it’s for you,” I manage to answer.  His fingers begin a brutal rhythm and I start to shake a little.  His cupped hand is filled with my ejaculate and my dress suddenly feels like burlap, my hand prints have become sweaty smears on the glass.

Apollo seems to feel similarly about my dress and pulls it up and over my head in one motion.  He’s still fully clothed.  When he enters my pulsing slash, we haven’t yet kissed.

He pushes in slowly and an inch more when his pelvis reaches my buttocks.  I pant gently letting that filled-up feeling wash over me and tingle up over my shoulders and down to my fingertips.  He begins to move, his hands tight on my waist.

“Apollo – ” I start to say.

“Hy, don’t speak.  Not a word.”

I shut my mouth and begin to whimper as his pace increases and I hear his breathing become labored.  I wish we were on a lower level so a passerby might see me pressed against the cool glass wall, but find my view of his reflection a pleasant consolation prize.  He’s gazing down at me, his face transfixed with pleasure.  I rock back and pivot my hips just a little.  I feel him swell inside.

His balls swing and smack my vulva with each pump and I reach back and gently pull on them.  I have one shoulder pressed against the glass and the awkward position heightens my arousal.  I can’t move.

He pulls out and pulls me up to my full height.  He begins to dip down to take my mouth with his, but kisses my jaw instead.  My hand is wrapped around his wet cock.  He runs his hands up my body, pinching my nipples hard as he passes them, to rest his hands on my shoulders.  He gives a warm squeeze, then I feel pressure.

I lower to my knees and his bobbing meat glistens in the sun streaming through the window behind me.  I lick the head and taste my cunt.  I grab the base and impale my face on him, begin to move, do my thing.  He involuntarily pushes his hips forward and groans.  I lap and slurp and stroke like my life depends on it.  Like sucking his cock will turn back time, fill my bank accounts with money, solve world hunger.

He is lost to my ministrations.  My pussy cries happily, my juices running down my thighs as I taste precum and feel him grown then recede and grow again beneath my tongue and lips.  I press my finger to his perineum, slide it back to his anus.  It constricts and he thrusts almost angrily at my face with his hips.  I push a little further, just the tip and his thighs are like brick walls on either side of my face.  He begins to tremble.

He’s close, I know it.  I want so badly to taste his seed, to feel his beautiful, thick cock spurt into the back of my throat.  To look at him with his cum glistening on my lips, my face flushed with exertion.  I want this so badly.  I dive down harder and concentrate.  This is going to happen. My pussy pulses, little mews escape my throat, tears begin to run down my face and then he roughly breaks us apart, grabs me by the arms and throws me roughly down on the bed and undresses as he climbs up over me.

I fucked a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched.

This is for the Bare Your Sexual Soul Day. The challenge was to share a fantasy or a piece of fiction. This is non-fiction, but a fantasy come true for me. Enjoy.

I fumble through my box of scarves for just the right one, but give up and settle for a sleep mask. I put it on, adjust its tightness. The rule is I can’t see anything the entire time they’re here. I have 30 minutes until they arrive.

I get the blindfold just right, take a small sip of wine, and kneel in front of my fireplace facing the front door.

My heart pounds in my throat and fuck-music fills the vaulted ceilings. I sit, I lay down, I sit up on my knees again. My nerves are getting to me. Suddenly, I realize my dress can’t be easily removed without threatening the security of the mask, so I dash back to my closet and put on a dress that can be slipped down over my hips. I have on nothing else.

Two weeks before, Troy had said he’d wanted to get me a birthday present. This was it. He’d found a guy on AFF with a giant cock and who was willing to jump out of my proverbial birthday cake and fuck me while Troy watched. Troy would have normally joined in with his new bi-sexual friend, but his monogamous relationship forbade sexual contact with me. This was the best he could do.

Troy texts to say they are minutes away. I don’t know what Max looks like. I only know he passes muster with Troy. I slip the mask over my eyes and wait, trembling.

I hear a knock, and a low, male chuckle from Troy. My shaking is visible. He quickly closes the distance and embraces me. “Oh, Hy… you’re trembling!”

“Well, yeah,” I manage to squeak out. “Hi, Max,” I say to a presence in front of me.

“Hello, Hyacinth,” the man says in a heavy, unplaceable accent.

My senses are buzzing, my chest heaving, my cunt damp. I am the tinderbox, Max and Troy the matches.

Troy’s hands are on me in a sensually comforting way. His voice and scent calm me. I’ve been here with him before with Jack and Ryan. He’ll protect me.

I can feel Max move in front of me, hear his belt buckle and the slide of his jeans. Then his hands take mine and pull me up to my knees. The hot round knob of his cock butts against my cheek.

I sigh and take it in my hands, the shaft meaty and long, my fingers not quite encasing it. I open my mouth and flick my tongue on his salty aperture. Push further down on the pole and suckle. I’d closed my eyes in joy if I wasn’t already blinded.

Troy is next to me, touching me, stroking my breasts and massaging my neck. He loves watching me suck cock. I take in as much as I can and wish badly that I was watching him deepthroat this giant man instead. He is so brilliant at it.

I dip to the foreign man’s testicles, cleanly shaven, and nuzzle my nose into his groin. He presses into my face and exclaims at how good I am. Troy agrees. I swell with pride. I want so badly to please him. Our sexual life together might be dead, but this is something I can sink my teeth into.

I fantasize about a parade of men brought to my house by my ex-lover to fuck me anonymously while I am carefully watched over by his powerful 6’6″ frame.

Tears come to my eyes as my dress straps are pushed over my shoulders and pulled off over the large swells of my tits and hips. Max groans. Troy groans.

I stand helplessly alone and naked as Max pulls away from me and removes the rest of his clothing. Troy moves to a different vantage point.

Max kisses me deeply and his cologne swirls around me, sticky and sexual. His hands roam my body as Troy keeps up a steady commentary of how hot I am, how beautiful, how amazing. I bloom under the words and the physical ministrations.

Fingers enter me gently, part my soaking lips, and hook me like a fish. I hump forward on his hand and Max comes closer.

He’s short. Maybe 5’6″. I am putting together an image of him. He is densely muscled, with tightly curled hair on his body, like a black man might have; closely shaved head and face; full lips and a wide smile. He wears a heavy chain necklace.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down. Troy gives him a condom. I lay naked and exposed on my floor peering into darkness, my hole a venerable beacon of light. He lays down on top of me and the cool metal of his necklace kisses my lips. Troy moves closer and takes my hand.

I feel a warm blunt object butt up against my opening and I gasp. Troy squeezes my hand and sucks in his breath. My pussy is the sole focus in the room, like a birth, only I am being impaled instead. The cock slides all the way into me and exhales are heard all around the room. The baby is ok. It’s done. We’re all ok. I am reborn.

He moves inside of me and I writhe and buck beneath him in half a dozen positions. I can’t believe what is happening to me. I am only a bundle of nerves, some arms, legs, a cunt, breasts, a mouth, moans, sweat, and cries. I am not Hyacinth. I am just there, enveloped in sex. I feel at home.

Max finishes with a pounding and cries out. Troy cheers us on from his spot out of the way, still holding my hand. I ask him to run into my room and grab my vibe.

I lay on the floor and spread my knees, lay my dress over my pubis. I put the head of the toy between my legs and start to whisper, “I was fucked by a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched. I was fucked by a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched. I was fucked by a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched.”

I repeat it ad nauseum as my orgasm grows. Troy’s voice joins mine, his hands stroke my inner thighs, but never come near my heat. Max mumbles in a foreign tongue and I jibber on as my crescendo breaks over me, huge, enlightening and powerful.

I cry out and cry, big, fat tears that roll out from under my mask. I gasp and pant and say I want more. I begin to chant again and the wave up is immeasurable, the orgasms breathtaking.

I am a fucking slut; a dirty, reckless whore and I love it.

I have gone against everything I have ever known, ever been taught, ever thought of myself, and I have given myself to a stranger on the word of a lover, a whimsical, fantastical gift, and it has been exquisite.

As I come over and over I tell myself I’d do it again because I am a colossal slut. No one is more awful, more slutty than me. No one more debauched and deserved of filthy, anonymous sex.

I revel in the outlandishness of my behavior. The pure bliss and dissolution of propriety. It is beautiful and raw and more pure than any courtship-like tryst I had ever experienced. It feels like freedom.

Troy’s voice breaks my revery, “Hy… Are you ok?” His voice is filled with concern. My view is still black and stunted, my sense only of myself.

“Yes. I am,” I breath, sinking into the floor further.

“Good. Because that was goddamned amazing.”

“Yeah, I know it was. And thank you, Max.”

“You’re welcome,” he trips out and leans over to kiss me.

Troy says, “Happy birthday, Hy. You deserve it.”

Then it’s all over and I am being helped up and into a robe.

Max gives me a quick hug and kiss goodbye. Troy bends down, hugs me tightly, kisses my neck and leaves with my birthday present in tow.