I have permission to fuck other men. I think.

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Obama would approve, I’m certain.

I was at my kitchen table doing my secret sex blog stuff last night when I heard a faint knock at my door and saw The Neighbor’s head peek through.  The rest of him, clad in a towel, followed.  I knew he’d been in his tub and I’d told him I wished I was sitting on his toilet with a glass of wine shooting the shit, but he’d asked for a “TN night” and so I was content to do my own thing.

But, here he was.

He complimented me on my new dress and I complimented him on his giant, flaccid penis outlined by the white terry cloth.  “I’m not here to fuck.  I just wanted to hear about your interesting day.”  He carefully repositioned the towel exposing his flanks.  “C’mon, let’s go lay down.”

“Ok,” I agreed standing to follow him, “but I only said it was mildly interesting.”

I lit a candle and he crawled under the covers, losing the towel.  I sat demurely on top of the duvet, an arm’s reach away.  “Come in here,” he said and patted the spot beside him.  “Ok, so, your day.  What happened?”

“I had coffee with Jason.”

“Was that the guy who wanted to suck my dick?”

“He was one of them, yeah.  We struck up a chat a few weeks ago on Facebook and decided to catch up.  It was weird, but cool.  He was also the guy who gave me a C for dirty talk.”

“What a fucking asshole!”

“Yeah, well, anyway, it was ok.”

I lay in his arms and played with his chest hair idly, the two margaritas and two glasses of wine in me emboldened me to parlay this into a deeper conversation.  “How do you feel about me meeting him?”

He as quiet for a bit then said he didn’t mind.  “What if I’d fucked him?”

“Then I’d be disappointed.”  He paused here and thought.  “I think I’d want to approve of any old or new lover you hooked up with and I’d want you to tell me so we would start using condoms again.”

“So I have permission to fuck other people?”

“I’m not sure… I don’t have permission to fuck other people, though, do I?”

I sat up and looked at him, nuzzled his face and his chest with my lips.  “No, you don’t.  You said you didn’t want to back in January.  It doesn’t work that way. Have you changed your mind?”

Again, he was thoughtful.  “No.  No, I haven’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He grabbed my breasts and squeezed and I got up and kneeled between his knees, spread them slightly with my own.  His massive thighs bright white against the dark aubergine sheet.

“Suck my cock now,” he growled.  I grabbed his chubby cock and looked at him.

“No.  What do you say?” I asked him with a soft smile.

“Fucking suck it now, you dirty fucking slut!” he tried again.  My heart quickened and my smile grew.

But again, I said, “No.  More.”

And in a sweet, soft voice he asked, “Will you please suck my cock, Ma’am?” and without delay I fell on the cock that had become as rigid as a soldier.

My dress pooled around my legs and my tits fell out of the top and my tender nipples dragged on his flexed thighs.  I sucked and slurped and gripped and took little breaks to let his tension build.

When his erection was mighty, I didn’t want it in my mouth anymore and pulled my panties down.  He pushed me to my back and lifted up my skirts and drove into me, my ankles hiked over his shoulders like a knapsack.

He lit into me like a man possessed, I managed to stare at his shadow-cast face, so beautiful and masculine, staring down at me for several moments before the pounding knocked my eyes shut.  My pussy gushed and I squirted down my the crack of my bottom and moaned and gripped and clawed at him.  He didn’t want things to change, was all I could think.

He slammed into me a few more times then held still.  “I think I hurt my balls,” he winced.  I laughed and hugged him.

“Oh, honey, that’s awful!” I crooned and kissed his neck, his head hung down dejectedly.  He rolled off of me and disconnected.  I was still happy about sneaking in “honey” as I gently fondled his sack.  “We should put a pillow there or something next time!”

He chuckled.  “I have a fluffy sports headband I could use!”

As we chatted in each other’s arms I continued to stroke his erection, never letting it waiver.  “Do you think I could suck your cock?”

He nodded and I repositioned myself between his legs.  I sucked and paused, sucked and waited, stroked and moaned.  I told him how gorgeous his cock was, how much I loved sucking it.  He teased me that I had seduced him, that he hadn’t planned on fucking me at all and I pointed out he was the one who had demanded I suck his cock in the first place.  He giggled and I fell back down on him.

He burst into my mouth seconds later, his sweet laughter filled the darkened room.  He shook his hands like little meaty helicopters.

I laid in his arms again for a little while then massaged his back with the Hitachi and brought myself to a little standing orgasm in between causing him to yell, “Kelly Clarkson!” from the intense vibrations on his sore spots.

We laid together finally then and talked some more and I teased him about our next break up which is due in April if we are to keep our 90-day Hy-freaks-out schedule.  “Are we gonna break up and then get back together?” he asked, “or are we gonna break up break up?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to get back together.”

“Ok, then that’s what we’ll do.”  He got up to go and I felt silly and a little guilty for everything, the double standards, my emotional demands.  “Our relationship is an unconventional one, maybe we need unconventional maintenance, too,” I suggested.  He nodded agreement and I walked him to the door while slipping on my favorite Obama shirt and a pair of white panties.

He crossed the 4 feet to his door, looked around, and let the towel drop.  We smiled at each other and he walked into his apartment.

I need to say more, I think, let him know that I still love him.  Or maybe that’s a silly idea and I should keep my mouth shut and be happy with his continued interest and fidelity.

Fuck.

Love is not always the answer and anyone who tells you so is full of shit.  Love, sometimes, is the problem.

Hy and Obama
Just your average Tuesday morning photo shoot.

I’m wearing his underwear today.

“Are you really going back next door like that?” I asked from beneath the covers he’d just tucked up around my chin. His nude, pale body was luminescent in the flickering candlelight.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a step out my bedroom door.

“Ok, honey,” I giggled back. I listened and smiled as I heard the front door open and close. No muffled locking noises this time.

I rolled to my side and noticed the small bundle of clothing he’d tucked there and drew out his boxer briefs. I hesitated only a second before I put them on my naked bottom.

I had cried earlier that night, distraught and anxious over a big change in my life, and he had been there. He’d been there even though he had originally claimed a solitary evening, but when I had texted my feelings to him and asked for his presence he was there almost immediately.

He held me and talked to me, assuaged my fears, tangled his legs in mine, insisted we watch Dodgeball. And when the movie was over he lead me back to my room and made my body sing. His cock enormous, his face beautiful and intent over mine.

“Is it weird that I can’t look back at you?” I wondered when we were done.

“A little.”

“Has anyone stared back at you?”

He thought for a second. “I guess not.”

“I get so bashful; I can’t do it. But I want to.” Suddenly, an idea came to me. “Ooh, next time, I will blindfold you, but let you be over me. That way I can stare at your beautiful face all I want.”

He loved the idea and smiled.

I love the idea because I will finally be able to show the love on my face without fear of discovery for once. And it will be fucking hot.

He got up and tucked me in and came back and kissed me twice. Today is a big day for me. I needed that injection of support and confidence in my heart and between my legs. No one will be the wiser that this is what I’ll have on beneath my dress.

Off I go…

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He kissed me and there we were.

Friday night Tina turned to her boyfriend, Chuckles, and their lips puckered and connected.  The girl with the faux-hawk behind them tossed a dirty look their way and I looked at The Neighbor surrounded by 20-somethings clad in ugly glasses, leather jackets, and skinny jeans, a mostly ignored Lone Star beer in his hand.  He was a rose in a field of grass.

“We can’t let them win,” he said and grabbed me and pulled me against his pea coat.  My lips parted in surprise as his icy blue eyes locked on mine and his own lips parted and came to crush down on mine.  He held me to him, his 5 o’clock shadow rough on my face.  The hum of the crowd disappeared under the cheers of my heart and the soft stroking of his warm tongue on my own.

I heard my friends gasp drunkenly behind me as they saw me embraced by the man they know I love, lost in the moment and shining like a fallen star among the ignorant hipster drunks trying to be cooler than their friends.

We pulled apart, but he kept me close.  I smiled and laughed like everything was normal, like I hadn’t just been molecularly modified by his lips on mine under the stars and many prying eyes.  Something shifted further away from safe and much closer to terror.

We’d spent a wonderful week together; night after night he came over after Peyton was in bed and we’d cuddle and kiss, fondle the warm fleshy bits and suck and nuzzle the protruding ones.   His cock lost its treasure to my hungry mouth as easily as my heart lost its treasure to him.  His warm, loving, incredible, sweet, smart, worried, supportive, sexy, funny self.

He has been supple under my steady hand and as I learn to exercise my dominance over him, subtle and consistent as it is, he bends and collects himself; self-corrects and shows a beauty I didn’t know a single man could possess. He catches himself and apologizes, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he’ll say with a tuck of his chin and a twinkle in his eye.  He’ll say it as many times as I require in front of anyone; it’s a secret code that only we know about.  To others, he’s being contrite, to me he’s being submissive and delectable.

Every night when the coast was clear I texted, “Come over.”  Moments later he would be in my room, stretched out on my bed with my hand on his fleecy chest.  He is a cat to the core: quirky in his solitude requirements, fiercely affectionate to those he trusts, demanding of attention on his private terms.  His words have spilled out, the most beautiful I have ever heard in my life.

“Hy, you are so fucking gorgeous.  I love your body.  You are so sexy,” he said to me Thursday night as we lay entwined after our first softball victory.  “I am so lucky.”  I cuddled into him, wishing I could stay there for hours.

“Thank you for saying that.  That means a lot to me.”

“Well, I mean it.”

It’s hard for me to imagine my life without him.  I know I am going to be devastated.  I can’t understand how he can be the best boyfriend I’ve never fucking had.  How is that even possible??  What kind of life was I living prior to not dating him?  Who was I choosing to love and spend my time with?  Even my ex-husband never made me feel so desirable, so smart, so special, so wanted and he pledged himself to me!

TN denies wanting me and yet… and yet none of that noise from his mouth matters to me right now.  What matters to me is that his bloody, beating heart is drawn to me and he is helpless to stop it and he has stopped trying to hide it.  From me, from anyone.  That kiss at the bar — in front of our friends — was more than just a kiss.  It was compliance, a real dip into submitting to what I want from him, love.

He loves me.  I am sure of it.  And it makes my heart burst with rainbows and glitter and all kinds of sparkly shit on the LUB and freeze and shiver and stop on the DUB.  But I’m used to it now.  Nothing will change — nothing has changed — but I feel loved now.  That’s fucking new.

Valentine’s Day found me busier than usual.  I had dinner with a friend of mine whom I don’t know super well (she dated my exhusband right after we split) and three other women I’d never met before, but it was lovely beyond words.  Roasted cauliflower, Brussels sprouts-stuffed pork tenderloin, kale salad, wine and cigarettes, connections made.

At 8:30 my phone lit up.  “What are you doing?” it read.  I texted him back that I was at a dinner party.  “When will you be back?”  I smiled and said around 10.  He liked that idea.

The wine flowed and the conversation improved by the minute.  At 10:30 my phone lit up again.  “Oh shit!” I told my dinner companions.  “I have to go!  I have to go get laid!”  They’d been curious about my arrangement with TN and I’d filled them in on the basics.  As I was getting sucked back into conversations my phone interrupted again, “I’m naked and in your bed.”  This time I was serious.

“Ok, ladies.  I’m so sorry, but I truly must leave.  I have a naked man in my bed.”  They all laughed and whistled at me as I ran through hugs and out the door.  What I hadn’t told them was he was following orders like a good boy.

I parked and flew up my stairs, tossed down my things and headed straight to my room.  Out of the darkness he said hello.  I felt blindly for him and he pulled back the covers and pulled me down to him for a kiss.  I lit a candle and undressed under his appraising eyes.

I preened and pushed out my breasts proudly.  “Before we start tonight,” I said quietly kneeling beside him, his hand resting on my bottom, “I owe you some spanks.”  He pretended to be surprised, but he’d known they were coming for days.  He got up and planted his feet on the floor and fell forward.

I cracked my red leather belt across the soft, round mounds of his bottom until he began to react.  Each flinch and stifled cry washed over me like bath water; his increasingly red bottom whet my core.

Instead of the promised 5, he got 35.  I needed to warm up with a few, then he was adorably impertinent, then I was just enjoying myself.  When I felt one more would be too much I stopped and kissed the warm skin, gently caressed his thick, muscular thighs.

I tied him up then sucked on his massive cock until he writhed helplessly beneath me, his hands bound above his head, and his semen spurting on the back of my throat.  When he’d stopped giggling and smiling, I crawled up to his face and carefully engulfed his nose and mouth with my cunt and gripped the iron bars of my headboard so as not to kill him with my passion.

I eased back down his torso and let his erection split me like a toothpick in a grape.  “Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” he moaned.

Eventually, I took pity on him and released his hands.  We tumbled and fucked.  I cried and let him spank me and pull my hair like a wild beast.  His cock twitched and throbbed inside me as the Hitachi did the work of 100 men and their talented tongues and he held me in his arms until I uncharacteristically fell asleep in them, tears drying on my cheeks.

As he opens up this beautiful, submissive side to me and I respond to it so viscerally and powerfully, I find myself in a strange predicament.  I am the embodiment of our very relationship: I am yes and I am no.  I want to feel this happiness and love, yet I am terrified of its abandonment and actually hate it a little like hating to comb out a tangle.  He’s such a terrible puppet, you know: he won’t do everything I want him to.  Just most of it.

I see the changes in him towards me, the love, but I want more.  The more I love him the more impossible I find it to not want more. I feel guilty and greedy and attempt to temper my wanton desires with reality, but I struggle.  He still refuses to sleep with me and when I boldly asked him one night his refusal was swift and permanent.

“But you slept with 4 am girl and your exgirlfriend all the time,” I said petulantly.

“That was different.  I was trying to have a different kind of relationship with them.  They were my girlfriend.

The words stole my breath away and I slunk down in the passenger seat wishing we were home already.  I couldn’t rally; I was crushed.

He tried to repair the matter with silly jokes, but I couldn’t pretend.  I solemnly climbed the stairs behind him, thanked him for a fun night and entered my apartment and had a small fit which might have included going back to the front door and slamming it as hard as I could.

In the morning I woke and asked to see him.  He came over immediately and I apologized for ending the night in a huff, but explained that my feelings were deeply  hurt by the fact that I’m not as special as fucking 4 am girl.  If ever I wished a D/s relationship could sway a person’s wants it would be with this.

“I don’t like sleeping with anyone, Hy and you’re looking at this all wrong.  You are so much more special to me than they ever were or will be.  I’ll still know you in 5 or 10 years and I don’t even talk to them anymore.  But I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.  I really am, but I promise you you are 100 times more special to me than they ever were.”

I told him his reasoning was bullshit, but that I would agree to believe his words for both our sakes.

It’s that reckless and random pain that awaits me whenever I want to close the gap between us that clutches at my throat on the DUB.  I cannot be without it.  I’d be an idiot to pretend it wasn’t there.  Even though we seem to have moved forward we are still in shadow.  Half my friends don’t know we are lovers, my family certainly has no idea I’m in love with someone new, and sweet Peyton only knows Mommy and TN are neighbors.

I’m happier than I’ve been in months, possibly even ever, but I am scared and sad, too.  I wish he’d kiss me in front of everyone all of the time.  Not just when the stars are out and the moon is bright, but in the light of day as a man in love should.  If, indeed, he really is a man in love.

I’m sent off in style.

It was late, 10 pm.  I was relaxed, buzzed from the martinis I’d had with an old high school friend passing through town, and dressed in little pajama pants and a white t-shirt.  My breasts hung heavy and loose beneath the filmy cotton as I bustled around the kitchen.  A pot steamed on the back burner filled with aromatic chicken stock and clam juice.  I tossed in the bright pink armor of six freshly shelled shrimp and stirred the risotto on the front burner.

I checked the cooking shrimp and removed them just as there was a knock at my door.  I didn’t even bother to look up as I heard the door open and shut.  The Neighbor walked in wearing only his shiny black basketball shorts.  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said smiling.  “It smells amazing.”

“Well, thank you,” I smiled back as I cleaned the scallops and put them in the hot pan the shrimp had just occupied.  He walked around the bar into the kitchen.  “Aren’t we dressed for dinner!” I laughed as I looked at the two of us.

The original plan had been for me to make him and his closest work friend dinner.  He has this idea that she and I should be best friends, so I offered to host dinner and a movie at my place.  Turns out she got shy and he had to work late, which suited me fine.  It’d given me a chance to see my old high school pal and peruse the grocery store at 9:30 at night along side lonely bachelors and single moms with their tired kids stuffed into grocery carts.

“What are we having?” he asked as he sidled up to me and cupped my breasts.  His chin rested on my shoulder and he peaked down to the stove top.

“Risotto with truffle oil, scallops and prawns and roasted asparagus,” I added,  “because I know you love that shit.  Simple and homey.  Will you set the table for us?”

He released my breasts and set to work telling me about his long and awful day at the office.  When he was finished with his chore he lay at the entrance of the kitchen and watched me with a smile on his face.  I brought him a glass of wine and he sipped appreciatively.  “I like this view,” he said and when I turned to look at him he was clearly staring at my bottom hanging out just an inch or so from my pj shorts.

“I’m glad you like it.  Like I said, we really dressed for dinner!”

He’d found some candles and dimmed the lights so when we sat down we were bathed in candlelight.  “This looks amazing, Hy,” he said.

“Well, here’s to hoping it doesn’t taste like shit!” I laughed as I said my usual little disclaimer before feeding someone.

We ate and talked like old friends, old lovers.  We mmm’d and awed over the perfectly cooked risotto (possibly one of my best efforts to date).  The heady, earthy truffle oil somehow made the meal more special, the moment more particular.  When not another morsel of food could be swallowed he stood up and held out his hand.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Oh, TN, my belly!!  It’s so full!” I cried.

“It’s ok.  Let’s just go cuddle then.”

I took his hand and he led me to my room where a candle was already lit.  He gently pushed me down and climbed in next to me.  We threaded our legs together and he pulled me into his nook.  As we continued to talk he absent-mindedly fondled my breasts.  Then dropped his hand lower.

My belly still felt full, but my whole body was filling up.  With love, with lust, with the need to wrap myself around him.  I dropped my knees apart and granted him easier access.

His fingers pushed into me and swirled around the slippery skin.  He pressed against my clit and massaged it gently, expertly.  His expertise further titillated me.  “God,” I gasped, “You’re getting so fucking good at that.  It’s wonderful that I can trust you won’t hurt me.”  So many men manhandle me; I’m too sensitive.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he murmured into my neck.

“Yes.  Yes, you have,” I whispered into the space above us.

He kissed me then, then my face and my neck.  I let him seduce me, play my body like a cheap fucking fiddle.  He set the pace, when clothes came off and in what manner.  He massaged my thighs and my belly with his strong hands and dipped his mouth to my cunt.  His hot, flat tongue lapped at me like the good little boy he is.  Jesus fucking Christ, that kid is good.

He stopped with his mouth and sat up.  His erection bounced mightily between us.  He braced himself above me with one arm and guided his cock in with the other.  Slowly, he stretched into me.

“Oh my God, Hy.  You feel so good.  You’re so tight.”

I thrilled at the words so rarely spoken.  I often fear that I am not tight enough because he never says it and he has such a hard time cumming, but here he was exclaiming it with his own words.  A beam of sunshine burst inside of me as I arched up to meet him.

He pumped into me for minutes, hours, an eternity.  He growled and clung to me and flipped me around so I could grip the headboard.  He split my legs apart and put one on his shoulder, his penetration pinned me to the wall.  I felt him in my goddamned throat as my pussy sprung a leak and splattered us with her joy.

I cried and bucked beneath him as he stared down menacingly at me.  He switched my legs and continued to lash at my soul with his cock.  My tits jiggled with my belly as I was contorted into a sexual pretzel, immobilized with passion, his pussy. Always his pussy.

He stopped then and kissed me.  “I want to see you cum,” he said simply as he leaned over and grabbed my Hitachi.  I could only nod.

He pounded into me a few more times for good measure then took up his favorite spot of observing: his cock buried inside of me, my legs hooked over his hips, his head in his right hand, his left somewhere on my body.

The vibrations took me instantly and as his thrusts gently bumped into me like a boat in its dock the climax grew and grew.  My eyes closed and I imagined what we must look like: two naked, creamy bodies hinged together like mating dragonflies, breasts heavy, nipples pert, candlelight shadows flickered across us.

I cried out and panted and arched my back.  “That’s it, Hy,” he crooned.  “That’s it.”  His paws kneaded my breasts and I lay shaking beneath him.

“I want you to do it again,” he said.

I turned my head to look at him and his beautiful, boyish face was intent.  I nodded.  But before I could start he sat up between my legs and took me for a few thrusts, forever thrusts.  Thrusts that split my brain open and my stupid heart.  He was harder than ever and I silently marveled at his prowess… and my luck.

“I love,” I said as he worked himself inside of me, “fucking you,” I finished with a gasp.  “I am so lucky to have you.”

I nearly took it back — it was too much, too open — but it was also too late.  Wordlessly, he lay back on his side and flipped on the Magic Wand laying beside me.  “Another,” he said.

“Ok,” I nodded.

Each orgasm I have is different.  Each one has its own flavor, its own imagery.  This second one was swift, but low.  His thrusts continued with a methodical deviance that drove me wild.  My breath hitched and I began to quake.  His hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed; my orgasm lurched ahead.  So delicious, just. out. of. reach.  “Cum for me,” he suddenly said.  “Cum for me now, you fucking slut.  NOW.”

And then I did.

It spilled out of me like an avalanche and washed away all my cares, my hurts, and my worries.  With it came sobs and yowls, a wild animal was released from me.  “That’s right, baby,” he said between gritted teeth. “That’s my girl.”

I spiraled down from whatever planet I’d just touched with my celestial body and slammed back into myself with a cry.  The tears poured out of my eyes and my cries were loud and ugly.  If only I could find this much satisfaction in all of my life, all of my space, fill my loneliness with it and end my worry.

He slipped out of me then and pulled himself up behind me and held me as I continued to fall back down to reality.  “Shhhh, it’s ok. You’re ok,” he said as he pet my head and kissed my ear.  “It’s ok.”

Before I was fully myself again I pushed him onto his back.  His cock was still rock hard, bigger than imaginable.  “I want to suck it,” I said looking up at him from under my lashes.  “May I?”

He said yes, but assured me he wasn’t going to cum.  I promised him I wouldn’t try.

My arms felt weak from my orgasms as I gripped his shaft with my left hand and braced my upperbody with my right.  I stroked him gently, lovingly.  I flicked my tongue on his leaky aperture and sipped at his precum.  I swallowed him whole and tasted my own juices, light and heady.

He moaned and stretched beneath me, pulsed in my hand.  I closed my eyes and set a warm, steady rhythm with my soft mouth.  My arm trembled, but I ignored it.  My head worked like a piston, never slowing, never wavering.  Tirelessly I worked his cock.  I felt like I could do it forever — love on him in this way — but only a minute or two had passed.

I felt him stiffen beneath me, his thighs hardened like rock, his breath caught.  I didn’t change one thing.  I remained steady and sucked and lapped at him like my life depended on it.

He exploded into my mouth, thrust into my face as far as I could take him.  I felt his hot spurts on the back of my throat.  His wildly sexy grunts and pants proof that he, too, is human.  Just like me.

I pushed down on him for one last slurp and he began to giggle.  “Oh my God,” he exclaimed.  “Hy, you’re so good at that!”

“Well, thank you.  I try,” I smiled as I crawled up his chest and kissed him passionately.  He grabbed the back of my head and pressed me into him, tasting himself on me.

I flopped to his side then, completely exhausted.

We lay there looking at each other.  I pet his scruffy face and he pushed into my hand like a cat.  My cat.  “I really am going to miss you, you know,” he said then.

“Well, thank you,” was all I said in return.

Minutes or hours later, I didn’t really know (though I suspected the former) he got up and sought out his clothes.  He tucked me in and gave me a sweet, lingering goodbye kiss.  “Have a safe trip tomorrow,” he said as he walked out of my room.  “I’ll lock the front door.”

I was on a plane to San Francisco the next day.

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 still love him.

photo
Spilling my guts in a coffee shop.

It’s happening again.

That lurch in my chest, that belly ache.  The wild sense of fear and loneliness has somehow returned in flashes here and there.  I can’t decipher if it’s because of the year I’ve had with him or because my life has primed me for fear of loss.

The funny thing is loss hasn’t killed me yet, so why would it now?  Fear is an infection on my life.  It steals the beauty of a bright blue day with sounds of twittering life on the breeze.  It robs the beauty of a moment between lips and thighs and puffs of breath.  It decimates the beauty of a feeling between beings, that raw, wondrous energy one human transfers to another.  Fear is death of all things beauty.

I’ve lost much in my life, like most — I’m no different from the hipsters sitting next to me.  Loss isn’t just a death of a being, it’s also the death of a thing, a feeling, an agreement.  Divorce is the death of a life planned and hoped for.  The death of love and trust, even faith.

And yet, I’m still kicking.  No loss has gotten the best of me.  I continue to grow, feel, love.  Why am I so afraid, then?

It confounds me that I fear losing TN so much.  What would happen to me? I wonder.  Well, I would hurt.  I would ache and flail and sob and shrivel up a little, but I wouldn’t die.  Perhaps I would find beauty in my pain.  I believe it exists there because pain is life and life is art.  Some put it on our bodies, others turn it out.  I put it into letters on pages and sometimes I put it into my pussy.

Pain is unavoidable and grand simultaneously.  It’s reassurance that we’re here.

And: I am falling in love with him all over again.  That’s why I fear.

I’ve been avoiding writing that sentence — even saying it to myself — for weeks now, but it’s unavoidably true.

I do.  I love him.  Perhaps I always will, I don’t know.

Switching to the top, becoming his Domme, has transformed me.  I feel as though it’s where I should have always been.  I feel frantic about it and stupidly calm.  He needs me to care, I need him to need me.  Why has it taken me this long in my life to surrender to this?  Would this have saved my marriage?  I’m certain my ex-husband would have plugged into this — wait, I should never speak in absolutes — I’m confident he would have liked it.  Maybe it would have salvaged our broken promises from the wreckage.

Feeling TN’s desire for me to care, to take charge, to reprimand him and tug him this way and that lights my insides like a Roman candle.  The trust between us is growing, my love expanding, and thus, my fear.  I am juggling two kittens and an ax.  One wrong toss and the kittens are ribbons and my hand gone.

We have spent night upon night together cuddling and/or inside each other — literally and figuratively.  Since last Monday, we haven’t played with our new roles much other than setting light boundaries.  The way he speaks to me, for example, is up for review.  He gets punished when he says things on the assumption that I am silly or that I am old.  It’s a brilliant way of communicating.

Me: I’m going to get an ice-cube for your bottom now.

Him: But the water will drip down!

Me (firm and holding up one finger): That’s 1, TN.

Him (thinking): It’s because I assumed you wouldn’t take care of the drips, right?

Me: Yes.  Good boy.  (SMACK!)

Me (as I’m cooking us dinner): Could you please put the dishes in the dishwasher away?

Him (smiling): Why?

Me (smiling back): Because of my bad back and because it’ll help me stay organized.

Him (with a face-splitting grin): It’s because you’re old, right?

Me (also still smiling): That’s 2.  You are not to make fun of my age any more.

Him: Yes Ma’am.

Touching him, his cock, his lips.  I feel as though they’re mine.  I require a kiss now before he leaves.  He always presents his bottom for a nice smack, but then I pull him back in to feel his 5 o’clock shadow on my face and under my fingertips, his pliant, warm lips on mine.  I take what I need and he obliges.

Sunday he donned another pair of my panties and vacuumed my apartment for me.  I languished on the couch in my yellow dress, breasts to my chin, and mused that I should probably invest in a nice vacuum cleaner, one that wouldn’t wrench my back each time I used it.  He stopped the rhythmic push and pull and stood up straight, and looked at me.

“I don’t think I like that idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”

And so the story goes.  He wants me to need him as much as I want him to need me, though we dance around labels and real commitment and loving each other as openly and proudly as we are able.

This week I felt myself unraveling.  That fear of loss has me stumbling and gasping.  He has pulled back infinitesimally and it I feel like it’s the Titanic to my iceberg.  It’s ridiculous: He didn’t want to cuddle with me Tuesday night.  It was the first night in weeks that we didn’t spend time with limbs entwined.  And last night, as we cuddled and he said firmly for me not to touch his beautiful cock with my mouth or pussy, he wasn’t forthcoming with details for his plans on Thursday.

“I don’t remember what they are,” he said, eyes closed, brow knit.

“You don’t remember?” I asked, clearly not believing him.

“Yeah, I don’t.  I’m all out of it tonight.”

And just like that, the seed was planted.  He has plans with a woman! I thought.  They’re probably just friends, but he doesn’t want to tell me. What does that mean?  How am I supposed to respond?? I’m like a dog with a bone.

When asked, he assured me that We were cool, that he was just in a bad mood and that it had nothing to do with me.  I emphasized that he was welcome to discuss any problems with me if he had them.  He accused me of being insecure.  I scoffed at that.  He had the wrong reaction to deduce that.  Yes, I am insecure, but guaranteeing open lines of communication is not the indicator.

When I see him, my heart skips, my eyes twinkle.  He loves on me, cuddles me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my hair.  He humps me.

When he was vacuuming my bedroom I jumped on the bed, lay on my stomach with ankles crossed.  His erection was mighty and straining at the cotton of my panties.  He turned the machine off and came around to my face.  I patted his meat and breathed on him.

“Lay down,” I told him and we switched spots.

I pulled my panties down over his hips and fell on him with my mouth.  I crawled up the length of him and he popped my breasts out of the top of my dress and sucked on them with exquisite perfection.  I slid down back between his knees and when I stood up we laughed because his cock was caught under my dress, popping a yellow plaid tent between us.

photo 1
Mine.

I reached down and grabbed his shaft.  “It looks like it’s mine,” I said.  He pulled up the fabric of my dress and I stood there with no panties on with a giant cock leaping out at him.  Again we laughed as I took a picture.  It really is mine.  We both know it, though never say it.

I rode him and he rode me, hearts pounded.  It was the old TN and Hy.  No D/s, just me losing my shit and him reveling in it.  “God, I love fucking you!” he said over and over.  I thrashed beneath him naked, my breasts round Jello domes of jiggle, my eyes fluttered to his unable to keep eye contact.  If only I could get him to remove one word.

Monday night shifted things inside of me.  For a few hours my fear was gone.  I know I have no control, I know that life will do as it wills, I know I am insignificant.  But for a few hours I was in charge of something important to me: Him and Us.

I scribbled words of devotion all over his body, though he didn’t know that’s how I meant them: “glorious cock,” “yummy chest,” “broad shoulders,” and, over his heart, “Good Boy”.  If he ever finds this blog I hope he sees the love seeping out of every word I’ve ever written about him, good, bad, or ugly.

He wrote on me.  It was his reward for behaving: “magnificent breasts,” “sexy, horny slut,” “hottest, wettest best pussy ever” with a little arrow to my shaved vulva.

photo 3
Reflection.

My fear of loss, my need for love.  They are constantly warring, constantly pulling me into a million little different directions.

I can’t say more.  I feel shy and protective of him now; I am incapable of sharing the details of the D/s encounters, my fingers will not move, but I feel beautifully vulnerable sharing the changes in me and the other wonderful sex and things between us.  I think I’m ok with the fear.

I think I’m happy.

photo 5
I shamefully admit: this is my love.

I have happy dreams.

I looked up into the bleachers and saw him there, sitting patiently in the cool autumn weather waiting for me to hit the stage.  I was terrified and nervous.  My fellow talent show participant had rubbed my shoulders moments before and asked me what I was so afraid of.  I’d told her, “Well, this is pretty much my worst nightmare: performing a song whose words I don’t and a dance routine whose steps I also don’t know.”  I shrugged it off as I looked at him smiling back at me.  He was there with me.

I stretched out under fluffy covers and turned my head.  My eyes blinked open and he laid there on his side facing me.  “I just had a nice dream about you,” I said quietly, testing to see if he was awake.  He didn’t move.

I fluffed my pillow and sunk my head back into it, wondered if it was the one he’d “dedicated” to me all those long months ago during that magically hopeful day, and drifted off back to sleep, a smile on my face.

I’d come over the night before at 2 am after a long, cold night with friends huddled around a bonfire and a mass of goddamned hipsters with the sole intent to cuddle.

I pulled my hat down around my ears and tied my coat as I trudged up the stairs in the blistering cold.  I unlocked my door, but turned to knock on his.  He opened it smiling and pulled me inside.

I shook with a chill and he took my purse and phone and keys and set them on the coffee table.  He peeled off my jacket and hat.  As he slipped off my cardigan I noticed the house was spotless, candlelit and filled with spicy incense.  “Come on, you,” he said as he took my hand and led me to his bedroom.

Gone were the piles of clothes and tissues I’d noticed earlier in the day, the random chair.  Warm light flooded the space and his bed was turned down.  He swept his arm out in invitation before pushing me down on the bed and removing my boots, socks, and tights.  Still in my dress, I crawled under the covers and he quickly disrobed and joined me.

Nestled in his arms we talked about our nights and he pet my hair as I splayed my fingers through the pelt on his chest.  I removed the rest of my clothes and pressed my swells against his side, he trapped my icy feet between his warm thighs.

As I dozed off he excused himself to go play on his computer, said he might go to a coffee shop.  he was wide awake.  I drowsily wondered if he’d want me to leave, but fell asleep before I could do anything about it.  Some time later I felt him return to me and snuggle close.

When I awoke again later in the morning, we were facing each other again.  I closed my eyes and felt his hand reach for mine and place it on his erection.  It was hot and stiff.  We giggled conspiratorially as he coached me on the perfect handjob.  Soon, I gave up and fell on hit with my face.  Fuck that shit; it takes too long.

I lapped and slobbered and gripped and sucked until a distant pounding at the back of my skull forced me to stop.  “I think I have a hangover, TN.  I have to stop.  I’m so sorry.”  I’ve never stopped a blowjob before.

“It’s ok.  I have a plan B,” he said as he sat up and pushed me down.  He reared up between my legs and slid deep inside of me in one long thrust.  He stared into my eyes as I groaned and I peeked back up through my lashes.  “You like that??” he asked.

“Uh huh,” I moaned back.

We bucked and slammed into each other until my pussy squelched and I cried out for fear of death by pleasure.  I gripped the headboard and pushed with all my might against him.  His flanks pounded into me as my hands ran up his chest and across his shoulders.

He leaned back and swung my legs up together in front of me.  He rode me hard and swung his heavy hand on the softer undersides of my thighs.  With each thwack I cringed and almost screamed.  Pound, pound, pound.  Slap, slap, slap.

I could see him gazing at me through the gaps in my legs, helpless to move, dependent on him completely for my release and my salvation.  Warm climaxes washed over me and I sobbed dryly as he collapsed exhausted on top of me.

“I’m sorry I had to stop blowing you,” I said again, knowing he wasn’t really disappointed.

“I don’t care.  I love fucking you,” he replied.

We lay tangled in each other’s arms with blankets and sheets awry for a while longer until he suggested breakfast.  I wearily gathered my things and only just barely covered my nudity before jumping across to my doormat and my unlocked door.  I’d had a feeling I wouldn’t want to be fumbling with keys when I finally left his apartment.  I’m glad I’d thought ahead.

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.

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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.

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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.