He played my body like an aged rock star, the strings of my body a part of his own, my notes his own voice and my reverberations deep in his bones.
I lay on my back and my lashes fluttered, the ceiling fan silently whirred. I briefly thought, “I need to dust,” and then was jerked back by his soft tongue lapping at my pussy. My newly shaved bare pussy.
I have resisted the trend to make myself look prepubescent for years. I’ve ranted and raved about it, been stubbornly against it, but The Neighbor’s birthday was a couple of weeks ago and I wanted to do something special for him. Something he’d never ask for and something I knew he quietly wanted.
“I’ve never been with anyone who’s entirely shaved,” he mentioned to me once. “I know you think it’s nasty, but I think it’s kinda hot. Forbidden.” I’d listened patiently, snug in his nook, and played with his chest hair.
And that was the moment I made my decision. I wanted to erase her from his memory banks and replace her with visions of my creamy, smooth cunt, shaved just for him.
I was surprised to realize that the decision felt good. There was no pressure to conform or to “look like that.” This was a gift for the man I love.
The night before his birthday I stood under scorching hot water and let the heat soak into my bones. I filled my hand with cream and spread it on my little patch of hair. My 5-blade razor made quick work on the top and I pulled and stretched the folds of my vulva to get all the little hairs hiding in the crevices.
Then, despite Dumb Dommes’ misgivings about shaving your own asshole, I bent forward, spread my cheeks, slathered on shaving cream, and carefully lay the razor in my crack and dragged outward until the blades came out hair-free. I was smooth as a petal now.
As I toweled off I peeked at my handiwork and quickly covered back up. It looked foreign, weird, exceptionally naughty. I blushed and got dressed for bed, excited to see him later. It was a good night, that first reveal.
But now his birthday had long since passed as I lay with my legs splayed as his wicked tongue stroked me. The bristles of his beard — which he was growing just for me — were soft and scruffy on my inner thighs and plump vulva. I was in motherfucking heaven.
He sneaked his right hand under my bottom and slipped a curved finger inside of me and my face sparkled with pleasure, my teeth chattered. I gasped and bucked and writhed, his face clung to my center like a cowboy wearing the biggest belt buckle around.
“I need a break!” I whispered suddenly. “Oh my God, I need a break!” I was overloaded, on the brink of total torture, not release. “Please, holy shit, you’re so good at that, I need a break,” I panted again as he stopped and slowly slipped his finger out.
His face was plastered with a grin and a sheen.
I closed my eyes and prepared to get a grip when I felt his finger slide back into me, only this time it was multiple fingers. “No,” I squeaked weakly, “I can’t handle it!” I felt both his hands on my knees spread me apart. I opened my eyes and saw him standing between my legs, looking down at me like a hungry cat, his cock buried in my pussy to the hilt. His dark pubic hair looked stark against my bare mound.
I imagined what he saw then: my bare body, white, with no interruptions, large breasts slightly flattened that jiggled with my giggles as I realized he’d done a switch on me.
“I thought that was your finger!” I laughed.
“I’m insulted!” he said as he thrust into me and smiled broadly.
“Multiple fingers!” I corrected myself.
He gripped my knees from underneath and hauled me closer to him. My bottom hung off the edge of the bed. He pushed deeply into me and the tingling from my face, which his talented mouth had begun, ebbed and traveled down to my center. I moaned and floated away on more blooming orgasms — pink and bright, soft, long, and cloudy — as he increased the tempo. I let go and bounced along like a leaf on a rapid.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and locked my ankles pulling him closer. He rammed into me and his giant cock slid up through my belly to my goddamned throat.
My hands twisted in the sheets and arched my back against him when he suddenly stopped and quietly stared at me. I was confused.
He stooped to pick something up and held up my Hitachi triumphantly.
I shook my head No. He nodded Yes then added, “You are going to cum with me inside of you.”
He flicked the wand on and handed it to me. Defeated I draped my crotch with a sheet for a small buffer and pressed the head against me. I jumped and began the climb and he started to move.
I lost myself then. I couldn’t tell where he ended and the vibrator began. He was my everything then. My pleasure, my pain, my torture, my release. He thrust again and again and I burst at the seams, light split me apart, my cells detached and I screamed and rolled my eyes like a wild mare as I was obliterated in darkness and light; his cock my anchor to Earth and to love and to life. I was split apart like Neo with the Matrix and I began to sob uncontrollably as it went on and on and on.
Finally, I fell back into my shell. It had released me.
He scooped me up and held me as tears spilled from my eyes. I felt so, so small. Eternally small.
I cried because I only ever felt this way with this man and it was always slipping away. I cried because I didn’t deserve the pleasure. I cried because I did.
He kissed and crooned to me and I buried my face in his chest and inhaled his sweet, clean scent. I rolled to my back and he stroked my naked mound. His fingers felt warm, honest. My silly shaved pussy was worth every blush and every moment of post-feminist guilt I’d been experiencing. A passport to 45 minutes of losing my mind will always be worth it.
He told me he would be leaving soon and I squeezed him tightly. Happy to have made him so happy. He loved it and I loved that he loved it.
And I felt motherfucking lucky.
It’s not every day I have someone for whom to shave my pussy bare. He’s one lucky motherfucker.
To get The Neighbor to cum I have to do an elaborate dance of tension, pressure, sensuality, and stamina. It is not for the faint of heart. My neck hurts, my arms, my mouth will feel drawn and tight. But I persevere because I love him and I love his cock.
The man may be blessed to have a large cock, but he is blocked. His vice-like grip on himself and his emotions also extends to orgasm when a woman is upon him; neither her mouth or her pussy are always the key. They’re occasional keys.
He laments his troubles, but finds great pleasure in what he gives to me and what I do for him. It’s like an almost-perfect birthday gift. Much like millions of men around the world whose women never orgasm beneath them, I trust him when he says he doesn’t need to cum to enjoy himself. I was that woman for years. I get it.
Not only is giving TN a blowjob a performance, I also have to be in the right mindset to make him cum. The sun and moon and stars are involved every time. And lately, they have been misaligned. I’ve been tired, mildly suffocated, agitated, frustrated, and most recently sad and mourning.
Our relationship is good, but it’s not great. We hover in this purgatory of “everything but…” I have everything but hand-holding in a movie theater. Everything but sweet kisses for no reason. Everything but outings with my baby and my man. Everything but having him be a part of my family.
It’s been weighing on me these past few months and I’ve struggled to stay grateful for the moment and all the “everythings.” But with that comes a fatigue which robs me of my ability to perform. I still slurp and love on him — all the time — but I hold back and don’t slip into that place where I know I can make him cum.
In addition, I become frustrated with him for jerking off before he comes over to see me — typically, his third of the day — so I let that domino topple into the rest and therefore I don’t bother, either. He wants to empty his body of seed? Ok, then I won’t try to draw something out that isn’t there to be had.
The sex continues to be hot as fuck, my love for him is stable, possibly growing, and everything is generally kosher (dare I say boring), I just haven’t felt open enough to go there lately. Until the other night.
He came into my room still warm from his shower and smelling of hibiscus this time. I pulled him down to the mattress and splayed my fingers through his chest hair and purred, hitched my leg up over his and pressed my entire body against him. I found myself in a loving and timeless place. I wanted to try this time. He gives so much to me all the time it hurt to think about how little he’s willing to take from me.
My “I Heart Dave” shirt pulled on my breasts as I crawled down between his legs and spread his knees with my body. His erection bobbed hot and heavy, his sac languished below like a bulbous root.
I cupped him gently and tugged then squeezed his shaft with my free hand. He stretched a little beneath me.
I planted my right hand next to his left hip, gripped him with my left, and gently sucked him into my mouth. Soft. Slow. Long. Deep as I could go.
He sighed and pressed into my face.
I closed my eyes then and moved into my dance. I became him as best as I could, listened to every twitch, moan, and movement he shared. His breath caught once, twice, three times. I stopped after each, caught my breath, focused on ignoring my discomfort after minutes on end of continued loving.
He was fighting himself, I knew. I could feel it swarm around me, this battle to just. let. go.
And I was losing.
I paused then and slithered up to his mouth, kissed the corner of it and offered him a breast, popped out over my neckline. He moaned and suckled and twisted my free breast with his hand and stuffed his face with my other breast.
He switched back and forth between my right and my left, mewling and grunting. I repositioned myself so I straddled him; I felt his cock push at the crotch of my black lace panties.
“No,” I said. “Cock trumps boobs.” I wanted to get back to him, to his beautiful, sad penis. I wanted to win.
He sat up suddenly then pushing me off of him and flipping me over. My knees splayed open around him.
He was resplendent in the candlelight, his naked body light and furry, all bulging muscles.
“No,” he countered. “Pussy trumps cock.” And in one smooth motion he pulled off my panties and rammed himself inside of me.
I sighed as I gave up and let him stroke me slowly, his icy blue eyes locked on my face. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t know where to look. But he knows me well.
He knows that within seconds I don’t have to worry about where I’ll be looking anymore because my eyes will be closed, my head thrown back, my face flushed and my moans uncontainable.
He smirked at me as he witnessed my passion grow beyond my control and I tossed my head from side to side, clutched at his hips, pushed against the creaky metal bed frame.
“Please,” I gasped. “Please, please, please…” I trailed off into a whimper.
“Please, what?” he grinned devilishly, his hips moved slowly. Painfully, exquisitely.
“Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Now.”
And it was as if my words were like a starter gun. He burst out of the gate and slammed into me, his hooves pounding, flying, my body the turf and I blossomed into orgasm again and again.
My own journey to self-discovery — and opening up the the possibility of being orgasmic — was the key to unlocking my box. His cock and my brain are an unstoppable duo, but I had to be present, there.
And as I lay beneath him being jostled by his pounding into my pussy I thought wistfully that I wished I could give him this, too. This hover-over-your-body sensual, ethereal luxury.
He pinned my wrists on either side of my head and jack-hammered into me. My pussy gushed and I felt my juices trickle down between my bottom cheeks. I hung on like a rag doll jockey and hoped beyond all hope that he would cum. But my hopes were for naught.
Exhausted, he slumped over me and rested. He was done.
We lay entwined and breathed heavily next to one another. We cuddled and I played with his diminishing erection. I asked him if he was ok not cumming. He said of course he was. I don’t ask every time he doesn’t cum, but every so often I do. I suppose I should stop, but I just want him to know I care. I don’t want him to think I’m selfish or indifferent to his pleasure.
I take some comfort in knowing he’s cum more with me than he has with any other woman. I’m also the first woman to ever make him cum from a blowjob (his old Domme swung through town a few weeks after he and I met and she was able to make him cum that night — I can’t help but take credit for it, though. I broke the seal.). He also never came with 4 am girl — or even came close. I take comfort in that, too.
It’s strange to be the one who cums, but I’ll take it. And I’ll keep working on cracking his code. His goddamned riddle wrapped in an enigma inside a conundrum. I want him to feel half as good as he makes me feel and I often tell him as much. If he got even a glimpse of what I feel he’d want to return to that place time and time again. I want his key.
I am bold and confident, believe my common sense will guide me through any uncertain circumstance, and feel that my instincts are correct 99% of the time. I consider myself luckier than most.
Therefore, it confounds me when I feel confused, lost, or otherwise discombobulated.
Discovering my dominant side and fanning its flames does just this. It discombobulates the fuck outta me.
Many years ago, in a faraway land called Dating, Marriage and [mostly] Vanilla Sex, I yearned to be dominated. I wanted to be cherished, worshiped, and taken care of. Pain wasn’t a part of my fantasy. It was about letting go and trusting my partner to think of everything. To my overwrought, SAHM (stay-at-home-mom), neglected brain the notion of being used and directed was heaven. Sweet and salty, not-a-care-in-the-world caramel heaven.
My journey to this side of myself has been accidental. I’ve been tying up my lovers for years, but it was just something I did, not a part of who I am. Long term boyfriends had the pleasure numerous times to be pinned down, dripped with wax, pinched with clothespins, tickled with feathers, pegged, blindfolded, and otherwise sensually tortured by me and I enjoyed myself. Immensely.
I went to a primal place within me; I was a sexual nerve. Forward thinking, empathetic, pushing, pushing, pushing. And then I would hit the wall of uncertainty: what to do next? My lovers and I never talked about D/s — what the fuck was that? We just liked things a little spicy. And so I delivered. To a point.
When I would come to the end of that teasing path I always handed back the reins. My bashfulness rose and my ignorance reigned supreme. Instead of keeping him beneath me I relinquished control and didn’t see the gift of his submission. I mistakenly believed that I could only receive pleasure from him if I was the receptacle. Soft, submissive, feminine. It was selfish, sexist, and completely silly of me.
The Neighbor and I stumbled onto my abilities much like I had come upon my kinky pleasures in the past: we had the gear and the imagination and shit just happened.
He’d been telling me for months that he’d had a lover in the past for 6 months — some honey he met off of FetLife –who dommed him, but I dismissed it. I didn’t let it stick, sink in, or otherwise digest into any part of my consciousness. It did not compute.
Men are bigger and stronger, I thought. I don’t want to be in charge. I’m tired and need relief.
Back then TN like to spank the fuck out of me. I walked away from our encounters with welts the size of his paw on my hip and flanks. He’d growl at me and toss me around and I reveled in what felt like his dominance, but it never went all the way. He didn’t domineer, direct, or control me. He inflicted his superior strength upon me. There’s a difference.
One is intellectual, the other is opportunistic.
Embracing my ability to control and hold the reins has called into question the decisions I made during my marriage. Could it have been saved if I had taken over in the bedroom?
In hindsight, I recall my sweet exhusband’s own wall present in most of our interactions. His own uncertainty and hesitations. I demanded that he break it down, but to no avail. We hovered in a place of love and longing and lots of miscommunication. It broke my heart like so many pieces of glass.
I’m trying not to think about it.
My dominance over TN excites me for my future and whatever lovers I may have. Seeing a man bend his will to mine, to curb his superior strength, and to give over to me his own sexual pleasure is a tender, wild gift. I must treat it with respect and delicate hands. Give it little puffs of love as I pant beneath it and moan about its beauty.
It is less about penetration than it is about obedience. I keep TN and I calibrated through our roles. When he behaves badly, he is punished. I am just and open. He tells me why he’s getting spanked even as the belt laps at his pale skin. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m sorry for not thinking you knew that. I’m sorry for being petulant. I’m sorry for being a dick,” and so on. Sweeter words never befell my ears.
Last week, I was desperate for a session. We had re-hashed the rules and boundaries of our relationship and fucked numerous times, but I was adrift and mildly angry at the world, perhaps at him, certainly at me.
When he arrived 3 minutes late he knew immediately he would be getting at least 3 lashes. He argued with me and I added 5. He huffed at me and I added another 5. He rolled his eyes and I added yet another 5.
My mind was lightening quick, my math smooth as butter, quick as my words. “That makes 18 and I haven’t even finished lighting all the candles. Want to go for more?”
He ducked his chin and looked at me remorsefully. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” I stood there in my grey cardigan and panties feeling 6 feet tall instead of 5′ 5″.
He walked over to the bedside table where I had pulled out our toys. Body markers, a pretty glass butt-plug, lube, blindfolds, straps, and a banana-yellow ruler. I wanted everything within reach, but didn’t have much of a plan.
As I watched him watch me and move against my moves I became more aroused. He was regarding me with eager eyes. He waited for my voice, my command.
I told him to lay on the bed and we talked and I played with his flaccid penis. I sketched an outline of it like a dead body and measured it. Four inches soft as a water balloon.
When the outline grew to 8″ I told him to flip over. His round, white ass high in the air bloomed red as I carefully painted him with his 18 lashes. Then another 5 simply because I could.
I kissed the bright red skin and pulled him up by the shoulder, leaned in and kissed him.
“Let’s go take a shower,” I said then. “I’m shaving your balls and you’re going to wash my pussy.”
A small universe away from that moment I lay with legs splayed and his dark head between my thighs. He made me soar, though I didn’t cum.
When his jaw began to hurt I laughed. “We need more practice, TN. Lots more!” He smiled gingerly rubbing his jaw and agreed, stood up and pulled my bottom closer to the edge of the bed and slipped in deep and long.
Later, in a four-point restraint he dangled in front of an orgasm for so long his body tingled and he writhed and panted and begged for me to stop. I took pity on him and untied him, curled up in his arms and let him stroke me.
He plunged his fingers deep inside of me and burst through my shell and I released a bucket of ejaculate onto my sheets. I saw stars and couldn’t speak.
Cuddled in his arms again he said he was hungry. I agreed. And as I entered the neighborhood diner, my breasts free behind a white t-shirt and my hair home to a little bird’s nest in the back, I felt tough and fine and I sincerely hoped everyone knew what we’d just been doing.
We drove back home under the stars and he gave me a long kiss goodnight at my doorstep. I staggered back to my room which was littered with the proof of our debauched night and flounced onto the bed with not a little drama. Faisal mewed and pounced on me and I put my arm around him and floated away with dreams of dominance and a new sense of my anchor deep down below me.
I have gone to a new side of Hyacinth and staked my flag high and bright. I’m a little nervous and still somewhat shaken, but I much prefer the view from here as opposed to over there. It’s a lot nicer on the Domme side.
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.
Love is not always the answer and anyone who tells you so is full of shit. Love, sometimes, is the problem.
A lot of women want to know how it is I squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.
Making G-spot Contact
The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 12 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.
This particular night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.
I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was small that was basically like feeling nothing, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.
So, naturally, I applied my new method with this bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra. And it felt big and blossoming, but distinctly different from an orgasm.
That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased about it. And then we kept going.
Looking back on it, it’s my first experience with my g-spot.
Size Can Matter
I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (I’ll have to share that story some time – it was goddamned epic) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.
Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply don’t. Until I learned some new tricks…
Head Space – What I do
Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.
When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential cunt. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.
When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.
Skills – What He Does
There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.
With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.
With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.
The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well, but she squirted with an orgasm at the end of his ministrations, whereas I squirted almost as soon as he put his hand on me and couldn’t stop until he stopped. And again, for me, squirting – or cumming as I sometimes refer to it – is very different from my orgasms, though extremely and overwhelmingly pleasurable. I am left deeply moved and affected; I feel done and relaxed and highly emotional.
Letting Go – It’s Not Pee
I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.
And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.
We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.
Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly of musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.
Go For It
And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!
I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!
And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:
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 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?”
“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.
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 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.
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.
In my quest for inner peace and ultimate fulfillment I first must go to the dark places. Those catacombs of pain and confusion that have thus far navigated my decisions, reactions, and emotions. If I don’t excavate those, then they remain lodged under the skin for all eternity, fossilizing into something permanent rather than falling to ashes in my hand.
My need to feel good enough is one of those dark, ugly wounds buried under years’ worth of scarring.
It’s why when a lover whispers, “Hy, you’re a good girl,” in my ear my heart leaps and my very core responds with thundering applause.
It’s why when I’m rejected I feel right and centered.
It’s why I seek to continuously recreate the scenario wherein I am left with no power and must rely on the good sense and grace of one in front of me and never on myself.
And lastly, it’s why I inherently choose one to stand before me who is predisposed to turn away from me.
My foray into the lifestyle with The Neighbor is my newest attempt to ram my squeamish self into the fray of emotional mayhem so I may pick out a new path, a new light, and a new understanding.
We have been dancing and touching noses for days. Kissing for days, cuddling, talking, laughing. My aftercare from the foursome with Jack and Emma Sunday has lasted for days and he has risen to the challenge with aplomb, whether by sheer accident or deliberately, I’m not sure.
Monday afternoon I was lusty and angsty — that strange combination wherein I feel lost and believe that only a cock buried deep inside of me will re-anchor me to Me. Two years ago, I would have texted any number of men in my Rolodex and arranged for a nooner, a quickie, or a nightcap. Today, I have one man in my life and by design.
TN and I had plans to see each other and I was struggling with what role I was to play: Domme? sub? Nothing at all? I was on the fence and couldn’t determine my next step. My direction to send me a bulge-shot from his office was met with virtual silence. Was this my bottom telling me No? Was I not to be in charge today??
I drove to my old house to borrow a book from my exhusband. The giant tree out front was wrapped in bright lights and twinkling snowflakes hung from the eaves. A deep sadness washed over me. This used to be my life, I thought. I pulled in next to his car and knocked on the door. My old door.
He opened it with a look of apathy. “I’m here to get the book,” I answered his unspoken question. He reached to the nearby table to hand it to me. It was awkward and sad. Neither one of us seemed to know what to do next.
I walked in past the entryway and we settled on small talk. And throughout I got the sense he’d rather have me gone. His look, his energy, his everything bespoke an underlying discomfort with me. It’s always been there. This is nothing new.
I said my goodbyes and cried the entire way home.
As I pulled into the parking lot I saw TN walk to the stairs. He didn’t seem to notice me. I parked, wiped my cheeks clean and grabbed my things and slowly plodded up the stairs. When I turned to climb the last set of steps I was startled to see him standing there waiting for me.
“I knew you’d do that,” he chuckled at me clutching my bosom with my free hand.
I took a deep breath and hoped I wasn’t tear-streaked.
He walked me to my door. “Do you want to come in?” I asked.
He followed me in and I opened a bottle of wine. We chatted while I poured and sipped and he soon had closed the distance and pressed his muscular form against mine. “I’m upset with you, TN,” I said quietly.
He pulled back.
“Because you never responded to me telling you to send me a bulge-shot today. It’s ok if you don’t want to, but you can’t ignore me. It’s like you’re telling me NO, and when you do that, you shake the foundation of my dominance. I wonder if I’m doing it right and I lose my confidence.”
I turned around and looked at him closely.
“I love doing this with you, I’m really responding to it, but I feel more vulnerable than ever now. If you don’t want to do something, I want you to tell me, ‘I’d really like to, but I can’t right now,’ but don’t ignore me.”
He looked at me intently, processing my words. “Ok. I’m sorry. I was just really busy –”
“TN, I’m not asking you to jeopardize your job. I would never do that. You need to trust me. If telling you to do things at work is off limits, tell me now and I’ll never do it again.”
“It’s not that, it’s just –” his indecision made my decision.
“Ok. I won’t do that to you at work, unless you ask me to.”
He moved back into me and folded his arms around my hips and pulled my bottom into the cradle of his pelvis. I could feel his hardon. He slipped his fingers under my skirt and felt my wetness. He pushed me down until I had to grab the counter-top for support and hit my ass.
“You didn’t ask if you could do that,” I said smartly.
“May I hit you?” he added immediately.
“AGAIN.” My voice was strong and clear and each sting sent tendrils of clarity to my foggy, sad brain.
“That’s it,” he said. “Come on.”
He dragged me roughly by the collar into my room and threw me down on the bed. He stripped naked and growled as he climbed on top of me. He refused to let me remove any clothing and I whimpered and begged as he quickly entered me. I immediately began to cry and writhe.
He pulled me to the edge of the bed and I worried the buckles from my boots were hurting his ears. He assured me they weren’t.
His phone chimed then — a work email — and he swore under his breath. Abruptly he pulled out and began to redress. I sat up and sat knock-kneed on the edge of the bed, righting my clothes. Switch, switch, switch. Head spinning, heart pounding.
“I’ll be back around 10,” he said.
“Sounds perfect,” I responded.
I took a long, hot bath and started the 13th book in the Wheel of Time series. I closely shaved my pussy making sure the undercarriage was baby-smooth and painstakingly moisturized every reachable part of my body. I didn’t put on a lick of makeup.
I re-dressed in white knee-high socks and boots and a skirt and top, no under garments, and puttered around my apartment. I had a speech prepared. “Do you want to be in control tonight or do you want me to be? Because I can’t do both. I don’t have it in me. Or, we can just cuddle.”
The emotions of the day seemed to have steeped into me while soaking in the bathtub like so much Sleepytime tea. Rejection — no! Reject rejection! Be strong! Be you! Be soft! Be sad!
At 9:45 I sauntered into my room and lit a candle and laid down. I felt relaxed with my speech in my back pocket and eager to see what the night would hold. I reached my hand down between my legs and my freshly shaved pussy was warm and wet. I lifted my fingers to my mouth and tasted. It was sweet and light.
I pressed my fingers deeper inside and clenched around my digits, exploring and trying to imagine what I feel like to him. There was a knock at the door.
I stood up, my left hand’s fingers soaked in my juices and went to open the door. He was already past my entryway when I met him. He was in black basketball shorts only.
“Hi,” I said and wrapped my right arm around his neck and lifted the fingers on my left hand to his lips and parted them. He sucked them gently while locking his icy blue eyes onto mine.
His eyebrows raised in question at me. “I’ve been touching myself,” I answered. He crushed his lips down to mine and squeezed the rounds of my ass, spun me around, took me by the hand and led me to my room. My speech forgotten and completely unnecessary.
He plowed into me and I watched his face watching my own in the candlelight. He let me peel of my clothes and laughed as I tossed the pillows away, too. “It’s all torture to be on my skin,” I explained. “It’s offensive!” He laughed, too. Then started to stroke me with his cock and his lips and his hips.
I rocked back on him and strained with all my might to feel him in my throat with every thrust. I whispered and moaned how good he felt, he asked me if I liked this or that. And then he reached for my Hitachi and slipped a discarded sock onto it knowing I’m too sensitive for it to touch me directly.
He stayed inside of me for a time, but soon switched out his hands for his cock and laid down to my right. He began a slow strum of the chords within me and I began to rock and sob and keen. The orgasm so bright and enormous, slow to come, but ever-present.
Even before the crash and blossom I was crying hot, fat tears. Every fiber of my being called out to him. “Be a good girl and cum for me, Hy. Cum,” he begged — no, demanded. He bent his head to my breast and sucked and I cried out in ecstasy as the orgasm broke over me like a molten egg.
I convulsed and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Quickly he moved to my left to the center of the bed and pulled me into his arms. “You’re ok, you’re ok. It’s going to be fine,” he crooned rubbing my arms.
I didn’t care about anything except this moment of wonderment and pain and loss and beauty. “I am good enough, but never enough” seemed to be the notes interwoven into this desperate launch into passion and desire. I had never experienced something so forcefully pleasurable in all my life.
When I had calmed down eventually, we spoke of the sex-party in a couple of weeks. I spoke more of my fears and he had more questions for me. Namely, why I wanted to do it. He was also worried about doing something wrong and was feeling a lot of pressure.
I assured him my quest was personal and that I trusted him. I laid myself bare and made sure he knew the exposure was a treat, not a burden. He listened raptly and when he finally left I felt even more confident about our burgeoning roles with each other.
He wants to be restrained and told what to do. I want him to trust me and explore my dominance. The idea of him obeying me thrills me and wraps around me a sense of comfort and longing I never knew could be achieved; I want to be dominated. He wants to hurt me and I want him to; I want to bring him pleasure and show him a new world. He wants the freedom to explore, but understands I am human. He responds to my warnings and apologies with comforting words and strong assurances.
“I’m not a robot, TN. And I’m not you. Though I wish I were both.”
“Gee, Hy,” he said, his voice laced with humor, “You’re goddamned human! What a drag!”
And so yesterday, I delved into the deepening pools of our experience together and texted him this when I arrived at a White Elephant party:
Let me know if you’re feeling up for this tonight: whenever you get home, I want you to masturbate, but not cum, then text me a pic of your hard cock to let me know you followed instructions. If you’re not up for it, just say something like, “that sounds great, but not tonight.”
He immediately responded with, “I’ll do it :-)”
Such a good boy. I thrilled at the honor of topping him and throughout my night with my girlfriends I twitched and squirmed. I sent another text saying,
Then I’ll send you another set of instructions
Two hours after my first text I got a beautiful cock shot and a note that he was waiting for me.
I’ll text you when I leave this party and I want you to edge one more time. When I park at home, I’ll text again and I want you to unlock your door, blindfold yourself and wait for me on your couch. I’m not going to fuck you. I’ll be leaving very soon.
He said I had his blindfold and I told him to figure it out. Then I added:
And you’re welcome to say, Yes Ma’am :)
“Yes ma’am,” he texted.
I fingered myself on the way home and wiped my juices on my lips in anticipation. The difference in my feelings from the day before so wildly different I felt like a different woman altogether. I wasn’t sad, I felt empowered and beautiful and — above everything else — honored. Honored that he is sharing this with me, honored that he trusts me, honored that he believes I can do this well enough to bring him pleasure.
I pulled into the parking lot and texted him then started the long climb up. I smiled when I put my hand on his doorknob. I walked in and he lay on the couch resplendently nude with a blue patterned tie across his eyes. His erection huge and gorgeous.
Wordlessly I walked by and put my things down on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom for a quick French toilette. I walked back out and anticipation rose off of him like steam. “I like your solution,” I said as I began to take off my clothes.
“Oh, the blindfold?”
“Yes. You have a key to my apartment, you know.” My boots thudded to the floor and the lighter thuds of my clothing followed.
“I know. I like this, too, though.”
“Mmm, me, too,” I purred as I crawled up over him and pressed my soft belly into his hardness. I left my lacy pink and red bra on and let them cradle his face like big, round balls of dough.
I sucked him and laved his body with my tongue. I took pictures of him with his hardness gripped in my black-tipped hand and his cock nestled between my lace-encased breasts. He begged to fuck me. I said no.
“Please, Hy. Come on. Think of how good it will feel. That first push, so deep. Your sweet, pink pussy parting for me.” I whimpered and moaned around his cock, but shook my head no. “Please…”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said to his beautiful, sightless face. “If you cum, you can fuck me.”
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. His cumming is a 3 out of 5 odds game at best. “Ok, I can do that.”
I sucked and loved and stroked him some more before I led him to his darkened room. The pine 4x4s he’d used to reinforce his broken bed wafted their light scent into the dark space above. I gently laid him down and fell back down onto his cock. I bade him tell me exactly how to suck him and I dutifully followed his instructions, but he felt defeated and at a loss.
I assured him that fucking was not our goal, nor was cumming. I told him not to cum. I gave him breaks and kissed his chest and jaw and sweet, bow lips. Finally, my heart broke for him, he felt too responsible and so I climbed up on top of him, his eyes still barred from sight, and slid him deep inside of me.
Climaxes washed over me sweetly and then I switched us around and let him pound me from behind. I knew he was exhausted and drained and I felt somehow that it was time to stop. I pulled away from him and he whimpered, but I only laid down and pulled him with me.
“C’mere,” I said sweetly and wrapped my arms around him. “We’re done. You gotta know when not to overwork the Thoroughbreds.”
“Ok,” he conceded.
“Don’t worry, I got this. You did great.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said sadly.
“Stop it, you did great. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You stayed hard for over an hour.”
“More like three hours. Ever since you told me what to do.”
“Well, there you go.” I untied his blindfold and kissed his eyes. “We’ll figure this orgasm thing out. I promise.”
And so it was, the domme and her little sub laid in each other’s arms and talked more about their sex party and their expectations, never really admitting to the elephant that is her love for him dominating the room. The new domme learned more about her young sub’s motivations and psyche and promised herself to imitate him in more ways than one.
“Don’t come back at me a week from now mad at me, Hy, saying that I don’t care about you.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. I get it.”
“I just don’t give a fuck. But, I’m not saying I don’t give a fuck about you. I’m just emotionally detached, I guess.”
“I know. And thank you. I’m done talking about all of this now. I’m exhausted and I just feel like I’m boring you. I’m getting self conscious.”
“You’re totally not boring me.”
“Thanks, but all the same. I’m done. I reserve the right to pull the plug on this at any time.” He tensed next to me and I heard his breath catch.
“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“This whole sex party thing. If I don’t like it or change my mind, I’m out.” His entire body relaxed and I heard the soft exhale of the breath he’d been holding.
“Of course,” he answered. I knew he’d thought I’d meant pulling the plug on us, even though he’d just gotten done explaining to me in no uncertain terms that it would never bother him to see me with other men because, he “just doesn’t give a fuck.” But then again, I know he really and truly doesn’t give a fuck and he’s not just saying that.
Now, if only I can remind myself that as I watch him pump furiously into another woman. This sex party will either make or break me, but I’m not going to shy away from it. Let it burn me till I’m nothing but a pitiful mess of ashes. With any luck, I’ll rise from the pile of shit more powerful than ever.
I told him I was tired and it was time for me to go and asked him to gather up my clothes. He jumped up to do my bidding and I lay under the marshmallow clouds of his comforter thinking my life. I’m flapping new wings as a fledgling domme, I am in the process of slashing all hope away from my bones for a real future with this man I can’t stop loving, I am hunting down the real me — the one who doesn’t need anyone else to tell her she’s good enough, and I’m going to go to a fucking sex party in two weeks to watch my love potentially fuck another woman in order to burn the pain out of the marrow of my bones.
I dressed slowly and crawled back over the bed to give him a final kiss. “You did good tonight,” I said against his lips.