I don’t know how to be happy.

I blinked in the sunlight that streamed through my windows and stretched like the cat who lay on my pillow purring like a crazed motorboat.  He’ll be here soon, I thought, and as if on cue, I heard the front door open and close and the cat tore off to greet our visitor.

“Good morning, TN!” I called.

“Good morning, Hyacinth!” he called back.

I fixed  my eyes on the doorway and let him fill my view as he sauntered in, sheet marks pressed into his skin and his eyes puffy, but his cock enormous and jutting out against his shiny black basketball shorts.

I giggled at the image of his exhaustion mingled with a giant erection.

He walked up to the side of the bed and pulled himself free of his shorts, his taut, pink skin a slightly curved appendage for my viewing pleasure.

I wrapped my hand around it.  “Mmm,” I said and stood up.  “I have to pee.  I’ll be right back!”

When I came back out he pushed me roughly down onto the bed and licked his hand.  “I doubt I needed to do this.  Hmm, let’s see.  Could Hyacinth be wet already?”

“It’s possible,” I answered looking up at him.  “You wake up with that monster between your legs everyday.  I happen to wake up wet everyday.”  He pushed at my opening and sure enough he slid right in.

We moved together in the sunlight, carefully avoiding each other’s morning breath and hugged and humped and clutched and climaxed.  He pinned my legs onto his shoulders and moved until I was begging him to stop and then with a puffy-eyed grin kept going.

We were done relatively quickly, it being the morning and all.  He gently removed himself from me and lay beside me.  “Hang on,” I said and rolled over and grabbed my phone, something I’d done alone for so long.

I began taking pictures of us freshly post-coital.  It felt intimate and odd, like a salty candy that gives you two flavors at once.

He left shortly after to go to work and I smiled, stupidly happy.

And then I realized how uncomfortable I am with happiness and how I am doing my best to destroy what little peace I’ve finally managed to accomplish with him: I suggested that he fuck other women. 

The night I came up with this grand plan I had just met his parents.  Over the course of roughly 4 and a half hours I’d had a glass of white wine while getting dressed, a glass of Prosecco before dinner, and a glass of Rosé with my scallops, but when I’d suggested it to him he seriously wondered if I were drunk.

“I trust you, TN, I really do.  And I’m proud of you and I think you’re amazing in bed.  I want you to be able to go out and have fun.”

He just looked at me, dumbfounded as I blithely continued.  “No, really.  I’m so happy with you, I want you to be happy, too.”

“Ok…” he said, incredulous.  “But why the change of heart?  You’ve never felt this way before.”

“It’s because you told me you loved me and I feel safe with you, content.  I really feel like I could handle it.”

I’d dozed off then on his warm, furry chest and forgotten all about it.  But he hadn’t.

The following day he brought it up again.  “So, what you said the other night.  Do you still mean it?  Or were you just drunk?”

It all came rushing back to me: the warm glow of acceptance, the sense of safety, this ridiculous drive to prove I were invincibly in love with him.  What.the.fuck.  But I was too embarrassed to back out.  “No, really, I do,” I replied and then began that weird dance that people in open relationships do wherein they try to think of every possible thing they can’t handle: no two dates with the same woman, no threesomes without me, no lies, everything has to be transparent to me.  Then, of course I asked if he’d care if I slept around.

He was thoughtful, then said he’d be ok with me and another couple, but not with another man.  I told him I couldn’t imagine fucking another man anyway, I already had my unicorn firmly in my grasp.  He’d smiled at that and then I felt a twinge of something, like a tiny splinter: why would he want to fuck another woman? aren’t I good enough? the best?  And that’s when I knew I was full of shit and actively trying to sabotage my own happiness.

The next night, after the sweet, yet brief morning love session, I came to him with hat in hand, sheepish and utterly embarrassed.  “You’re right, TN.  I can’t handle it.  I think I’m just really uncomfortable with how happy I am.  I mean, look, we’ve only been this kind of happy for 3 months and I’m already looking to inject it with chaos.”

He pulled me into his nook and stroked my arm.  “I thought so,” he said.  “Besides, I’m not a player.  I’m really not that interested in opening this up.”

I’m almost 40 years old and this is a humiliating moment for me.  I left a marriage that was safe, yet passionless, and embarked on a wild year or two of no safety whatsoever, but chocked full of passion.  I manage to cultivate a passionate — and safe — relationship and the first thing I try to do is dismantle it.

After everything we’ve been through — 4 am girl, my secret sex blog, his resistance, my anger — we’ve made it.  He wants me and my entire life and I am inexplicably uncomfortable with his unconditional regard despite my longing for just this very thing.  I am a stupid bastard.

So for now we have agreed to just be happy with each other and I’ve vowed to immerse myself in this new sensation called happiness.  It’s strange and terrifying, but I happen to like salty candy so I’m going to keep chewing.

A cuddle is as good as a fuck.

I finally got to send a picture this morning.

This month has been a weird one.  I screwed up my pills the first week of the pack and got off to a rocky start and this week, the last of the active pills, I accidentally doubled up one day which set the stage for tears and knee-jerk irritations on Monday and a weird sense of disconnection Tuesday.

Monday night as I laid out all the day’s mini-turmoils I burst into tears [again] when I shared with The Neighbor how when my little 8:30 alarm on my phone went off I thought of Peyton.  It’s a thing I started doing recently to ensure I put my little one to bed on time and leave the room at a decent hour.  Typically we do a little dance on our backs and giggle and kiss and fling our arms in the air.  It’s a highlight of my day and on Monday when it went off and I didn’t have my baby with me I instantly burst into tears, the pain of being separated as acute as the first night I ever spent away.

When the tears sprung to my eyes, TN sprung to my side.  It was such a tender move, so kind, I melted into the moment and let his kindness wash over me, so boyfriend-like.  We retired to my room later and cuddled.  He expressed interest in sex, but my heart was too heavy, I felt too far away from myself, and I said, “Not tonight.”

The next night I had no tears, but I felt prickly, like I had this carpet of spines wrapped around me.  TN popped over and I was watching Girls by the fire doing my nails and I honestly felt interrupted.  He hung out for a little while and let me finish, but I didn’t want to stay there.  I felt a quiet frustration at our routine and said, “I want to cuddle at your place.”

“Ok,” he said.

I didn’t think it’d be that easy to convince him.  It’s been months since we spent any time over there.  Maybe since October.  I’ve neatly packed away that fact so it won’t get in my way of happiness, but last night I wanted to neatly step over it.

We walked next door and I smelled the sweet smell of his space, saw the little piles of his life he had on the kitchen table, the dishes in the sink, the glowing computer screen, the messy bathroom.  It felt like walking on the moon.  His room was clean, and his funny bed, the mattress on the floor inside the bed frame, was unmade and piled high with bedding.

We lit candles and laid down close to the ground and talked and cuddled.  I stroked his cock and he ran his hands over my body.  I asked him to not rub his hands near my pubis; it was irritating me.  He pulled me closer and kissed me.

And then he kissed me again and again and again checking in to see if the irritation was falling away.  It was.

He wasn’t trying to change my mind about having sex, he was genuinely trying to improve my mood.

He cuddled me from behind and from the front.  He stroked my face and hair.  He was so inside of me I felt cracked open, happy, a little scared.

Then, with a smile, he said, “You’re going to be leaving soon.”  We laughed our asses off because that’s what he always says to me from the softness of my mattress.  We cuddled some more and I told him I was about to say that myself.  He piled covers on me and loved on me some more and then it was finally time to leave.

He walked me to the door and I passed to mine through the freezing night and walked to my cold, empty bed with the memory of his arms around me and his heart in my hands.

Being a Domme can be a lot like shooting yourself in the ass.

Being dominant over The Neighbor often reminds me of parenthood. Much like the average parent, I end up screwing myself because of my strict adherence to consistency and follow-through (widely accepted as the parenting practices that will fuck up your life the least).

For example, a child won’t stay in his seat during dinner out, instead wanting to eat on the floor under the table and count ABC gum.

The mother says, “Jimmy, please sit on the seat. It’s not ok to do that here.” Jimmy ignores her.

Mom asks, then eventually orders Jimmy to get his butt in the booth. Jimmy is unfazed and continues to ignores her.

Finally Mama Bear has to put down the gauntlet: if this, then that.

“JIMMY,” she says, “if you don’t sit up there right now, WE’RE LEAVING.” Shit.

Maybe Mom is really enjoying her sushi lunch, but because she just laid down that ultimatum, she’s given Lil’ Jimmy the power to end her lunch because SHE HAS TO FOLLOW THROUGH or else he will never listen to her again and there will be weeks of whining in her future.

And there’s the rub.

She overshot the mark and accidentally got herself right in the arse.

Much like I’ve done.

TN jerked off without me the other night and didn’t follow any of the guidelines for that situation and therefore I was required to punish him. 

I must have been drunk or just coming out of surgery because I could only come up with this brilliant idea:

Major Domme fail.

I love sending him pics of my tits and let him knead the big doughy things that they are pretty much any time he likes, but I don’t want to seem like a total dipshit in all of this, so I’ve bitten my tongue and followed through and now we skip 1st base and I can only send him something like this until Wednesday:

Sigh.

I’m pretty sure I’ve ruined my own sushi lunch.

Next time, I’ll make sure to make the punishment catered just to him so I can avoid any ricochet shrapnel.  Something like he can’t wear any of his nice new underpants, or he has to clean my apartment, fold my laundry.  Or maybe, I’ll require 10 minutes of cunnilingus before he can stick it in.  Hmm, now that has a nice ring to it!

What do you guys think?

I cum two different ways.

The tale of two orgasms: G-spot and clitoral.

Two nights ago The Neighbor came over after Peyton was in bed.  I was laying on the couch in front of a fire, he was dressed in a t-shirt and silky basketball shorts.  He stood between me and the TV and waited, smiling.  I looked more closely and could see the outline of a large, heavy cock straining against the fabric.

I reached out and stroked him and looked up smiling.

Minutes later he had pushed me down on the bed, licked his palm and rubbed the head of his cock and pushed inside of me.  He was huge and hot and brutal.  His lips nibbled my neck, his arms wrapped around me and we spun around the bed like wrestlers as we sought deeper, harder, more more more.

His hips curled into me and I wrapped my legs around him to pull him in closer. I ran my hands over his back and gripped his muscled shoulders which strained to pin us both in position.  I inched over the edge of the bed as he kept railing into me.

My pussy squelched a little and I lifted my head, curling my spine and a bloom spread hot and round through me, like a tendril, a rush.  It hit me again as he growled and kept curling into me as I ground down against him. 

Lights sparkled behind my lids and the white-hot wave rolled out of me through my fingertips, the top of my head.

I cried out and he shh’ed me.  “Hy,” he said urgently, “Peyton might hear you!” It was true.  I had been yelling like a banshee as the g-spot orgasms washed over me. 

He put a pillow over my face and we laughed as he kept fucking me and I screamed into it as another one hit me.

When we were done we cuddled and I caught my breath.  I felt stupid, heavy, happy, like I would guiltlessly give away national secrets.

::

Last night we cuddled on the couch and watched American Psycho (“I have to return some videotapes.”).  I was tired, but happy, and faded out at the end of the movie (as I typically do – so sexy).  When the movie finished we went to my room to cuddle.

I laid in his arms and we talked about a transwoman friend of mine who’s having troubles with her soon-to-be exwife.  I staunchly defended my friend who finds her ex to be rather stubborn about a certain issue and TN couldn’t understand why I, “someone who is so empathetic,” couldn’t understand the ex’s point of view.  It wasn’t an argument we needed to be having and he decided to deflect.

He turned to me, stroking my arm, and said, “You are so beautiful,” and kissed me.

I was taken aback a little.  As much as he says he finds me beautiful, it still isn’t that common.

I kissed him back and said thank you.  “No, really, you are.”  I beamed a smile at him in the dark, the one little votive candle really only casting darker shadows, not light.

“I can feel your smile right now,” he chuckled.  “It’s like radiating out at me.”  I giggled and nodded my head, our chat completely forgotten.  “Wow, was that all it takes to end an argument?” he laughed.

I told him hearing how beautiful he thinks I am will never get old.  He wondered if the power of the words would fade with time.  I scoffed just a little and said, “You might be surprised how little I’ve heard those words in my life. My mother doesn’t count.”

While we’d been talking I’d been gripping his cock.  It’d gone from chubby to quite hard once we’d kissed and he’d told me I was beautiful.  “How long has it been since you’ve masturbated?” he asked.

I couldn’t remember.

“Ok, then.  It’s time.”

I pulled out my Hitachi and we settled into position: me on my back, legs splayed, the head of the Hitachi on my underpants, him on his side, head cradled in his hand, his free hand roaming over me.

I flicked it on and the buzz took me away with the jolt of a speeding roller coaster.

TN watched intently as I tensed and shook a little, my roller coaster car twisting and turning this way and that. And then it had reached the top
of the steepest climb and I was falling, crashing. The roar of my own blood in my ears deafening, the fall so swift my breath left me.

I continued to plummet into the depths of release and my body arched and I moaned and whimpered as quietly as I could. Then finally the ride was over and I could climb out of my seat.

I lay there limp and panting only faintly aware of TN beside me. He put my hand — which had drifted away — back on his cock now a raging erection.

“Do it again,” he said softly. I could only nod as I began to stroke him.

As the buzz io the vibrator hit me it connected me to his cock through my hand; it was as if it were my cock in my hand.

Surprised at this new sensation I kept my hand moving. The faster I went the closer I came to cumming and then it hit me like a blast of air in a storm and I bucked and made weird noises and spasmed out through my eyelids. I went limp again.

And then he made me do it a third time. And I died. La petite mort and all that.

I laid there and contemplated my navel, my love, the true beauty of my body, this magical thing that happens to it basically whenever I want it to, and then I considered the differences: the bloom vs. the fall.

That’s the best way I can describe the two. I would never be able to choose between them, though they are very different.

Lobster vs. truffles. There’s no bad choice.

How are they different for you?

Instead of hitting the gym, he did me instead.

Warm and cozy.

Outside the wind whipped freezing weather through us all, the trees, our streets, our flimsy coats, but inside I was warm and toasty.  A log glowed with its dying embers and my heater spewed warm air into the apartment like a never-ending breath.  I sat at the computer, my desktop, searching for apartments or duplexes, anything that would fit me and Peyton when I heard a quick knock at my door and the handle turn.

The Neighbor wasn’t due to come over until 9, after the gym and after dinner.  It was only 6.

I looked up and he filled the doorway with his black pea coat and rosy cheeks.  “Fuck, it’s cold out there!  And I don’t want to go to the gym.”  He looked at me meaningfully.

“Are you saying you’d like to do a horizontal workout?”  I was half joking, but hopeful.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” he answered with a smile.

I stood up and closed the gap between us and wrapped my arms around his cold exterior while giving him a soft kiss, dropping everything I’d been doing.  “You’re so cold!” I exclaimed and then screamed when two ice cold hands wrapped around my breasts.  “What the fuck!” and I yelled again laughing.

“You’re so hot!!” he laughed and squeezed his handfuls with gusto.

I stood there patiently while his hands warmed up and he wiggled his eyebrows at me.  I stepped back and his hands dropped to the bulge in his jeans.  A ridge larger than a banana had appeared where none had been only moments before.  I hmmm’d my approval and rubbed it and sat back down at the computer.  He walked around to lay by the dying fire and play with the cat.

One warm breast.

I wondered at my accessibility, how open and willing I am to drop whatever it is I’m doing to play with him: is that real?  Is that sustainable?  I pushed the thoughts out of my head and went to kneel beside him. 

I kissed his soft lips buried in whiskers and felt his cool hands reach for my breasts again.  I lifted my shirt and shifted one into his mouth.

His warm, wet mouth pulled at me and I was reminded of all those months of nursing my baby.  The tug, the pull, the stinging surge of milk as it came to a head and spilled out.  I wished I could feel that again.  I switched breasts and he continued to suckle.  Eyes closed, hands stroking the backs of my jean-clad thighs and where they joined. I moaned a little and pulled away.

His bulge was even bigger.

He stood up and I raised up on my knees.  “I’m wondering if I should leave without fucking you.  I told myself I would,” he said, always the game player.

“Do whatever you want,” I replied looking up at him and undoing his belt.  “You probably should leave.”  I peeled away his jeans and pulled out the head of his giant cock, stiff and full of itself.  He helped maneuver his underpants and his balls while I licked the big head and slowly, yet softly, drove it into my mouth.

His moans encouraged me and I pushed my gag reflex away as I took as much of him as I could, still 2 inches short of all of it.  My saliva began a trail down my wrist as I sucked and pulled, completely lost on my knees.  He was now stark naked.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he said.  “I’ve missed that so much!”  I felt a pang of guilt and quickly squashed it.  I do what I can.

“Let’s go to your bed,” he said, hand out to me.  I took it and got to my feet and quickly followed him into my room.  He lit a candle and it danced for us in the winter dusk.  His naked body gleamed as he came to me and took my face in his hands.

We kissed and kissed and he whipped my clothes off of me and pressed himself against me.  I wanted to say “I love you,” but kept it to myself.  He pushed me roughly onto the bed instead and climbed on top, growling.

His cock pushed its way beyond my folds and spread me wide open.  I wriggled and grabbed at his flanks to pull him in closer.  He kissed my ear and my neck.  I wanted to say “I love you,” again, but kept silent.

When he began to move I mewled and thrust and ground back.  He slammed into me 1000 times and I rocked back into the mattress like a ragdoll.  I came again and again and he split my legs and ground on my clit with his abdomen.  I went wild with painful pleasure and wondered if I would cum this way, like scissor sisters.

“I love your cock, I fucking love your cock,” I whispered over and over, though really I wanted to say only “I love you.”

Sweat began to slick between us and I was spurred to buck harder and faster.  He. will. never. forget. me. I thought.  I am more than everything.  The pounding, the beating I took filled my head and my arms like sand and my eyes saw only stars.  We were these humping, thumping animals rutting the fuck out of each other.  And then we stopped, exhausted.  I felt my heart battering against its cage and I put my hand on his and felt the same fluttering.  I couldn’t move.

“I really do love your cock,” I said between heavy breaths.  “And I love you,” I added bravely. “I love you, too.” We laughed at my silliness, but he didn’t reply.  There was only silence.

I felt tears well up inside overwhelmed by his lack of response, by him being so TN, so android-like, like the code for /reciprocate “I love you” got broken.

Slowly he pulled out and lay beside me.  “I hate it when you go,” I pouted.

“But I can’t lay next to you if I don’t; I’m too far away.”  I closed my eyes and let the tears come.  Disappointment and satisfaction nearly equal parts of each.

He stroked my hair a few times then seemed to remember that that’s too intimate and stopped.  “You get a good enough workout in?” I asked, forcing my sadness away.

“Indeed I did!  Thank you!” He leaned over and kissed me deeply.  We lay together for a few more minutes before he got up to leave and I decided to join him for a store-run for dinner.  When we got home we said we’d see each other later, but we wouldn’t.

At 9:15 he called to say he’d decided to go to bed while the mood was hot.  He was worried I’d feel rejected.  I didn’t, but it made me wonder again at my availability and openness.  When he’d come over I was in the middle of doing work that was important to me, but I dropped it all instantly, not to mention I would never cancel a cuddle with him just because I was tired.  But that’s on me — bad boundaries and everything. I never get full. Ever. I’m a bucket with holes.

At least I get fucked. There’s always that. And I love him. Even if he isn’t entirely comfortable with his love for me. Maybe this move will be for the best.

Two warm breasts.