Friday, December 30, 2005

Xmas Haul

From Monsieur, I got stuff that I didn’t know I said I wanted but must have muttered it under my breath, because I did want it:
  • a purple – no, royal crimson – bathrobe
  • pajamas
  • a pearl necklace (oh grow UP!! I mean jewelry) and another of emerald – my birthstone
From the boys:
  • Parachutes CD, Coldplay – oh, quit laughing at me. I like Coldplay.
  • Yellow Submarine, the movie – I mentioned once that I had never seen it, and of course the Two Bigglest Boys were shocked, dumbfounded, and wondered how I could call myself a civilized human being with such an obvious gap in my education.
From my mom & dad:
  • The Joy of Cooking
  • The Sedgwick County Ag Extension Cookbook
    (I think they’re just trying to help)
  • T-shirts, skirts, gift certificate for shoes
Still no yum-yum yet. I got a phone number with my tip the other day at work, from a cutie guy, kinda looked like John Corbett from Sex and the City / My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Only cuter. The phone number sits in a pile of scrap paper on a dresser upstairs. Yearn, yearn, yearn.

John Corbett, not the guy who gave me his number.

In other news … Monsieur apologized for being a pooh-pooh head (see earlier post), although he didn’t actually say it that way.
“[Yearning Heart], I am sorry I was so abrupt with you the other night.”
I acted as if I didn’t remember. “The other night?”
“You remember, of course you do. The children were not ready for bed, and were becoming rowdy and misbehaved.”
“Oh yes, well. As to that, I understand your anger, Monsieur.”
“I am glad that you so understand. My temper has been short of late, and I am truly contrite.”
“I accept, Monsieur, and I will try to be more firm with the children, and I hope that you will tell me when something is not to your liking. But please, in the future, do not do it in front of the boys?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“I love you, Monsieur, and I hope that if you ever have the need to punish me you shall do it in private, in the proper way.”
“‘In the proper way’?”
“Yes, Monsieur.” I unbuckled his belt, sliding it off of his pants and removing it. I handed it to him, then turned around, bent over with my hands on my knees and pointed my bottom at him.[1] “The proper way,” I repeated.
He made a noise in his throat. “I have no wish to hurt you,” he whispered softly.
“I know, Monsieur. One or two won’t hurt; they may clear the air between us and possibly make our lives much easier.”
“I don’t spank my children; why would you think I would spank you?”
“Just one, Monsieur, and not on my bare bottom. Please. You’ll feel better, and so will I.”
He did, and not as hard as he could have.
He put his belt back on, and asked me if I felt better.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
[1] Thanks to Amber, for the suggestion.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

In Trouble Again

Hope your holidays were fun. Ours were, too. I guess I got spoiled by mine. I’ll enumerate all my loot later. But first….
Sometimes I wish he would just spank me and be done with it.
Tuesday night I was trying to get all three boys cleaned, dried, brushed, and pajamaed by bedtime, and they were goofy and gabbly. Then Littlest Boy unceremoniously filled his diaper, so in order to keep the peace I had the two bigger boys separate and stay in their rooms on their beds while I took Littlest Boy and changed him. While I was doing that, Monsieur went upstairs and found the two bigger boys in various degrees of readiness for bed, five minutes before bedtime. They got scolded, and when I came upstairs, so did I.
I could have defended myself better, I could have said that I was trying to keep the mayhem down to a minimum while Littlest Boy was being changed, but I just lowered my eyes and apologized.
“You can not let them take advantage of you like that,” Monsieur said.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” I said softly.
“Bedtime is at 8:00 for a reason,” he continued.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Get their teeth cleaned and then lights are to be out.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
I did, and Monsieur helped. The boys were cooperative from then on; I suspect that there was a certain amount of guilt on their part that I was in trouble. I tucked everyone in, turned out lights, and went into my old room to undress to shower. I wasn’t going to go downstairs again for the rest of the night – I was mortified and resentful.
Grumble. Maybe the semen had backed up into his brain and it makes him grumpy, I thought.
Whatever. I slept upstairs.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005


I have been TAGGED by that hottie, Venting Housewife.
The first player of this game starts with the topic. Five weird habits of yourself, – and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don’t forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says “You are tagged” (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.
This is difficult, mostly because I don't even know 5 people who haven't been tagged with this already. I just checked – and EVERYone I know who takes comments has already been tagged.
But here goes.
  1. I can’t walk in front of a mirror without looking at it and checking myself out. If no one is around, I’ll stick my tongue out at myself.
  2. When I brush my teeth, I have to recite Shakespeare in my head to time myself to make sure that I brush for a full 5 minutes. Usually I do Macbeth:
    She should have died hereafter
    There would have been a time for such a word
    Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
    Creeps in this petty pace from day to day….

    Oh, you know the rest, and if you don’t, well, you probably went to public school in the US.[1]
  3. I can only eat – at one sitting – about as much food as I can hold between my thumb and forefinger. That means about a half cup. I can’t eat more, and now I know better, so I don’t even try. I am not malnourished, and my mom took me to a doctor, who said if more people would do like I do, she’d go out of business.
  4. I absolutely, positively, have to have an orgasm every 48 hours.[2] If I don’t, then there will be hell to pay.
  5. Whenever I blush, I sneeze. That’s weird, I know – sometimes I suppress that by biting my lower lip to kill the sneeze reflex, but I still get the physical need to sneeze when my face gets red from embarrassment. If anyone has any idea why that happens, please comment.
There, that wasn’t so difficult. But, I can’t tag anyone else, for reasons mentioned above. Sorry, VH.
[1] OK, so did I. But I paid attention in English class, especially if it was Shakespeare.
[2] Since I was about 16 years of age, this is true. This is a bigger burden on me than you might think.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Rabbit Test

Someone very dear to me made the comment recently that she hoped I wasn’t pregnant.
I thought, well, now that’s impossible. I’ve only been with Monsieur in the last 10 months and he’s been fixed. So it can’t be.
A month later: nausea (again) and other weird flu-like symptoms. What’s more, I’m late by a week. So, I do what any good, sensible girl does: I panic and freak out. Quietly. Then, I go to the drug store and pick up a home rabbit test.
The rabbit lived. Whew!
I so don’t want to be pregnant. Ever. I think I’m afraid of what it would do to me, my body, my peace of mind and my life. I used to tell people (boyfriends, my mom) that I didn’t think I was capable of taking care of children. Well, now that I’ve dived face-first into this life, I now know that I could, if I had to, take care of children, Because, well, I do, and I have to. I probably couldn’t take care of them all by myself, but with a husband working, I could do it. After all, that’s what I’m doing now.
So why am I afraid of birthing children? Apart from my slim tiny boyish hips, and all? I’m scared of pain. That’s all it is – I’m a wimp.
Now I know that all of you are chuckling to yourselves thinking, “Well, now someday Ms. Yearning Heart is gonna find herself knocked up and she’ll know for herself whether or not she could go through with it.” And I suppose that is a possibility. It’s also equally possible that I am a lesbian[1]. Or perhaps I am Larry King[2]. This is all possible.
I told Monsieur that I was worried about the pregnancy thing and he comforted me. It felt good, but what I wanted to hear was what would happen if I were to get pregnant. So, like a communicative person, who I hope that I am, I just asked him.
“If I were to get pregnant, what would we do?”
“You would make whatever decision you need to make, and I would support those decisions,” Monsieur replied.
“Suppose I decide to have the baby?” I asked.
“Then you would have the baby and I would support both of you.”
“Suppose I would want the baby to have a daddy?” I asked.
“The baby would have a daddy, if you would be so gracious as to consent for me to acknowledge the paternity,” he replied.
“Suppose … I would want to be married to the daddy?” I asked in a whisper.
“I can only hope for that,” he replied.
“You mean, you’d marry me if I got pregnant?” I didn’t expect that – I don’t know why not.
“You are a very eligible young woman, and I don’t think I would find anyone better for me or for my children,[3]” he answered.
I looked up at him, trying to be calm, but I started to tremble and he held me tighter.[4] It would have been perfect had he nailed me right then and there, but he didn’t – even when I tried to get him to, he asked me to wait a bit.
OK, blogmates … what does that mean exactly? Am I somehow leading up to Connubia with this guy? Is that what I want?[5]

[1] I’m not. OK… I had a crush on Maggie. But she was the first one, and while I wouldn’t have kicked her or Cate Blanchett out of bed, I’m all about the cock.

[2] I’m not. OK… I liking asking people impertinent questions. But I do not own a single pair of suspenders.

[3] Are you taking notes, guys? That is the correct answer!

[4] Yearn, yearn, yearn.

[5] My heart yearns, even as my brain screams “Now hold on just a New York minute here!”

Monday, December 12, 2005

The Heart Surfaces

Yes, I’ve been missing. Yes there’s a good reason.
There is a teacher who teaches the boys – along with ten other kids – in a cooperative school. The way it works is that one of each set of kids’ parent either helps pay a teacher or arranges to teach for a certain period out of a year, usually six months.
Up until last May it was Maggie teaching here in her house, right here in this room where I’m typing. Then Maggie passed away.
J-with-two-N’s and M were trading it off, but M got hired in a new job and J is not likely to be around after next summer. So they asked me to “help out.”
Oh, my god, thought me. You have got to be kidding.
I wanted to shriek and throw up my hands, “I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout learnin’ no babies!” in my best Butterfly McQueen voice (where’s my theatre classmate Gay Trey when I need him most?) but I just said, “Well, sure! But I gotta be able to bring Littlest Boy too.” Since day care is not an option for us due to Monsieur’s strict prohibition.
So, I have been playing the most challenging role of my acting career – knowledgeable elementary school teacher-in-training.
The kids like seeing Littlest Boy again, especially since he can talk now. And man, these questions the kids ask.

As an example:

  • Do your eyes grow?
    Answer: yes but only a little bit.
  • Why don’t spiders stick to their own webs?
    Answer: they walk very carefully on them. Some spiderweb is not sticky, and when the spiders have to walk on sticky threads, they have special hairs on their feet that push the sticky threads away when they let go of them.
  • What happens if you drill a hole into a light bulb while the light bulb is turned on?
    Answer: I don’t know! Let’s ask a scientist, and we’ll find out!

These are all tough questions.

Meanwhile, I’ve been wobbling along as best as I can.
My waiting job is exhausting me. I don’t think I can hold out much longer at it, but I haven’t found anything that I could do that won’t conflict with my child care / teaching duties. As it is I have to cut school short, and get to work at 5 pm on Thursdays and Fridays.
Monsieur is trying to get the co-op to agree to pay me when I am handling the entire class all by myself. I feel as though I am not qualified to be paid as a teacher of any kind but Monsieur thinks I should be. I don’t yet know how it all works or even if it will all work out. I’m hoping for the best.
Monsieur is also warming up to me, a bit. I can see that he is trying to cope. I don’t get my lovin’ as frequently as I want but it averages to about once a week. I’ve made a few inquiries in the blogosphere and apparently that’s not too bad. I guess I should live with it, but I’ll still try to melt him down as often as I can.
The best I can do is to keep him happy.

Friday, December 02, 2005

“Dude - we got a substitute!”

So much to say and I know I’ll never get it all in.
So I had this interesting part to play this last couple of weeks – elementary school teacher. I have been busy with this, filling in at Monsieur’s boys’ cooperative school as a substitute while the regular teachers go on vacation.

Dear Mom and All of My Schoolteachers:

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was such a disrespectful, ill-tempered brat. I’ll try to do better.

— the Yearning Heart

I’m glad to get that off my chest. These kids are wonderful, intelligent and very challenging. I’ll be glad when the other teachers get back next Monday.
It turns out that the camp cramps I had were a real virus, too so I was out for a few days there. Uggh.
Oh, two things I wanted to really note:
  1. Monsieur was really kind about introducing me to everyone at the campout. I really am starting to feel like I belong.
  2. I lost Monsieur’s Pentax digital camera. It was in my camping bag that I might have ransacked looking for Immodium™ at some point during that awful night. I must have left it out on the ground. Anyone could have seen it and taken it. I feel really stupid. What should I do? Should I offer to replace it? It’s not a cheap camera.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Template change

Deal with it.

EDIT: OK that was a flippant way to treat you, my most loyal of readers, about whom I care deeply and without whom, I’m nothing.

I invite your comments regarding the template change. I did it because I hated the way the photos couldn’t be wider than 300. Now, my photos are free. Be kind.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Post Trots

OK, I’m back and I’m, well, I’ll survive.
There is nothing worse than camp cramp.[1] Getting the trots when you’re out “on campaign” (as Bigglest Boy calls it) is not even close to fun.
Before I managed to do what I did to make myself violently ill[2], we had a great time looking for evidence of prehistoric life[3], pine cones[4], and rocks small enough to throw but big enough to make a splash[5].
I contributed three items to the Saturday Dinner, courtesy of my mom: Red Hoppin’ Chicken, Rainbow Cole Slaw and 7-Beans.

Red Hoppin’ Chicken

3 lbs cut-up chicken thigh meat
1 cup unsalted butter*, softened
1 lemon
3 cloves minced garlic
5 cloves garlic
salt to taste
ground black pepper to taste
6 whole onions
4 carrots, cut into 2 inch pieces
4 stalks celery, chopped
6 potatoes, peeled
3 tablespoons paprika
3 or 4 fresh rosemary sprigs

Prepare Dutch oven (grease the Dutch Oven, dig hollow in the ashes, set Dutch oven in it, get hot coals ready**).

Rinse the chicken and drain. Zest the lemon. Slice remaining lemon into quarters and place to the side. With hand mixer combine butter*, lemon zest, minced garlic and 1 tablespoon paprika.

Smear it all over the chicken meat. Shake some of the salt, pepper and paprika on it, squeeze the quartered lemon.

Pour chicken into prepared, Dutch oven, add sliced vegetables, cover with rosemary sprigs and whole garlic on the top. Slowly roast under slow-to-medium coals** for about an hour.

* I used shortening, as we were roughing it. My mom had it as butter AND pork lard. That’s how the Midwestern Peoples won the war.
** We had a meat/oven thermometer. We’d keep it at a slow simmer.

Rainbow Cole Slaw

2 cups cabbage, sliced very thin*
2 cups (total) carrots, red cabbage, broccoli, sliced very thin*
1 cup mayonnaise
½ cup red vinegar
¼ cup sugar
2 tsp celery seed

Mix it all together before you go camping, put it in the cooler.

* Of course I cheated and used the kind already cut-up in the produce section. I took Shop Class, not Home Ec.
[1] OK there are lots of things that are worse. That Ebola stuff doesn’t sound too nice, and your run-of-the-mill flesh eating bacteria sounds like a bitch. Still.
[2] I think we narrowed it down to the wassail: a deceptively powerful punch-like concoction of apple juice and fruit, well, chunks. It was on a low flame, in a large pot; alcoholic, with both fermented cider and distilled something-I-can’t-pronounce, that sounds like “cognac.”
[3] None confirmed, although all science party agreed that the site was probably thoroughly picked over by previous scientific teams.
[4] 35. Most were categorized and returned to the field.
[5] At least three dozen rocks were discovered. There will be a report to Monsieur from the Two Bigglest Boys concerning ballistics, weight ratios, and water-dispersing properties.

Monday, November 21, 2005


We went camping last weekend at a large gathering, deep in the pinewoods of East Texas. It was the first time Monsieur had taken the family anywhere as a group to a semi-public “event” of any kind. This had the feel of a family reunion. A lot of the people there were musicians and had been on the same jazz / pop / show tunes circuit for years. Everyone had a great Maggie story. And everyone liked me, which was something that I was worried about.
We got there early in the morning and I had a great time, up until the moment I woke up in the tent at 2 AM with the feeling that my stomach was being twisted in a knot. I made it to the camp toilet just in time. And stayed there the rest of the night.
We missed Sunday dinner the next morning. Monsieur took a look at me and started packing up the tent and bedrolls. The kids were mad at me. Heck, I was mad at me.
I’m still not well. More later.

Friday, November 18, 2005


Happy HNT! What does this photo represent, you ask?
Well, it’s the shadow that the bookcase in my old room upstairs casts, when the sun comes through the Venetian blinds just right. There’s a lamp on it, and a few scattered knick-knacks. My blue jean-clad leg is to the lower left.
Why is this significant?
It isn’t. It is but a mere shadow of my former shelf.
(I couldn’t resist.)

So this nun is taking a bath in her room, and she hears a knock.
“Who is it?” she asks.
“Blind man,” a voice says.
Blind man, she thinks. Well, I guess that’s OK. “Come on in,” she says from the bath.
The man enters, takes a look at her and says, “Nice rack. Where do you want me to hang your blinds?”

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Houston, We Are Go

Well, I couldn’t stay upset. I wasn’t angry after all; my feelings were hurt. Then I blogged it, read my comments and realized I was being pathetic and selfish. My god, Monsieur lost his wife, not six months ago. He’s been really sweet about everything and all I have to do is take care of his children when he’s at work; I get free rent, free food, and my VISA and student loan payments are covered. Who am I to expect sex on top of it all?
So, I apologized.
“Why are you sorry?” Monsieur asked.
“For being ungrateful, and for being impatient,” I answered.
“I don’t think you are ungrateful,” he replied, “and as for impatient, you are but young.”
“I’ll be good from now on, I promise,” I said.
He took me in his arms and held me. I looked up at him and he whispered, “You are very good. Don’t let yourself – or anyone – tell you that you are not.”

We all had had a great day, the boys & I; there were crafts: collages, coloring and gluing and construction paper. Bigglest Boy got frustrated because his scale model of the Vostok rocket made entirely out of Popsicle sticks and school glue would not hold together.
“Stupid Soviet cold war technology,” he grumbled. He’s seven.
“We could try making a rocket out of a soda bottle and a cork,” I offered. He had wanted to do that for weeks, so we gathered the rocket fuels together (baking soda and vinegar) and set it up out back, near the creek.
Bigglest Boy was Flight Director. Middlest Boy was Launch Safety Officer, and kept Littlest Boy away from the launch pad. I was Systems Specialist; I doled out the fuel and catalyst.
“Launch Fuel: Vinegar!” Bigglest Boy barked.
“Check!” I said, pouring it into the bottle.
“You’re supposed to call me ‘Flight’!” he corrected me.
“Sorry, Flight. Vinegar: Check, Flight!”
“Soda, check, Flight!” I said, dropping it into the bottle.
“Secure Payload!”
I put the cork tightly into the bottle as the two ingredients fizzed. “Payload secure, Flight!”
“Ground crew, away!” he ordered.
“We have liftoff”
“We have liftoff!”
I handed him the churning bottle and stood back. “Clear for launch, Flight!”
He shook it up vigorously and set it on the launch platform on a flat bit of ground, and stood back. The plastic bottle visibly expanded for about three seconds, then with a loud “Pop! *Foom!* the bottle shot the first stage (the cork) out and flew into the air, spraying vinegar all over the launch pad.
“We have liftoff!” Flight shouted.
Launch Safety Officer tracked the payload’s arc up over the trees.
Launch Safety Officer tracked the payload’s arc up over the trees.
Launch Safety Officer tracked the payload’s arc up over the trees. “I think it’s going into orbit!” he said.
“No, this is just a sub-orbital test,” corrected Flight. “We’d need some liquid oxygen and kerosene to get orbital velocity.”
“Count me out on that experiment,” I said, picking up the cork.
Vehicle Recovery Officer (Littlest Boy), and Launch Safety Officer ran to recover the Payload for the next launch.

Later, I was putting Littlest Boy into his bed at the foot of Monsieur’s bed. Littlest Boy was fast asleep, holding his favorite stuffed antelope, Lope.
“The boys are exhausted,” observed Monsieur, coming into the room after tucking in the Biggler Boys.
“They’d better be,” I replied, “I worked them like galley slaves.”
He held me from behind. “Have I mentioned to you that you are wonderful to care for them?”
I held still, reveling in the feeling of being in his arms. “No,” I lied, smiling, “I don’t think you have.”
He kissed my ear. “You’re wonderful,” he whispered.
I felt my skin go all goose-pimply. “Am I?” I asked, fishing for more.
“Oh yes,” he said, kissing my neck. I turned my head to the right, giving him more room to kiss. He kissed his way down to my shoulder.
“Don’t tease me,” I warned him.
“Have faith,” he said, then his hands went to my breasts, I swooned back against him, and he turned me around and gave me … such … a kiss that my mouth felt like having his tongue’s babies.
My hands were all over his body, and then I went to my knees and lowered his pajamas. He was thick, hard, swollen, a wonderful shade of red, and my mouth watered to look at him. I tugged his pants down and he stepped out of them.
It’s all about the tongue.
It’s all about the tongue.
So many blogs mention how to give head and how much they enjoy giving head better than I could, but I gotta say that with a big thick monster like Monsieur’s, it’s all about the hands and the tongue. Try sucking a well-lubed, regulation-sized racquetball into your mouth sometime if you want some idea of what the Yearning Heart has to do.
(The Yearning Heart loves it.)
Of course, I’m not good enough to make him come in my mouth, darn the luck. But I can get myself going really, really well – so much so that by the time he pulls it out of my mouth, picks me up, and sets me on the bed, he will find me so wet you could float a bath toy in my panties. He did all that, lifting me up onto the bed by my butt, sliding my panties down and off and entering me with
Ahh, bliss. Ahh, cock. Yum. He fucked me, and fucked me. Then he turned me over. And fucked me. He held my hair and fucked me. He held my breasts and fucked me. He kissed my neck, biting the nape, and whispered in my ear, “What do you want me to do?”
“Fuck me,” I replied. “Fuck me.”
He fucked me.
I buried my head in the pillow, listening to the sound of my cunt slishing and squishing as he fucked me.
He held my hips in his hands, using them to steer me across the bed, until my head was leaning over the side. I could see my reflection in the mirror as he fucked me. The look on my face was one of pure ecstasy; my hair was over my face, then he pulled it back.
Slish, slish, slish.
He lifted my hips up and drilled into me, hurting me a little, and I clenched. He sensed my discomfort, and he pulled it out of me, leaving me feeling like a void that needed to be filled again to be complete.
“No-o-o-o-o-o,” I gasped and Monsieur turned me over, ran the head of it along my inner lips, teasing me before he slid it in … oh-h-h-h so slowly. I reached down between us to feel how stretched I was, then I rubbed myself hard and came, gasping.
When I was done, I let him taste me on my fingers, and he filled me up oh so well. I was too spent to get up and clean myself off; I slept right there in a pool of him, in his arms.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Negative / my 1st tag

I got … not much sleep Saturday night. I went to bed with Monsieur, him rolled over on his side; me holding him from behind. I figured once the boys were asleep I could maybe coax him into a little fun.
I held on to him, sort of laying my head on his shoulder from behind. He sighed and I held him then caressed his back.
“I know you’re tired,” I said. “I don’t want to keep you up.”
“You can keep me up for a little while,” he whispered.
I smiled and slid under the covers, pulling his underwear down and stroking him. His thick tool was not quite hard, but I figured with a couple of licks I would have him ready for planting. I was intoxicated by the smell of it, but after a while I noticed it wasn’t going anywhere.
“Is it OK, sweetie?” I asked, moving up to his face.
“You’re fine,” he assured me. I caressed his chest but he held my hands and moved my hips up so that I could straddle his waist. I could feel a pulse in his cock. I leaned forward, raised up, held his cock in my hand…
…and it was even less hard. “Are you sure you’re ok?” I whispered.
“Maybe it’s just that … no. I’m sorry; I can not do it. I thought I could. I’m sorry.” He pulled me off of him, hugged me and then got up and put his underwear on.
He went to the bathroom, and I tried not to cry too loudly. I got up and went to the spare bedroom, and slept fitfully, and alone.

Tagged by the Venting Housewife!

It is an honor to be tagged by her. Because, well, she’s hot.

  1. Delve into your blog archive. Eww. I have a hard enough time just cleaning out my car, but…. Done.
  2. Search the archives for the 23rd post.
  3. Find the 5th sentence, or closest to. I skipped the captions: “I’ve perfected my kissing technique and can knock anyone’s socks off, and I’m adaptable, giving each partner what they crave.”
  4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas. It means that, back then, I could melt the boy I was with down to a little puddle of salty grease.
  5. Tag 5 people to do the same. Do I know 5 people with 23 posts in their blogs?
  6. hmm....

Sunday, November 13, 2005

I am Wet

A score of 69 in the “Hot” category isn't bad, right? Right? (Lousy Russian judges...)
You scored as Wet. You're wet ‘n’ wild, while that isn’t always a good thing, we have to give you points for trying...right?

















What is your sexual style?
created with

Friday, November 11, 2005

Shamelessly running up the hit counter

Happy Foot
Since I get no hits unless I post a pic or blog about getting laid, here’s my Happy Foot in what I wore last Saturday night for a happy HNT.
keywords: porn, doggie style, feet, fetish, fellatio, fig newton, flick flick flick, fornicate, vulva, Volga, Vanessa, vulpine...

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Title Attribute Tool Tips

I discovered what the "Title=" attribute is for. It makes a nifty “Tool Tip” that appears when you hover your mouse over a link. Also, in a related development, I have got to stop reading these blogs by and about horny women soon.

Presidential material

I’ll confess it – I freaking love Commander-in-Chief. At first I resisted the idea of Geena Davis as president, even becoming the leader due to the death of a president. But the first night it was on, I watched as I was folding piles of laundry, and I was hooked from the premiere episode.
It isn’t as dark as The West Wing, and it’s not too realistic. Too many neat, happy endings, and c’mon: I’ll buy into a woman getting elected vice-president WAY before I’ll buy into an independent getting elected VP. But I like the show. Maggie liked Geena Davis, too; when I saw that it was coming on I felt as though I owed it to her to give it a chance.
Also, something in the way this president expresses herself reminds me of Maggie, and it is familiar having President Mackenzie Allen in the living room (though Maggie’s temper was way worse than President Allen’s is).
Still, I would have voted for Maggie for president, and not because she was so hot.
I was reading this, I dunno, article in one of Maggie’s big binders on a history class she was teaching in the homeschool co-op on Imperial Rome and in it she wrote:

The collapse of Rome was not so much due to invasion, immigration, or political upheaval as it was due to a slow, gradual change of philosophy on the part of its citizenry. This change was incomplete; Europe and the West still have reminders of its pagan past. Paganism was slowly replaced by a modified pantheism disguised as a spiritual Messiah myth; in terms recognizable both to the (Hellenized Semitic) Greek-taught Aramaic-speaking peoples who believed in one god of the Eastern provinces, and to their counterparts of the West, this idea had God the Father, Christ the offspring, the Word, the Spirit, and various sanctified, almost deified saints to whom they could pray.

The weak nations are always conquered from outside by the strong nations; the strong empires are conquered from within, by the people they attempted to conquer and assimilate; this always happens and always will. This is the balance of political nature.

This is a class for five- to eight-year-olds – taught by an art history major. God, it sucks that she died.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

An adventure

Our date ended up a bit of an adventure. We left at 6:30 PM and got to the restaurant at 7:30; it was really a nice tiny Italian place. Monsieur called it “faux Italian” but I thought it rather charming. It was supposed to be close to this little club where we were going, to see some music.
Dinner was lovely. I had told him I would not be having wine already, so we both had iced tea. I had this shrimp ‘n’ cream sauce thing. He had some kind of stuffed pasta. We talked, a lot; mostly about the boys and issues, but some about me and school/professional plans; some about Maggie.
The boys are growing up in their own ways. Bigglest Boy is the one who worries me the most, because it seems like he’s become so serious. He would rather sit inside and read science books than play outside with his friends. That morning Bigglest Boy had asked me if I had a convex lens, a 3 inch mirror and a cardboard tube. “Maybe a cardboard tube,” I said, “what do you need it for?”
“I wanna build a refractory telescope and look at the mountains on the moon,” he said.
Most kids want to look for frogs and lizards. He wants to explore space. Like, today.
Monsieur doesn’t say, but he misses Maggie. I can’t imagine what it must feel like for him. She was so young. He must be grieving so hard. He is trying to stay positive, and trying not to let it show, but it is there. I wish I could ease that for him, soothe him, and make him feel better. I guess that’s what I’m doing here; well, part of it.
So, we talked, and we ate, slowly, taking our time. Our babysitter H had permission from her mom to stay the night if she needed to. And H didn’t mind staying late – she’d get a bonus if she did.

Eventually we headed on over to this dance club where this show was supposed to be. But, when we got to the door, the show was canceled.
I looked at the sign. “CANCELED: Sorry. This show will return! See you in December.” There was a phone number for advanced ticket holders to get refunds or rain checks. I looked over at Monsieur. “Damn.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I was looking forward to hearing them.”
“I was looking forward to dancing with you,” I replied.
“I though you hated dancing,” he said.
“I did hate dancing … with anyone else. I like dancing with you,” I smiled.
“Ah well,” he shrugged, and took my arm.
“What now?” I asked, walking with him.
“I think we should perhaps call it an evening,” he replied. “I suppose we could look around for another show, or get dessert.”
I was thinking about what I wanted for dessert, but we’d have to find somewhere private for that.
We got into my car, which we had taken because his does not have an air conditioner and he wanted to leave his van for H, just in case they needed to go anywhere. My car was my dad’s at one time. It’s a decent enough car. I was glad that I had cleaned it out; I’m a bit of a slob in my car and I didn’t want Monsieur to think I was a complete pig with my waiting tip sheets and other trash scattered all over the floor in the front seat.

He drove, and I leaned over against him with my arm on his knee. I looked up at him; he looked down at me and smiled. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet,” I said. “Can we just go somewhere and have sex?”
“Oh, [Yearning Heart],”he smiled, “the children should be asleep by now. Let’s get to the house, send [H] home and there might yet be time to take care of that,”
We turned and started down the long country road which leads to his ranch house. (We live way out in the country, on a little more than ten acres [about 4 hectares for you folks in less backwards nations] and the road is pretty lonely after sundown.) I ran my fingers up his thigh and was about to lean over and kiss him when I heard a loud *BOOM!!*.
The car swerved to the right. I think I screamed – I thought something might have blown up – and Monsieur slowed down and carefully wrestled the wheel until we could pull over and off the road.

A flat.
“A flat,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, breathing gently. “Sorry,” I added, since it was my car.
“Don’t apologize, dear. But you’ll have to step out since I will need to change the wheel.”
I stood to the side as he fished in the trunk for the emergency wheel and the jack. The night was warm; I know it doesn’t ever get cold for long in this part of Texas but I was grateful for mild weather. He found the tire, and part of the jack but it was the kind you crank, and he could not find the crank part. I felt less than useless; I had never changed a tire before.
“Hmm,” he said, kneeling and examining the jack in the light of the interior of the car. “It might be a little difficult, cranking this just with my fingers.”
“What’s the hurry?” I asked him, my arms going around him from behind. “We do have a lot of time. We could call [H] and maybe camp out for the night.”
He turned to look at me. “It might be a bit uncomfortable, sleeping in the car,” he smiled.
“Did I say ‘sleep’?” I smiled back.
“Oh, [Yearning Heart], you’re not suggesting that I take you in the back seat, are you? I’m hardly a teenager anymore!”
“I’m glad you’re not,” I replied. “Teenagers are much too awkward for me anymore. Anyway,” I said, “if you think it would be uncomfortable, you could always take me on the hood of the car.” I kissed him and smiled.
“You are insatiable,” he said, kissing me back.
“Mmm,” I replied, “you’re about to find out.”

I covered his face with kisses and then concentrated on his yummy lips, sucking the lower lip into my mouth and then opening my mouth and teasing his tongue. He shut the car door and his hands went around my waist, and then slid up to my breasts.
“I’ve never been this way with anyone else before,” I confessed between kisses.
“What way is that?” he asked.
“Wanton, totally sexual, uninhibited,” I whispered, undoing his pants.
He lifted his hips and I slid his pants down. “Somehow I think you’ve always been a little uninhibited,” he said with a little smile.
“Well, a little,” I admitted, “but usually while making out in a car, my boyfriend is undressing me and trying to convince me to go all the way.” I kissed him, and began unbuttoning his shirt, kissing each bit of exposed skin as it appeared.
His cock was stirring, straining against his underwear when my mouth tried to cover the bulge. I reached under my skirt and slipped off my panties, keeping my heels and thigh-high stockings on, in case we got interrupted.
Pulling the waistband of his underwear down, I saw his cock spring up. My mouth watered.
I covered it with licks, kisses, and little sucks, looking up at him. I could feel his pulse along the big vein underneath it. Licking up to the thick crown, I circled it and then opened my mouth to suck the head. It seemed as big as a softball. I licked all over it and got it wet, running my tongue down the shaft to the balls, then went back up. My hands circled the shaft and then began to stroke him.
'I love sucking...'
“I love sucking …”
I love sucking a sweet guy’s dick, and this man is the sweetest. His gasps were so quiet, moaning my name softly in that French accent, his hands caressing my hair and shoulders, his legs open wide as I knelt on the floor of my car, bobbing and turning my head over his lap, trying to get more of it into my mouth as I stroked it. I sucked him in as far as I could, pressing it against the entrance to my throat, then put my hand around his shaft were my lips joined it, to measure my progress. There’s an article on Introspectre about how she learned to deep throat a cock, and I had studied it. I’d deep throated a cock before, but not one this big. My eyes watered as I attempted to take him in; I drooled on him and my nose ran, but I kept going.
After a minute of this Monsieur pulled my face up and started to wipe my tears. He handed me a handkerchief and told me, “Here, love. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I just want to be able to take you into my throat,” I protested, “You’ll love it when I do.”
“To be sure,” he laughed, “but have patience. Not many women have ever done it, and of course I don’t expect it.”
I sat on him facing the dashboard...'
"I sat on him facing the dashboard..."
He lifted me up and I sat on him facing the dashboard, and he rubbed his rubbery thick cock head along my slit. I moaned and my head was spinning, but with those damned bucket seats, I couldn’t get my legs open enough to take him. Also my head kept bumping against the roof.

I opened the car door.
“Where are you going?” he whispered.
“I’m going to hold on to the side of the car for balance,” I answered. “Get behind me.”
He complied, like a good man, I lifted my skirt, exposing my stocking-clad legs to the cool night air, and Monsieur held my hips as I took his cock and pointed it into my vagina.
The feeling of it, the thickness, the hardness, the roundness of it as it slowly burrowed its way deep into me, was so exquisite, so wonderful. I read blogs and erotica about clamps, toys, getting tied up, and group sex; to me this was all I needed, all I’d ever want. I love him and I need him inside me, and that’s all I need.
He held my hips and banged me, slowly at first, but with my encouraging moans, he picked up the pace quickly, lifting me up with each thrust. My face was pressed against the window glass and I could see the reflection of my eyelashes when I opened my eyes. My mascara was starting to smear a little on the glass from my tears. I took deep breaths, feeling my orgasm begin, and just before it hit me I thought to myself, “Don’t pass out this time.”
I clenched, writhed, twisted, but stayed on my feet, which isn’t easy to do in heels. He stayed on target, like a machine, pounding me in a solid hard rhythm. My skirt was falling down and I pulled it up then I reached down and rubbed my clitty, as much for him as for me.
Ahh that did it; my orgasm came in wave after wave of bliss and fulfillment, I could hear, as if from a distance, the sound of his moans; then he paused, like the wind in a gathering storm; I felt that wonderful surge as he resumed, filling me up with his fabulous seed in a great splash that drenched me completely inside. He pounded me, hard. He lifted me up with his thrusts, as I begged him to fuck me.
He held me close to him. I turned my neck to kiss him. “That was good,” he finally said, “wonderful. I am very grateful.”
“I’m more grateful, I promise you,” I replied, “I’m very highly sexual and I need it a lot.”

He finally found a tool kit under the passenger seat, and used a screwdriver to turn the tire jack crank. On Monday he took the tire in to get it repaired. I’ve been grinning for days.

Storm Clouds

I’ve worn off that big goofy grin I had since Saturday; I’ve still been pretty happy up until the point that I opened the news. Paris is burning, the president is unaware of the U.S. using torture while the vice-president defends its use, Bill Maher thinks homeschooling is dangerous because all the homeschool parents are right-wing Christian fundamentalists. It kind of takes my glowing smile away.
Then Littlest Boy and I sang The Itsy-Bitsy Spider and I had hope again.
We sat on the back porch today and watched great black storm clouds sweeping up from the northwest, but there was no rain. I set up a sprinkler, we put on swimming suits and danced like pagans in the water.
Good times.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

All Saints

Last night: Halloween. I dressed as a flapper: teeny-tiny skirt, sequin top, headband. Monsieur dressed as a cavalier. Everyone thought he was a pirate. (He’s used to that. Most people seem to think anyone in a big cocked hat and breeches is a pirate; most people don’t seem to know that pirates didn’t dress all that well.) We dressed Littlest Boy up as a cowboy and Middlest Boy was the Green Lantern, complete with LED light. There was one ranch house in the neighborhood where all the kids gathered, and we set up tables and trick-or-treated each other. Bigglest Boy just wore black and hid in the trees, shining a flashlight occasionally and not wanting to get involved.
I flirted shamelessly with Monsieur, and a few of the neighbors. It was pure fun. The bigger boys had a little candy, a couple of chocolate bars each.
Afterwards, at home, the boys were bouncing off the walls with energy. They wound down pretty quickly, though, and we put them all to bed early. They didn’t mind once the effects of the candy wore off. They were exhausted.

Monsieur and I were staying up, watching some show about astronomer geeks, me snuggling against him. I took his arm and put it around my shoulder I looked at him, trying not to look like the yearning heart that I am.
He looked down at me, smiling gently; I stretched up and kissed him and he returned it. Good sign.
“Are you watching this?” I asked him softly.
“Hmm, well, do you need to talk?” he replied.
“No, I need … something else,” I asked. I took his hand from my shoulder, and placed it on my breast, through my nightshirt.
“Oh,” was his only reply.
My nipple stiffened against his and I arched my back lazily. He squeezed it OH so gently, then rubbed his palm in slow circles against my nipple, then he just touched it softly. I tried to not act like the desperately horny girl that I am but I was so deprived. I craned my neck up and kissed his ear, then whispered, “Please. Please, Monsieur.”
“Please, what?” he whispered back.
“I need it,” I replied, “so … badly.”
“Ma chère, I don’t think I can give you quite what you need tonight,” he began. I know I looked disappointed. “I can give you something, though,” he continued. His fingers began to toy with my nipple, and then his hand slipped inside my nightshirt.
My arms were around him. “What?” I asked softly. “What can you give me?” I tried to keep the begging tone out of my voice.
“What I can,” he replied. His fingers pulled on my nipple, pinching it gently, tugging it out to its full length, letting it go, and repeating the movement lazily. It was swollen, hard, and I could feel my pulse in it.
“Unnnh,” I gasped, my eyes closing as I writhed on the couch. I opened my eyes to see his eyes, burning into mine as he watched me.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said, “but I can give you this.”
“This … is … pretty … good.” I managed to say. My cheeks were hot. My legs opened and closed almost involuntarily.
“Pretty good?” he smiled. “Are you sure?”
“Aaagh,” I gurgled and bit his shoulder, trying to keep from screaming.
The whole essence of my desire seemed to concentrate in my right nipple. He didn’t hurt it; he just teased it, toyed with it, stretched it, released it, made it throb, and flicked it with his thumb. All the time his eyes were locked on my face. I was in ecstasy and he hadn’t even touched me anywhere else. He must have been doing that for twenty minutes as I wiggled and purred, trying to get my body against his.
“Can you reach climax this way?” he whispered.
“I … I … don’t know,” I admitted. “I never have, really.”
He twisted it, not too hard, then leaned forward, and kissed it through the fabric. I melted a little more.
“Oh … oh … Monsieur,” I cooed.
His hands went up my nightshirt, cupping my right breast in both hands and squeezing it. He sucked the nipple in between his lips. My head went back, my legs opened. My panties were like a used dishrag. I could feel the wetness as it ran down my thighs. I could feel the heat from my breast spreading over my chest. I could feel myself turning pink all over.

Then came his tongue over that nipple. Flick, flick, flick. Suck and flick.
My mouth got dry. I licked my lips, I could feel my lips pursing on their own. I needed to suck him.
I tried to undo his pants, to turn around to get to him, but he held me and kept flicking that maddening tongue over and over again. My nipple felt like it had been stung by a wasp; it was swollen and sore, and I started to feel like I would cry if I didn’t get him inside me.
“Please, Monsieur? Please? Please…” I begged.
“Please, what, ma chère?” he said, looking up from his work on my poor nipple.
“I am aching for it,” I replied, “please fuck me.”
“Oh, no, no,” he said, almost admonishing me. “That is not what you will get tonight.”
“But why not? Don’t you want me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t for you tonight. Besides, do you not enjoy the surrender?” Monsieur lowered his mouth again, pulling my nipple with his teeth, licking its length, subjecting me to the worst, the most agonizing, most delicious torture.
I could feel something building inside me, spreading quickly from my nipple across my body, to my lips and down to my clitoris.
I was so close but still couldn’t … quite … get there….
He pulled his mouth away, reached up under my nightshirt, grabbed the crotch of my soaked panties and pulled them down my legs. The cool air hit my open vulva and the wetness seemed to freeze on my skin.
“Aahhhh … oh god, oh…” I bit my lip, lifting my hips trying to entice him to take me.
Monsieur pulled my ankles up, placed them on his shoulders and spread me wide. My eyes closed. His one hand held my bottom and lifted, and the other traced a finger along my aching, yearning vulva. I opened my eyes and saw that he was licking his fingers, then he slid some in me. (Don’t ask me how many, since my eyes were closed again. It was marvelously good.) Filling me with his fingers, he held them there firmly and then lowered his lips to my clitty. He breathed on it gently, then expertly sucked the tender hood of my clitoris back, then flicked once, twice, again, as his hand inside my turned palm up.
I moaned, then I turned to one side and bit the sofa cushion.
“Oh, yes,” he said, half to himself. I could feel his fingers move in and out of me. My hips lifted up and my hands went to my breasts. I squeezed, coaxing my body along. I felt a surge, my blood turning to melted butter, my pulse racing ….
He sucked, then licked along the length of my clitty.
I gushed, squirting down his hand. My head flew back, back; my teeth clenched and my breath came out raggedly. “Yessss,” I cried out hoarsely and then pulled his head into my crotch.

I don’t remember what happened next. I blacked out. The next thing I knew, he was holding me in his arms. My mind was foggy, my crotch pulsing, and my eyes could not stay open.
“Do you feel better, ma chère?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Yes, Monsieur,” I said, nodding. “Thank you, so much.”
“I regret very much having to deny you this, and anything that you need,” he said. “I am not capable of being much more intimate for you, right now.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” I gasped, throwing my arms around him. “I’m so sorry I am so much trouble.”
“Please, do not worry about yourself, and do not worry about me,” he said, holding me tighter. “I promise you, I will come around once this grieving is past me. I promise you I will keep working on it. There is none better able to help me, than you, and I thank my fortune that you are here with me. I promise you this, as well.”
He helped me stagger to his bed, where I fell asleep, feeling so grateful, and so much better.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

I can resist anything but temptation

I couldn’t stay away from it. I gave in to temptation; that’s the only explanation and it’s no excuse. I know it was bad for me; I know it was wrong and I know it will come back to haunt me – if not today, then soon.
I’m weak, I know; I’m only human. It was only a matter of time.
The worst part is that I liked it. It was warm, stimulating, strong; and it made it easier to face the day; god knows I need that, and it looks like I’m too weak to stay away from it for long.
So forgive me, blog: despite everything I forswore, I had coffee.
And it was really, really good.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

The more I get, the more I want

I went out with Monsieur again last night (Saturday) for a short while; H watched the boys again but they were asleep before we left, so she had an easy time of it.
We only went into town to have coffee beverages and talk. While we were out we ran into K; she’s a whole bunch of fun.
She hadn’t actually spoken to Monsieur for any length of time before. She sat with us and drank espresso. I must have been infectiously hyper or something because she and I ended up laughing a lot; almost embarrassing ourselves. She had walked there from work and was looking for a lift home so Monsieur offered her one - such a gentleman - and we flirted with him all the way home.
She brought up the guy who had asked me out at work the other night. “He was cute, [Yearning Heart], I think you should have gone for it.”
“Oh, no, K,” I laughed. “He’s a boy; I like men.” I put my hand on Monsieur’s knee, as if I was emphasizing that point.
“You guys OK, then?” K asked devilishly.
“I think so, ya,” I giggled.
“So you’re finally getting it enough then, [Yearning Heart]?” K laughed.
I looked over at Monsieur; he was silent and his eyes on the road. “I don’t think I can get it enough,” I replied. “But I don’t complain,” I added, and looked over at Monsieur and ran my fingers up his back and through his hair.
“Mmm, maybe I should come over some night and show [D] how a lady should be treated,” K said, teasing.
“I think not, dear,” Monsieur finally broke his silence.
“Are you afraid of a little competition, [D]?” K laughed
“Not a bit,” he answered, “but I think you are acting like a spoiled brat, and before I would permit you to demonstrate any such thing, I should have to treat you like the spoiled child you are behaving.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ooo! spankings!”
“You better be careful, [K],” I warned her, “I hear he spanks very hard.”
“The harder the better,” she said, grinning.
“You don’t know what you are speaking about,” Monsieur said. We came to a stop. “Here is your apartment, dear. Should we walk you up?”
“Oh, I’ll manage; thank you for asking,” she said, reaching for her purse.
We said our goodbyes and she left. I turned to Monsieur as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m sorry if she offended you,” I said softly.
“Not a bit; she was flirting with us and I returned it,” he said with a smile.
“Would you have spanked her, really?” I asked.
He laughed. “Very doubtful,” he replied. “I don’t think she has the fortitude to withstand one of my spankings. I think she would be likely to lose interest, and equally likely to be crippling sore the next day.”
I wonder: would he have? would she have? what would I do?
I need more sex.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Helen of Troy

I got some last night.
I spent the evening watching a British special on PBS about Helen of Troy. The narrator, Bettany Hughes, reminded me of Maggie in some way. This was odd, since they looked and sounded nothing like each other; Maggie was Asian, short, kind of round and curvy, and spoke with an American accent. Bettany Hughes is of European descent, slender, speaks with a British accent. It must have been the way Ms. Hughes would arch one eyebrow and talk about Helen’s “powerful image as a sexual icon” and make the Spartan queen’s life sound so romantic and alive. I remember Maggie talking about Katherine in Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew the same way.
By the end of the evening I was so freaking hot I figured I’d be up again in an hour, letting my fingers do the loving and thinking of Monsieur.
But Monsieur finally came to bed, after a long session trouble-shooting for some client of his.[1] I was in my flannel nightie, about as sexy and appealing as Carol Brady on The Brady Bunch, or so I thought.
He lay down next to me and I turned and put my arms around him. He gently held me, and I moved his hands from my back to cup my ass. He squeezed it gently and I wrapped my legs around his thigh, burying my face in his chest and hugging him tightly. I didn’t want to force it on him; but I really wanted him to know I wanted it. He would alternate between squeezing my butt and running his rough fingers in circles over my ass. I flexed and squeezed my thighs on his knee, and he moved his hands up and down my bottom, squeezing it and slipping his hands in my butt crack. I was pressing my face to his chest, feeling my face flush when he turned and placed his mouth at my ear.
“Tell me, my love,” he whispered.
I gasped.
He pulled me to him tighter, and his thigh pressed into my pussy, mashing into my vulva and forcing it to spread and gush in my panties.
“Tell me, ma chère,” he insisted.
“Oh, Monsieur,” I whispered. “I… I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do, my angel. You know what you want; I wish to hear you say it.”
I reached for his waistband but he held my wrists gently but firmly, and then held them over my head. He was then on top of me, and I felt his erection through our layers of night clothes and my head swirled.
“Tell me,” he said, with his lips on my neck and his voice in my ear.
“I… need you, Monsieur,” I said feebly. My strength seemed to be fading. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, biting, kissing, and teasing. He was unshaven and his day-old beard was rough on my tender skin; it felt wonderful.
“What is it that you need, ma belle?”
“I … oh Monsieur, I am so embarrassed.”
“I love you, dear girl; do not be embarrassed.” His hands were moving from my bottom up to my breasts; he cupped them both in his hands and squeezed them, then his thumbs teased both of them roughly in his fingers. It felt exquisite; I arched my back to force them into his hands.
He let go and looked me in the eyes. “Tell me, or I’ll stop.”
“Oh … Monsieur, please no!”
He leaned over and sucked a nipple in between his teeth, as he gently bit it then sucked it out to its full length. I humped my pussy against his knee but he pulled it away. “Oh, Monsieur, I can’t believe I am this way with you?”
“What way is that?” he asked lightly.
“I’m so … so submissive,” I gasped, trying to force my sex back against his thigh. “I’ve never felt this way with anyone else before.”
“If so, then tell me what you want,” he insisted. “I would like to hear it from your pretty lips. You have said such things before; I wish you to know how it drives me wild.” He lifted up my nightie, exposing me to the open air and sending goose bumps up my body. He tugged my panties down and twisted them around my ankles, binding my feet together. “I love these panties,” he said almost to himself. He pulled my nightie off, and then took his t-shirt off and tied my wrists over my head with it. Then he retrieved the tie from his bathrobe and tied my wrists to the headboard.
Oh, shit, I thought. I struggled, testing my arms and my legs against my bonds.
“You’re quite secure,” he said, as he traced his fingers over my body from my thighs to my neck.
I was inflamed. “Please. Please Monsieur,” I begged. “Please take me now. I’ve been waiting for days.”
He smiled. “You’re so very good when you’ve been waiting. I’m considering making you wait after thoroughly teasing you for the night.” He pulled a nipple between his fingers, watched it stretch out, then leaned over and licked it before sucking it into his mouth.
I arched my back, moving my hips up and down and feeling obscenely wanton. “No, please, God, I’ll do anything.”
“Tell me, you sultry, sexy, naughty woman. Tell me what you are longing for.”
“Please please please … fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck the fuck out of me,” I hissed.
He was on top of me, his tall, lean body against me, his mouth kissing down from my neck, across both breasts. I tried to move my hips to position his cock against my gaping slit but he kept it away. He kissed down my belly to my sex, kissing across it and avoided it, lifting me up by my bottom and kissing down my perineum. I spread my legs wantonly. He turned me over, kissing all over my bottom, spreading my cheeks. I felt a wet finger circle around my anus, then his thumbs pressed on that tender ring.
“Where?” he growled.
“Wha…? Unnnhh…” my eyes closed as his thick finger slid into my anus. I never really liked butt play but this was beyond pleasure. My whole body felt like it had turned into molten lead.
“Where shall I fuck you, ma chère?”
“Oh… my god…. Not there, please, no,” I begged.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “you’re way too big. I don’t think it would … it would fit. I’m afraid of it hurting me.”
He pressed the fingers of his other hand against my vulva. I was on my knees, my chest against the bed. He lined his cock up with the entrance of my vagina, and held it there. He parted my labia and slid his thick cock head up and down my slit, teasing it.
“Oh, Monsieur,” I gasped. I tried to back up against it but the bathrobe tie held fast. My arms were stretched out in front of me, and my ass was as high as I could hold it. His knees were between mine, and he forced my legs slightly apart with his thighs. My ankles were still tied together with my twisted panties and kept me from spreading as wide as I wanted.
“Where shall I fuck you?” he asked me again.
“Fuck me … fuck my pussy,” I begged.
He took this as his cue, pulling my labia apart and swirling his cock head around in my hole, coating it with a layer of my wetness. I could feel it running down my slit, down my thighs, and I moaned.
“Yes,” he slowly whispered, and slid his length into me, slowly, deliciously, and I felt him penetrate me, stretching me, pressing and pushing and parting me.
“Ahh,” I gasped happily.
“There?” he whispered, as he slid into me.
“Unnggh,” I said, delirious, and I nodded, burying my face in the mattress as he took me from behind. He held my hips with both hands and pulled me towards him slowly. I moved my hips forward, then arched my back to give him the best angle.
I looked back at him from beneath my hanging breasts. His balls were tightly packed against his body, his thighs, strong and lean. His hands were all over me. I pulled against the knotted bathrobe tie, and he pushed the last of his length into me. I felt his shaft rub roughly against my clit.
“UNNNGH!” I cried. “ahh-AAH, YES!”
“Hush, love, or you will wake the children,” he said, touching my lips with his wet finger. I sucked it, moaning.
His free hand traveled down to my mons, pressing it; then his fingers circled my swollen clit and mashed it, rubbing it in a circle as he began fucking me in a steady rhythm. “Is this what you wanted, love?” he whispered in my ear.
“Yes,” I hissed, “every day. I need it every day.”
“Oh, no,” he disagreed. “You are so much better if you’ve been denied for a few days. Or even,” he added, picking up the pace, “a week…” a deep thrust, “two weeks…” his balls slapping against me, “I wonder if you could stand a month?” He grabbed my shoulders and fucked me, hard, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
My vision went dark as my mind went elsewhere. Sparks seemed to gather and explode in my eyes. I’m seeing fireworks, I thought, amazed. Then my consciousness left me, for a minute? For five minutes? I didn’t know.
When my eyesight returned, he was beside me, untying my wrists and ankles, and then holding me tightly to his chest. My breath was ragged and I was woozy.
“Do you feel better, darling?” he asked me.
“Oh… oh Monsieur, yes. Yes I do,” I assured him, kissing his jawline and then his lips.
“Good,” he sighed. “I do too,” he added. I sighed as well. He paused. “I love you, darling. I hope you know that – sleep well.”
(I did. I slept like a well-fucked rock.)
[1] I haven’t gone into his work details on this blog for reasons of his privacy; it might be too easy to figure out who he is if I did. As it is I’ve probably said enough.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

The Yearning Heart is…

… frantically, crazily, madly, recklessly, heedlessly, almost uncontrollably horny.
I’ll live. No one ever died from this, right?
I visited Lady Ann’s today, and got a lot of really groovy attention from guys but held them at arm’s length. It’s easier during the daytime when I know a freshly awakened toddler could interrupt me at any moment.
Heart's Yearning
All right, I am a romance novel.
I spoke last night to Monsieur about, um, servicing me more often. I feel like a cranky brood mare. Anyway, he allowed that he could be more dutiful that way, and then he got this far-away look and I asked him what was wrong. “It’s Maggie,” he said. “I don’t think that I am completely ready for this, what you want from me.”
“It’s all right,” I assured him, feeling like shit inside. “I don’t think either of us will ever get over that. It was too sudden, too unexpected.”
Someone sent me a link to this book on I am a romance novel.

Monday, October 10, 2005


monogamy, by jb daniel, 2004
monogamy, by jb daniel, 2004
Faithful readers of this journal may remember that I am also a sometime “working girl” at this online brothel called Lady Ann’s. It might not also have been mentioned that I occasionally fooled around with cybersex before and after that. OK, by the time Lady Ann’s came around, it was more than “occasionally”; I did it at least a couple times a week – enough to be named “Girl of the Week” a few times. I had rules, though: no cams, no meeting offline, and no attachments. This isn’t a dating service; this is just for fun, and if anyone ever gets hurt, we stop.
I did it recently, since I just don’t get enough sex. But after last Tuesday, I started to feel guilty about it.
It’s different now, coming to Monsieur’s bed with sticky fingers and swollen pubes. I know he didn’t mind it when Maggie did it, and she even told me it spiced up their sex life. I just can’t stop feeling like it’s something I shouldn’t do. I look at him the next morning over breakfast, and I feel like he knows what I’ve been doing.
So, I told my cyber-buddies that I am going to stay monogamous, online and offline.
I have some pretty deep relationships; I have a dear, close friend who knew Maggie from Ann’s and we got pretty close, especially over the months since Maggie passed away. I guess we found comfort in each other’s arms. She’s female; I never had a relationship like that with a girl before, but it’s very intense. I’m going to miss the intimacy. It sounds silly since it’s all totally online but we all know the power of words between people, or we wouldn’t be reading online journals!
I told her that we could be friends still but that I had to stay monogamous. At first she was hurt; later she told me it was all right and that she understood. I hope she does. I hope she reads this and knows that I love her but I don’t want to risk the relationship that I’m starting. Relationships are hard enough without all the odd jealousies and insecurities that could happen if I get into trouble.
Anyone else – what do you think? Have you ever had this problem? Am I doing the right thing? If I am or not, please say so.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

My Inbox

I got the internet version of “drunk dialed” in the form of a lovely e-mail the other day from my ex-boyfriend:
----- Original Message -----
From: [SH] <emailm@sk.ed>
To: [the Yearning Heart]
Sent: Wednesday, October 05, 2005 8:21 AM
Subject: hey
Hey, [Yearning Heart]
How’s that new boyfriend of yours enjoying your used pussy?
— [SH]

Oh, nice to hear from you, [SH]!
He likes it fine, once he gets past the used part.
— The Yearning Heart
Geez, what a douche. He walked straight into that one; I had to laugh out loud.

Chicken Judgment

Three chickens hadn’t been making their numbers in the egg quota
Three chickens hadn’t been making their numbers in the egg quota
Monsieur decided the fate of three chickens. Since he keeps chickens, this will involve a bit of violence. I will never get used to it, I don’t think. I was raised on a farm and I know all about where meat comes from and what happens to animals and all, but still… I can’t quite get used to the fact that it’s gotta happen so often.
Three chickens hadn’t been making their numbers in the egg quota, so they started getting some additional shelled corn and fewer soybeans in the feed for the past month. They didn’t seem to know what was up; they just started putting on the pounds. Monsieur usually does the chicken feeding and egg gathering, but once in a while I do it. In case you were wondering, chickens stink.
One chicken was already dispatched earlier this week, and cooked in a pinapple and honey glaze. The next one will go for tomorrow’s dinner. #3’s execution date has not been set.
For every chicken we off, we usually purchase five new chicks from the chick hatchery. They’re adorable, but I can’t get too attached. We set them up in a little warm box heated by a 25-watt light bulb and filled with sawdust and dried leaves. Chicks need to be fed five times a day or more. One or two usually will die from natural causes and another will get offed by a feral dog or a coyote.
Monsieur treats coyotes with the same respect that he treats all thieves: none at all. I discovered this recently one night when he heard a suspicious noise in the back yard; he snatched a saber down from the wall and ran outside, his footsteps silent. He came back in and replaced the sword and I gave him a questioning look. “Damned coyotes,” he said.
“Why don’t you have a gun?” I asked.
“I hate guns,” he replied. “They are without honor; they require less skill and I would have to lock them away from the children. By the time I could get a rifle unlocked, have it loaded and run outside, the coyote would have had dinner and then would be carrying away his breakfast. Besides,” he added, “an intruder can use a gun against you.”
“He could use a sword against you just as easily,” I argued.
He chuckled. “Unlikely,” he said. “He would have to be well-versed in swordplay. I know of few 21st-century house burglars with such esoteric knowledge.”

Thursday, October 06, 2005

those details

It’s kinda hard getting used to the idea that I’m really Monsieur’s. His attitude towards me has changed, especially when we’re alone. He smiles more, and he gives me little kindnesses. Today he was very sweet and attentive.
The boys are the same: no change there. Bigglest Boy is struggling with doing his homework. Middlest Boy is struggling with reading. Littlest Boy is trying to sleep through the night without intervention.
They have so much energy! They wear me out. The bigger two go to a cooperative school, and they come home every afternoon at 3:00 PM ready to rock and roll. I try to keep them busy with plenty of running-through-the-woods time, and also take care of their snacks and reading materials. Twice a week it’s soccer practice, and I run them like coyotes.

OK, by request, a brief detail of Tuesday night’s love fest is in order. I can’t remember details too specific because I usually need to write things down right after they happen:
You remember last time, I’m sure. Monsieur had me in his arms.
I kissed him, and asked if he wanted to take me either upstairs, in the master bed, or right here on the kitchen table.
He said that I was incorrigible. “So spank me, if I’m so bad,” I said.
“I might, if you are every bad, and you think it might help,” he said.
I stood up and tugged him up to his feet. We settled on the couch in the living room, and I undid my blouse, letting it fall open.
It was a fun, liberating feeling to know that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I liked feeling like I belonged. I sat next to him and kissed him. He was passionate, but patient. For a long time, we only kissed, and he held me. I wanted more, but he seemed to want me to set the pace.
That was only slightly irritating.
He kisses really well. His hands were on my shoulders and in my hair, his tongue and lips were teasing me. I moved to his lap and he held me there. My legs were astride his waist, and it all felt good.
I tried to tease him, too.
My hands were running up and down his chest. I moaned softly as his lips played with mine. My nails ran over his neck and through his hair. He was so patient, so calm, but I needed to know he was enjoying. My hands went to his pajamas and I felt along his inseam. Geez, he was rock freaking hard. Feeling that, thick & stiff, I was like a shark who was tasting blood in the water. I felt myself go into a frenzy; my mouth watered and my lips pursed almost involuntarily. I had an urgent need to suck his cock.
I slipped my blouse off, my shorts, too, and knelt at his feet, rubbing my lips over the bulge in his trousers. I looked up and he was smiling at me, but silent – usually when I was doing that to a guy I got begging, pleading, gasps and groans. He was still silent – but I could feel his pulse through his pants. Kneeling, dressed only in my underwear, I unzipped him and unbuttoned his shirt. He helped by standing and slipping his shirt off; I almost frantically got his pants down and off, kneeling in front of him. I smiled up at him and started licking his cock, holding It in one hand.
I’ve always prided myself on my tongue technique.
My tongue ran around his cock head in slow, easy circles; my hand, not able to fully circle the base, stroked and cupped. I smiled, feeling warm all over.
I got him to sit on the couch and I sucked the head of his cock into my lips. His hand played with my hair, keeping it off of my face. I stretched my lips as far as they could go, willing my throat to open, but it wouldn’t do. I couldn’t get half of It in, and I really tried.
He reached up behind him to turn off the lamp by the couch...

“He reached up behind him to turn off the lamp by the couch…”

He pulled me up to kiss my face and neck, and he murmured something in French. He reached up behind him to turn off the lamp by the couch; I sat on his lap as he teased my skin with his lips, his tongue and his teeth. He kissed my collarbone and down my chest. He left a ring of sugar-kisses around each nipple, and stroked my dewy slit as he turned my body around to kiss down my belly. He was on top of me, kissing me, down my belly, across my panty-clad vulva, past it, teasing it, shaming it to move on to my legs. His hands were around me and pulled my hips to line his face up with my pussy. His cock pointed down towards my face. I smiled and took It in my hands, licking and stroking. Right in the middle of a long and delicious lick on his cock, he pulled my panties off, his mouth pressed into my slit and opened it, and his thick tongue slid into me.
His hands were around me and pulled my hips to line his face up with my pussy.

“His hands were around me and pulled my hips to line his face up with my pussy.”

I gasped. It was as though he had poured fire into me. His tongue moved in circles, figure-eights, spiraling in and slowly withdrawing to tease my clit. He took his time. He opened me up for his face and then pressed his open mouth to me, flicking and sucking in slow, easy delicious movements. I forgot all about his cock and arched my back, lifting my hips, spreading myself open and giving it to him. My clitoris pulsed with wonderful sensations; he rubbed his tongue over it briefly and I cried out, then I realized my mouth was empty and sucked his thick cock head back into it. I could feel myself melting.
“Monsieur,” I gasped. “Oh… oh, Monsieur.” I felt heat rising from my pussy to my chest, and looked down and say the flush spreading over me from my belly up to my neck. My freckles disappeared, I was so red. He reached for my breasts, I arched my back, he toyed with my hardened rubbery nipples…
…and I came, drenching his face as I moaned.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh … fuck me. Fuck me ‘till I cry,” I begged.
He finished me off, licking his lips then he picked me up, turned me over and pulled me up to kiss him on his face. His tongue teased mine then plunged into my mouth; I sucked it greedily, tasting every bit of myself on his tongue.
“I want you so badly, Monsieur,” I told him.
He smiled. “I’m right here,” he murmured, patiently. He held my waist and I positioned his erection against my slit. Having practiced a few times, I willed myself to relax; imagined my vulva opening like a flower, clenching it, then relaxing it, then I got up on my feet and squatted, pushed Its tip inside me, and lowered my hips to meet his. It bored Its way up, deep, thick, burning hot; I lowered myself slowly but steadily, taking him all in
My eyes blurred then cleared. I looked down at where were joined. My pussy stretched around the base of his cock, the tissue straining but with no sensation of pain; certainly nothing I couldn’t handle.
I let my legs stretch out in front of me and began to rock on him.
Words fail me when I try to describe the feeling of being completely full like this. I could feel every nerve down there. I could feel myself gushing on it; I could feel the roundness of the head of his cock as It pressed Its way into me, spreading me open, deeper than anyone has ever been. I could feel the vein under the shaft, the pulse running through; I bet if I had enough sense in my head I could have counted his pulse. But my consciousness began to leave me, and my mind gave way as my body assumed control and I rocked back and forth on him, arching my back, squeezing my breasts, stealing one hand down to rub myself.
I enjoyed myself.
I remember at some point he turned me over, whispering in my ear that he needed to take me selfishly, and for me to give myself to him. I nodded, tears in my eyes, as I bent over the couch and spread my legs. I hugged a pillow in the dark as he took me, gently at first, then with a passion that was almost cruel. My mind swam and my eyes went dark again. I could sense him starting to come and I held on to the couch, begging him to fuck me hard, harder, make it hurt me.
His hands held on to my ass, pulling my cheeks apart and he buried It in me … then he paused. I knew what was building up inside of him and he held he close for a moment, then quietly roared, gasped, and leaned over and bit my neck as I felt a quick convulsion run though his body, then that delicious *splash!!* inside me, and he resumed pounding me, our body slapping together as he almost cried and held on, hammering into me and hissing through his teeth, biting his lip, biting my neck, pulling my hair and then hugging me to him, his hands on my shoulders, then around my waist … then he slowed to a gentle rhythm, his balls loose now, his body like an engine slowly winding down, his liquid running down my legs so warm and loving.

“Do you feel better, Monsieur?” I whispered, giggling.
Óc, ouais,” he said, lapsing into his Gascogne patois.
“We need to do that a lot,” I said. “Two or three times a week.”
“It would be my death, ma chère,” he protested, still breathing hard.
“But a good way to die, Monsieur,” I said, helpfully. I clenched and he finally slid out of me; I got up, turned around, and he took me in his arms and held me tight.


Half-Nekkid Thursday HNTbutton Enjoy.
(thanks for the inspiration, AW. You’re beautiful.)