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.
I put the cork tightly into the bottle as the two ingredients fizzed. “Payload secure, Flight!”
“Ground crew, away!” he ordered.
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. “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.
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.