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.