Daddy's home, I'm still here

Yes, I’m still here.

Monsieur came back on schedule, after being away on business. I missed him, awfully. I was glad to see him and I told him so. I even let him relax and catch up on his sleep, as he was pretty badly jet-lagged. I waited a whole day before I pounced on him, like a cat in heat.

I also surprised him, I think. I had, at some point, resolved to be able to give him a decent BJ, instead of the licking/stroking I’d been managing. While he was gone, I got out my biggest toy and practiced sucking it.

Anyone spying on me with a hidden camera late at night that week would have been rewarded with the sight of a redhead, lying on her back or her side, trying to get her mouth around a huge black dildo.

It helped, a bit. When I got the chance, while Monsieur was going down on me, I turned around under him and sucked his cock right into my mouth. Somehow I managed to relax and let it happen. I dropped my tongue into the floor of my mouth and just let him work it in. I didn’t ever get it into my throat, but I bobbed my head and sucked it without chewing it up too badly. He was surprised.

“That was impressive,” he allowed, when he turned me around to take me.

“I’ve been practicing,” I said, and he bit the back of my neck very wonderfully before plunging into me.

I’ve been pretty well buried by my school teaching, and also with handling and wrangling the boys. I’ve got a two-year-old who climbs everything: bookcases, curtains, bare walls. I heard a noise the other morning and got out of bed to check on it; Monsieur was outside but this noise came from the living room area. I went in there to find Littlest Boy hanging from a chandelier. He had piled up boxes on top of chairs and climbed them, then reached up and grabbed hold. The sound I had heard was cause by his swinging feet kicking the boxes out from under him. He was hanging there, giggling like it was the greatest fun and as if he wasn’t suspended eight feet over a tile floor, about to plummet to a certain head injury.

“Littlest Boy,” I said, holding onto his feet, “you don’t hang from the ceiling fixtures. That’s dangerous.”

“But I wanna go upsy-down!” he protested.

I did not argue with him, as he is only two, but I could not actually pry his fingers loose until I got up on a chair and worked each finger away from its vise grip on the chandelier.

“You’re not to climb in the house,” I reinforced. “When we go to the creek or to the park, I will help you climb trees, the playscapes, the rock quarry, the thirty-three floors of the Frost Bank Tower…”

“I wanna go outside,” he said.

Monsieur came in to see the piled-up furniture and boxes, and figured out the whole scheme immediately. He apologized, and took Littlest Boy outside with him to help in the garden.

Middlest Boy had a wonderful Halloween. He dressed up as the Green Arrow and Littlest Boy dressed as a little leopard. I was Bo Peep, and took them to the circle of neighbors who gather in the fork in the road and we had Trick or Treat, then we set up our own little stand and gave away the candy that we didn’t want.

Bigglest Boy was not especially happy when his daddy was away for that week. One night he threw a tantrum, a fit, and finally a rocking chair. I had been trying to confine him to his room, just so he could cool down, but he wasn’t accepting my authority and he picked up a glider rocker, lifted it over his head, and threw it across the living room, where it broke. It had missed me by about a foot.

I managed to confine him to his room after that.

I think he was more surprised that he could actually pick up and throw a glider rocker than anything.

Still, I was furious.

“That was your mama’s chair!” I cried. “Your mama’s rocker! Your grandfather bought that for you, when you were a baby!”

I cried for a while, with the other two boys gathering around me and trying to calm me down. I felt as though I wasn’t doing a good job, and that he would eventually end up more and more distant from me, no matter what I did.

Bigglest Boy calmed down immediately, and quietly went up to his room when he was sent there.

I didn’t tell his father, until he had come back home. When I did, I was rather frightened on Bigglest Boy’s behalf.

“Don’t be angry,” I begged him. “I’ve already yelled at him enough.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but this is quite inexcusable. I need to punish him in a way that is fitting for what he has done. Don’t forget,” he added as he went upstairs, “that he threw a chair, and that he threw it at you, and his younger brothers could also have been hurt. We do not harm women, and we do not harm children.”

Bigglest Boy has been restricted from all television since then, for a month, and must perform community service, gathering trash with his father on the roadside every weekend and every night for 50 hours.

Thanks to all who have written me, wondering if I'm OK and we're OK and if I've fallen off the planet or something. I'm fine, I promise. We're fine. Everything is very, very good.