St. V. : date part 2

I hope everyone had a happy St. V Day![1]

I think that I promised I’d update this stuff more often; gosh it gets hard to do when I’m working on this teaching assistant stuff and the data entry / medical processing job. I get home around 3:00 PM and usually go straight outside, to the back yard and I run the boys around like they’re racehorses. Then it’s inside for dinner preparation[2] while the boys watch Zoom or a NASA documentary.[3] Then Monsieur comes home and we eat and go over homework and reading assignments and then they go to bed all by 8:00 or 8:30, and I get to processing claims for the medical industry. If I’m lucky, I am off the computer at about 11:00 PM every night, and by then I feel drained.

So there has not been a lot of time for extraneous projects, including this little journal, nor is there a lot of time for yum-yum. I justify my existence by remembering, like a few weeks ago, when we went out on that lovely evening...

Harp glissando

Dissolve to:

Exterior car – night

We took my car into town, and talked about nothing much the whole way. Monsieur suggested a movie or a nightclub and I said, “I don’t care; either would be good.”

We went to a live music club on Congress Avenue; it looked somewhat crowded for a school night but we parked and walked up the street to the door, my arm in his. There was a bit of a line, but not too long. Still …

“Monsieur?” I whispered in his ear.

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you think, I mean, would it be all right …” I began.

“Tell me,” he urged gently.

I slipped my hand into his hip pocket. “Can we just … go somewhere … and have sex?” I blushed.

He looked at me, and smiling gently, took my arm again and walked me back to the car.

“It’s all right, isn’t it?” I asked him. “We could just park somewhere, out it the woods or something?”

“Well, perhaps not,” he replied. “I don’t think I could take you out into the woods as if you were some slut off the street.”

“Oh, sure you could,” I purred, my hand finding his thigh, tracing my finger up to where I could see the outline of his magnificence in his pants.

“Naughty girl,” he chided, removing my hand. “Don’t distract me when I am trying to change lanes.”

I chuckled. He loved it, and I knew it.

We were on the highway that led back out of town and towards home. He pulled into a Sands Motel. A huge, cheesy neon sign flashed “Vacancy” with a buzzing sound that corresponded to the almost audible “Zzzt! Zzzt! Zzzt!” my clitoris was making. He stopped and jumped out to check in, leaving the car running. I checked my face in the passenger visor mirror.

When he came back, he hopped into the car and said, “I hope this is acceptable?”

“Perfect,” I smiled. “You’re such a gentleman.”

He blushed and smiled back, looking away from me as he maneuvered into a parking space.

The room was cheap, worn, and very Texas. A horrid painting of a fish leaping from a creek dominated a décor which included colors like avocado green, orange and ... brown? Who the hell knows? Shag carpet, plastic lampshades, and a big ugly mirror over a particle-board chest of drawers were other amenities, plus a Quasar TV set from the 1980’s.

It was perfect. I lowered the lights and turned the A/C off.

“I feel like we’re having an affair,” I said, giggling.

“Aren’t we?” he said with a half-smile that made me burn for him.

I slipped my dress off over my head, standing in front of him in my panties, bra, and sandals. He murmured something in French, which I took as a compliment.

“I really need to learn more French,” I said, kicking off my sandals and kneeling on the bed.

“I think that you understand more than you allow me to know,” he said, joining me.

I unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off of him, kissing his chest and pushing him down on his back. “Oh, Monsieur, you truly have no idea how much I want this.”

His hands were on my hips and I knelt over him and undid his pants, slipping those off of him, too. His boxers had a delicious-looking bulge that I wanted to explore further, but I did not want to seem like a greedy slut[4]. Instead of diving on it immediately I kissed his lips, straddling his chest.

His hands cupped my breasts and undid my bra, then roamed over my chest and held my hips as we kissed. I ground my crotch on his, and I could feel myself getting warmer, wetter, and wanting more.

“I want you so badly, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Monsieur’, you know,” he said, pulling my panties off.

“I know, but, well, I like to,” I said, breathless at his touch down there.

Taking his emboldened fingers as my cue, I pulled his boxers off and knelt over him, my thighs spread, stroking him, rubbing the fleshy head against my sex and moaning in my throat at the sensation. I held myself open for him, trying to push him in but, as it often happens, it didn’t go in.

He gently moved my crotch over his face and, holding me open with his fingers, slid his tongue into me and started driving me insane with his licking – gentle at first, then strong, intense.

I moaned, a little louder, and enthusiastically. I turned around and planted it back on that fantastic mouth, then leaned over and took his stiffening cock into my own mouth, trying to take it all and not even getting close to taking the head. My eyes started to tear and my mouth started to water, but it had its effect, and my poor neglected pussy began to relax, opening to his ministrations and soaking his nose, lips, chin, and especially that magic tongue.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could, drooling on him and sucking, licking, and drenching him with saliva, then when it was fully wet I started to stroke him. He responded by getting even thicker, then pumping his hips up and down and writhing deliciously. Oh, that man.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I got off of him, turned around, bent over and showed him my spread legs, my back arched, my face on the cheap bedspread, wantonly exposing myself.

“Please,” I begged.

He touched it, stroking me with his fingers; my labia felt heavy, drenched; my clit was thick and swollen. I moaned.

He held his cock there as I pushed back against it. I impaled myself on it, feeling its thickness and welcoming the sensation. He held it there, not moving, as I backed up on it. My hands pushed against the cheap headboard, pushing back, back against him. I lowered my face to the pillows, and then began to move my ass up and down slowly, gasping as I forced more of him in, in, in.

Reaching beneath me I fingered my pussy, feeling the stretched tissues where we were joined, then his heavy swinging balls, then rubbing all over my clit. My head was spinning and I moved against him, fucking him, enjoying it. His hands were on my back, then on my hips, holding me steady. He still didn’t move but kept that cock right there for me to fuck. I hooked my legs behind his, clamped down on him, and rubbed myself until I came.

He barely moved until the end, when I was coming hard and he pushed my shoulders down, pinning me and fucking me deep. I don’t know how long I was crying in delicious agony but I remember him turning my over on my back to take his pleasure of me. His lips found my breasts, one, then the other, as he plowed up, up, up inside me. My pussy was a burning ring fitting around the base of his cock when he took my legs, put them around his waist and rode me, his voice gasping in my ear, his cock spilling into me, my heart so full of joy I thought it would burst.

“Yes,” I said to him, laughing and crying as his seed cooled the fire inside me, “yes, good, yes, that’s it … yes, love, yes, more … yes, Monsieur.”[5]

[1] Well, I know Kellie didn’t so much and I send her my condolences. Here’s hoping she either gets past it or over it. It sucks to be in a house with someone you can’t stand.

[2] I now know how to make eleven – count ‘em! E-L-E-V-E-N different dinners. OK, three of them are variations of spaghetti, but whatever. The boys eat every bite.

[3] Really! The two Bigglest Boys are age 8 and 4, and they can tell you every flight director and astronaut that the U.S. manned space program ever had. Neither one of them know who Kobe Bryant is.

[4] Which, I am.

[5] Ibid. Yum.

In the Garden

Belle-Mère and Mademoiselle left this morning. It was a very good visit. Monsieur and I even got a free date, when “the ladies” watched the boys and we went out to dinner. More on that later – I have a lot of catching up to do in this blog; I doubt I’ll ever be really caught up.

Last Sunday was Maggie’s birthday. She would have been thirty years old. We celebrated by pulling up the dead plants in her garden, and remembering her in our quiet ways. I wrote Maggie a letter, which I have in my nightstand.

While the boys played I sat with Mademoiselle and Belle-Mère. Monsieur sat off by himself, watching the boys from under some juniper trees.

“He’s doing very well,” Belle-Mère said to me.

“”Ya, he’s sad a lot, though,” I replied.

“It’s to be expected,” said. Mademoiselle “We were more worried about him, going deep into a depression and he would not be able to get out of it.”

“We have you and his children to thank for that,” Belle-Mère smiled at me.

“You know,” Mademoiselle added, “when [his brother M] got divorced, and went into a deep well of sadness, well, it never really went away. He hasn’t been the same for years.”

I blinked. “I didn’t know.”

Belle-Mère got up to help one of the boys.

“It’s true,” Mademoiselle went on. “[M] has never quite been the same, and we were somewhat worried that, well, when you moved in it only propped [Monsieur] up, and when you moved on, it would destroy him.”

“Do you really think I’m going to move on so soon?” I asked.

“I did,” she admitted. “All right, I don’t think that now. I really don’t know what your plans are.”

“I’m staying,” I said, “as long as he lets me.”

“I just remember you in college, you know, and how driven you were to act, and to be a performer.”

“I know; and how I dated a dozen guys,” I smiled.

“Well, that worried me a little too,” she replied. “But mostly I didn’t want you to miss out on anything you wanted, and I didn’t want you to realize, suddenly, that you have a life, too.”

“I know – but that’s why I’m staying. I feel like this idea I had to pursue acting was a mirage, and this is real. I feel like I have a purpose now.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and she smiled, too.

Act 1, Scene 4

Monsieur’s mom and sister arrived for about a week. They got in late Saturday night (and woke up the whole house, since we have a very loud watch-chicken.) Sunday, mostly, Monsieur took his sister into town to help her pick out something or another.

I spent a lot of time with Belle-Mère, just sitting outside and letting the kids play (the weather was gorgeous; a fine spring day [78° F. in January!] in the Texas hills) and she offered to make lunch and I offered to help. My mom, had she been there, would have dropped dead to see me actually chopping onions with a chef’s knife.

We talked about Monsieur’s father, about how she was living in the US in the 1960’s during Vietnam while her husband was working for the US military in Southeast Asia; which led us to talking about the riots last year in France.

Interior, kitchen, late afternoon. They are peeling vegetables.

Belle-Mère: …. Fortunately we were spared the worst of the riots, in our little village.

Yearning Heart: Ya, I read about it online in the NY Times, and the English Le Figaro.

Belle-Mère: You read the newspaper on the computer? My daughter reads hers on her mobile telephone. I don’t understand. What’s wrong with reading the paper?

Yearning Heart: Well, I can read online for free.

Belle-Mère: Phone news is probably worse than television news. I didn’t want to get my news from the moving pictures; I don’t want to get my news from my typewriter or my telephone. I read the magazines on paper, while I drink my coffee.

Yearning Heart:

T minus 24:00 to Mademoiselle D

• Floors: check
• Counters: check
• Clutter: gone
• Laundry: in control
• Face: reasonably clear of blemishes
• Underwear: clean
• Hair: washed. (I’ll braid it.)
• 3 dressy outfits: clean and ready-to-wear
• Boys: bathed
• Boys’ bedrooms: tidied
• Chickens: fed
• Groceries: stocked

Why am I so nervous? Because: I face the unknown, with no tech or dress rehearsal.

Belle-Mère and Mademoiselle D (Monsieur’s mother and his sister) come this weekend, and I have no idea what Mademoiselle told Belle-Mère about me.

The last time I spoke with Mademoiselle, it was on the telephone last June. She told me I had no business being here while Monsieur is still going through major upheaval and grief.

“I’ll leave when he asks me to,” I told her simply.

“And why should [Monsieur] do that,” she asked me “with a woman there to do,” and then a pause, “his bidding.”

“If you are so worried about him and the boys, why aren’t you down here helping him yourself?” I asked, trying to keep the challenging tone out of my voice.

“You know I can’t leave my work,” she said. “I know it would be hard for him, but he needs time to sort things out for himself. They all do.”

“I’ll leave when he asks me to,” I repeated. “I promise you that.”

She asked me if I was in love with Monsieur.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

That caught me off guard. “No,” I said. (I hadn’t, at that time.) “But, I won’t tell you that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. If I do end up in his bed, I promise you that it will be my choice, his problem, and none of your business.”[1]

“All right then,” she said, and that conversation was over.

So now the Ice Queen is coming with her mom and I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m sure it will all be fine.

Ha. Ha, hah, hahahaha.[2]

[1] Adapted from The Goodbye Girl, by Neil Simon. Used without permission.

[2] Sarcastic, fateful laughter.

A dozen considerations

I saw two pictures of Monsieur’s mother; of course she’s gorgeous. One looks to be from just after World War II, with her and her husband, Monsieur’s father; the second must have been when they were living in California. It’s a picture of Monsieur, age about 18 months, standing at a marina at his mother’s knee.

She looks elegant and beautiful. I might post one of her pictures here, if I get Monsieur’s OK. Maybe severely cropped, so you can see the eyes. She looks like Liz Talyor circa Butterfield 8 or Jackie Kennedy, about 1961.

---

Monsieur is so sweet to me. He knows how insecure I am here and he goes out of his way to reassure me with a dozen little considerations a day. Not only does he cook, do housework, and take care of the children – well of course he does – but he does my laundry. I have never met a guy who does other people’s laundry, least of all mine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad do laundry.

OK, it’s not just the laundry. He left me a note to tell me that he set up the VCR to record Coldplay on Austin City Limits, and then Commander-in-Chief. He fixed that annoying whistling noise coming through my car’s windshield. He showed me how to dice vegetables easily so that my wrist doesn’t get all tired. He seems to go out of his way to tell me that he believes in me, and that what I’m doing is worthwhile, appreciated, needed, and valuable.

And … [gasps] He took me to church! His church! And I wore red, which my mom would frown on for church – but then Monsieur’s church is one my mom would consider a “sect”. (It’s Unitarian, and actually very nice people.) A red dress is what I wore, with matching red tights, to church, on a shadowy Sunday.

It just makes me realize that there are three kinds of males that I have dealt with: boys, guys, and men. Up to now I’ve dated boys, and after that I was in relationships with guys. Now I’m with a man. Someone who takes care of a family and is confident in what he does.

I like it.

Anxiety Attack

I woke up just now realizing that Monsieur’s mother will be here in less than a week. For some reason this gave me such an anxiety attack. His mother, and his sister will be here. I know D doesn’t think I should be here. What will she tell his mom? I tossed and turned till 2 AM then just got up.

I stared at a bottle of cognac in the cupboard for ten minutes, thinking a shot of that would settle me and make me sleep. But I closed the cupboard door.

I have been running so fast and hard, trying to immerse myself in the education of these kids and caring for these three – no, four – guys. I am learning to cook, which is something my mom always wanted me to do, but I never would. I guess I’m learning to grow up.

After the last boy goes to bed I’m usually next. I now realize why people with kids don’t have sex so much – although I want to! But right now there’s nothing better than to be asleep in bed, then to wake up and roll over and find him there.

I don’t know what D will be like when they get here. D is Monsieur’s sister. Wait, D is also Monsieur’s initial too, so I guess I should call his sister Mademoiselle. Now, there’s something I would never do in real life.

Then as I go to post this I find that Venting Housewife’s blog has been hacked; I’m so angry.

top 10

This week’s top ten countdown:

10 hours of data entry

9 lesson plans

8 stiff inches

7 loads of laundry

6 stubbed toes (2 mine)

5 busy bees

4 pounds of oranges

3 sleeping boys

2 sticky lovers

1 yearning heart

Tomorrow’s Schedule:

Wake up. Dress me and boys, feed same. Go, dogs, go! Teach, soothe, wipe, play, feed. Eat, work, sleep. See me run. Run, run, run.

The question was raised by Obesio here why Monsieur “doesn’t simply support you in the way that you clearly deserve”?

Well, it’s because I got through school with a massive debt, and I need to make student loan and consumer debt payments on it.

Monsieur’s a kind man, and a generous man – but not a wealthy man. He makes a living and can feed his boys, so far. But Maggie left behind a huge consumer debt, which he is bound to pay off. Her life insurance basically covered her medical costs and her funeral arrangements.

I asked him about helping me with my debt, of course, not knowing what his financial situation was. We sat down and went through our financial burden and what it would take to cover our household plus servicing our collective debt.

It would take more than he makes.

I don’t want to burden him any more than I already have, so I decided to work for a living, like I always have ever since I was 17.

Maybe later, if it’s possible, we’ll figure out a way for me to work from home.

Fact of life: “mommy jobs” just don’t pay well. Mommy jobs are jobs that moms do for free: cook, clean, serve food, care for children, teach. There’s others, but I can’t think of them. I’m so tired.

DE

I had an interview for a data entry job on Monday. Ugh.

3 hrs./2 days a week + 4hrs./3 days a week = 20 hrs. × $12.00/hr. = ugh.

But I can do it until I’m OK to teach, then the co-op will give me $300/wk.

It wasn’t so much an interview as a meeting to make sure I pass all qualifications (I am currently breathing, I can spell “SSN” and I can alphabetize without humming the ABC song. I know the difference between “imminent” and “eminent”, which is more than I can say for the White House.

Here is an excerpt from my interview / run-through:

“In this situation, you see a set of invoice templates and you can see … [click] … where you can override the rule for a statement.”

ME: “So, the statement is the 2^nd invoice?”

HR: “Oh no. Invoices are individual invoices. A statement is always a full statement.”

ME: “Oh. OK, I got it.”

HR: “Moving on …”

Notice. Ho-hum.

I handed in my notice, and it was accepted without too much fanfare or regret.

“Thanks,” said shift manager. “We’ll let you know if this policy changes. Sorry about that.”

I talked to K who also has to quit, due to school. It seems that the owners want to clean out the schedule and get rid of anyone who can’t “commit to the restaurant”, which means no more part-timers or people trying to “pick up extra money”. They don’t want students or people with day jobs.

I think that leaves about 6 wait people, to run the place, and it’s a sizable restaurant of about 10-14 tables that is open for lunch, dinner and weekend breakfast.

Good luck, says I.

Now I don’t want to get another waiting job. I’m looking into doing freelance copy editing work, medical transcribing, anything. I don’t have much experience with anything like that. Do you think I could use this blog as a writing portfolio?

Ha. Ha, ha.

If you detected desperate, sarcastic laughter in that last sentence, you are very astute.

Monsieur says that he will cover my debts, but that it would be a hardship. I don’t want to be a burden to him that way, but he says that the effort that I put in simply can’t be replaced for any amount of money. He also says that he doesn’t want to lose me.

I don’t want to lose me either.

I talked to my friend MT, who says I should try working at a strip club once or twice a week.

Ha. Ha, ha. (More sarcastic desperation.) Thanks, dork. I’ll give it some thought, after I stop laughing.

Meanwhile since I can’t buy myself anything nice, I left my Amazon wish list on my profile, and also I’ll link to it here, in case there’s a millionaire out there who wants to make a poor underemployed hard-working redhead with a big yearning heart happy.

Maggie's Walls

I sit here in Maggie’s walls, spilling my tears, spilling my ink, baring my soul, and the blog page counter turns, and sleep escapes me.
Sleep is my chance to let go, but tonight I would give it to the Littlest Boy, as he knows he’s in his mama’s walls but not his mama’s arms and his mama is only a memory, so
we steal to the rocker, a winter of discontent
folding into each other, the familiar panic
and then the reassurances, mine for him and his for me.
I’ve grown used to his smells:
the warm smell of his baby sweat, the sour smell he gets
just before he gets the sniffles;
I know it’s crazy but I can smell anxiety
almost before it hits his heart.
His fear feeds my love for him, and hour by hour the rocker
creaks as I hold him, his hands demand me,
grasping my new bathrobe in his tiny but incredible hands.
His face pressed to my chest, so young yet so old,
like a tiny little man, face wrinkled and intense
he tenuously clutches sleep, his reach exceeding his grasp.
“Shh-shh-shh-shhhhhhh ... hush now,”
and I contemplate his wise old eyebrows, and I see a new bruise
I hadn’t seen before
check a scrape to make sure it’s now healed
the ghost of skinned knees past,
the spectre of the bruises yet to come...
I cry for his lost mama, and for my lost girlhood,
and for the memory of my empty arms.

Working Tuesday

J-with-2-N’s is going to watch the kids at her place while I go in and work on Tuesday, and then I plan to turn in my 2 weeks’ notice.
My hope is that either:

1. they will be so upset at the thought of losing me that they will give me a Special Dispensation on the “one weekday shift” rule, or
2. the General Manager will suggest that I keep my job by performing sexual services on his ugly fat body, while I record the request using my cell phone’s memo recording feature, and then sue his greasy pink ass for sexual harassment.

Either way, everyone’s a winner.

The Ball Drops

Speaking of kissing…

Monsieur and I stayed up late on New Year’s Eve, talking. The kids tried to stay up to watch the calendar change but they all were asleep by 11:00 PM. We sat in the quiet living room, listening to the radio as it played weird jazz. His brother, as is his custom every year, sent him a case of his own wine from France, which his brother bottles himself, with, Monsieur says, “mixed results”. We opened one and it was quite good but I only had a sip. And we talked about us.

He wanted to know about how I’d been feeling out the whole thing and I admitted that although I loved living here and loved him and the boys, I needed more. Not just hugs, tenderness, affection and kisses … I admitted I needed more sex. I thought he would be upset or angry so I watched his eyes carefully as this came out, and I tried to be gentle about it.

“I can sometimes withdraw when I am troubled. You know,” he revealed, “I’ve been going to grief counseling.”

“No,” I said. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, and of course they generally do not recommend one to start a relationship so soon after a major life crisis, such as the death of a spouse.”

“I see.” My eyes were on my lap.

He took my hands in his. “I have reason to believe, for certain people, that grief counseling is of little value after a certain point.”

“Do you now?” I smiled.

“I am of the type that naturally avoids profoundly traumatic emotion, you see. And, after a few sessions I have given it a lot of thought.”

“Tell me your thoughts,” I said, as he held my hands.

“First, I am given to believe that for me, the emotional and spiritual support that friends who care can provide might be far more useful than therapy.”

“I’m certainly willing to provide you with that, Monsieur.” I placed my hands on his shoulders. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I believe it to be true,” he said, smiling, “since I can think of no other reason why you would stay here and work so hard, simply to help the children and care for them.”

“Well, of course,” I admitted, “I love the boys as well. But as for you, I love you deeply.”

“You are not dissatisfied with me?” he asked, his eyes so softly looking into mine. My god the man has the most liquid brown bedroom eyes I have ever seen.

“Oh no! Well, I mean,” I continued, “I am very demanding … after the lights go out.”

“I have been plagued,” he said, “by guilt about that recently.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling guilty myself, about being so needy.

“I need to stop that guilt,” he said. “I was hoping that the counseling would help with that, but of course they are seeking what they call ‘closure’ and try to help me through this pre-defined path of grief.”

I held his hands, listening.

“I don’t think there is only one path to it. I am not normally given to distress, emotionally or physically. I have been denying myself the ability to go past this trauma, simply because I have been thinking that I should be faithful to Maggie’s memory, and so forth.” He had a sip of wine. I didn’t know what to say, so I listened.

“Maggie would not want me to be unhappy, depressed, isolated, alone,” he said, staring into his wine glass.

“I agree, Monsieur.”

“Maggie would want me to live.”

I took the wine glass from his hands and placed it on the coffee table. I held him in my arms and then I kissed him. He held me, tightly, caressing me. I kept kissing him, not forcing it but not pulling away either.

It felt good.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally said, after a few moments. “Of course it is the sort of thing that may be personal, so please don’t tell me more than you feel you should.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Who is John?”

“John?” I asked.

“His telephone number is on your dresser upstairs – on a note. It says, ‘You’re beautiful, call me, John.’”

“Oh. Right.” Damn. “Some guy, came in with some people to the restaurant, gave me that with his tip. I guess I overdid it on the friendly banter, and he may have thought I was interested.”

“Are you, then?” Monsieur asked.

Blush. “No! I mean, flattered, yes … I … I guess I was, I mean I wasn’t going to call him.”

“But you kept his number? You were tempted?”

“Please! I just forgot to throw it away!” I felt cornered. I stood up.

“It’s not a bit of my business, and I won’t ask,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I think I have made some mistakes with you, and have moved too quickly –”

“Mistakes?” I could feel my blood rising.

“ – But I don’t want that to place the rest of our relationship in jeopardy.”

“First of all, the biggest mistake you could make would be to think I would call some guy who gave me his phone number, when I am only here to take care of you.” I felt my face getting hot.

“I didn’t mean–”

“Second biggest mistake is that I’m a very low maintenance sort of girl in almost every way, except … at bedtime.”

He laughed a little. “I agree,” he said. “I’m sorry if it seemed as though I wasn’t trusting, but I was afraid we were drifting apart.”

I sat back down, next to him. “I’ll forgive you, on one condition. Just drift a little closer.” I kissed him, my mouth hungry.

For a long time.

My hands were all over his body and when I could feel his heart beating in his chest, I knew that he was ready and I started lowering his pants.

“I’m not used to asking for it,” I whispered. “Usually the guy asks me, but you’re not like other guys.”

“I can try to be,” he whispered.

“No, just be yourself. I like that.”

I got his pants off, his cock thick and red, swollen and erect, curving up like it was straining to reach me. I lowered my head and licked it. His breath made a noise like a tire deflating. I opened wide and sucked on the head, drooling wantonly, stroking him with my hand, trying to remember all the pointers I recently got from Desireous and Introspectre, VH and my other personal idols when it comes to cock pleasing.

His hands wandered over my body, one hand finding its way to my bottom. He pulled the waistband of my pajamas down and fondled me as I sucked.

He moaned. His fingers pulled my panties aside and slipped in past my rubbery wet labia – thick, strong, insistent fingers. I moaned, my mouth full of him, my pussy full of him; I looked up at him. I let his cock pop out of my mouth.

“Do you like that?” I smiled, stroking him.

“Oh you know that I do. I am quite ready,” he whispered.

“Ready to come in my mouth?” I asked, my eyes sparkling.

“I … I don’t know if … if I can …”

“Let’s try this, then.” I got up on the couch. “Stand up,” I said. He obeyed. I love how a man with a hard-on will do almost anything. I lay down on my back, hung my head off the edge, and pulled his cock to me, licking it then sucking it in.

He moaned again. I pulled it out. “Now, you’re gonna have to fuck my mouth, and don’t be such a gentleman for once. I really, really want this. All right?”

“All right, chère.”

I put his hands on my head, so giving him permission to really use my mouth to please him. My hands teased his swinging balls, stroked his shaft, and after only a few minutes of his cock head stretching my mouth, jaw and lips … I felt a pulse along the shaft, his scrotum tight against his body, then a gasp and something French from his lips … then another gasp and something hot, thick, and oh, so rich filling my mouth as he fucked it. Triumph.

I pulled off, stroking him and trying to get it all. There was a lot. I don’t think the poor man had had an ejaculation since the last one he had with me, a month before. It covered my face deliciously, my hair, the floor …

I sat up, wiping my face with my shirt, licking my lips.

He fell to his knees and began to tongue me as I licked the last of him from my fingers. My legs went up and open, resting on his shoulders as he licked and sucked, then when I was totally flowing I started playing with his cock with my feet. I felt it harden then he picked my legs up, spread them wide and slid his tongue deep inside me and fucked me with his face till I came, hard, biting my hand to keep from waking the kids. My head was spinning.

I remember that he got up on his knees and was teasing my entrance with his freshly hardened cock.

“Please, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“Please what, my love?”

“Please, will you take me?” I begged.

“Take you where, mon ange?” he smiled.

I was pulling him, humping, trying to get him inside me. “OH! You’re so mean to me, why?”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, “it’s just that I really like the look on your face when I finally give you,” and then he held me open and slid into me, “this.”

“Oh!”

It burrowed into me, what I’d been missing, dreaming of, hoping for, into me, making me blind with pleasure, filling me up and burying inside me in…

One.

Smooth.

Stroke.

He kissed me, our faces sticky with each other, and he hooked his elbows under my knees and lifted my legs up as his cock filled me. Oh, it was so thick. In my delirium I remembered to try bringing my knees to my chest like Cardman described. I was sitting on the edge of the couch, and his kneeling in front of me was the perfect angle. Monsieur could then pull all the way out and slowly slide all the way in, from the crown to the base, with each stroke. Yum. I came in three or four strokes, and he could keep going for I don’t know how long before it welled up and soaked me.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, kissing me through my happy tears. I looked at the clock. It was 12:45 AM.

Belle-Mère

Jesus Joseph Mary.

Pardon the blaspheming, but I just found out Monsieur’s mother is visiting KC, and they’re both going to get into his sister’s car and drive down here to Texas to see the family.

Jesus Joseph Mary. I’m not prone to performance anxiety or panic attacks but I think I can feel my pulse in my hair. Oh god's teeth and blood, I hope she likes me.

Monsieur’s sister, you may recall, was my roommate, time out of mind. I got aong with her great back then, but she was against my moving in here to help with the children and I don’t know if either of them knows about Monsieur and me.

I haven’t met his mother before. She lives in France. They’ll all be here around birthday time for Littlest and Bigglest Boys, the 3rd week of January.

Jesus Joseph Mary.

So Much For THAT Job

Well, today [Sunday] at work I saw the new-posted schedule, and apparently all wait staff now have to work one weekday shift per week, “see your Shift Manager to iron out any conflicts.” I’m scheduled for Tuesday. Of course I can’t come in on Tuesday or any other weekday, and since they don’t make exceptions, I told my shift manager that I couldn’t do it weekdays between 8 and 5, and I thought that was understood when I was hired.

“I’m sorry [Yearning Heart],” she explained, “but that’s the new policy. Everyone has to make adjustments; we’re having a hard time getting people who are willing to work weekdays.”

“I’m sorry too, [SM],” I explained, “but I teach during the weekday. I can only work nights and weekends; the reason why I live here is to care for the children.”

“Well, hon, that’s just not going to be good enough.”

“I see. Well, I can’t work where I’m not going to be good enough,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, but thinking about that huge student loan and my massive credit card debt; why did I ever go into debt?

So either today was my last day there, or I have to find day care on Tuesdays. Which, way out here in the country, would present a problem. I’m screwed, and not even kissed.*

*Actually I got kissed last night - but it’s time to clean house and gather laundry, so maybe tonight I’ll share all about that.

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:

---

Jewels!

• 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.

(Ouch.)

He put his belt back on, and asked me if I felt better.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

[1] Thanks to Amber, for the suggestion.

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.

TagOla

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.

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!”

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.

“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

Whew.

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.

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.

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.

Camping

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.

Blinded

Blind

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?”

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.”

Gush.

---

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!”

“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!”

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. “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.

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

One

Smooth

Stroke.

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.

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?

hmm....

• Julie
• Aroused Girl
• anitasprite
• Renée
• Kellie

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?

Wet		88%
Soft		81%
Exciting		75%
Awkward		75%
Hot		69%
Sweet		63%
Violent		63%
Shy		19%

What is your sexual style?
created with QuizFarm.com

Shamelessly running up the hit counter

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...

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.

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 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..."

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.

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.