HHNT y’all

Oh how I wish I had some extra cash lying around. Babeland has Jimmyjane toys on sale through Friday. Oh how I have lusted after their shiny little chroma for ages. Ages. Jimmyjane stuff can be expensive, true, but this is a pretty awesome sale. We’re talking savings of up to $50 folks.

I love their stuff. My wants only start at the little chroma. They have awesome massage candles, their sensory set, the contour massage stones. I am such a fan of their stuff. Alas. Tis not to be. Not for me anyway. But you should definitely go check out this sale. Cause it’s a good one. Seriously.

I’ve mentioned before that I keep a list of folks I’ve played with. I don’t really remember when I started this list. Sometime in the past couple of years I guess. Partly so that I don’t forget anyone and partly because part of me likes to be able to look over the list and see where I’ve been. It’s a weird sort of validation.

The list is sub-divided into the following categories. Repeated cyber (too many drive-bys to count), cam, phone, heavy petting/oral, and intercourse. Once you make the list, you make it into the highest category of activity.

It’s hardly a perfect system. I’ve always waffled a bit on where to put some of the women. I own two varieties of strap on and yet have never used one with a woman. Only with men. So have I technically had intercourse with a woman if there’s been no penetration? I’ve certainly made love to women. Fucked women. But where do they fall on the list? Should they be in a separate category of their own? At some point I decided if there was no penetration, there was no intercourse, and so after the heavy petting/oral section, no women are listed.

I had a couple of dates last week so it was time to update the list. I was standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth and thinking about it. I hate math and yet I’m sort of a geek about numbers. I see patterns in numbers. It’s easy for me to memorize series of numbers because of those patterns. Just don’t ask me to do anything with them.

So anyway, I was standing there brushing my teeth thinking about the number of guys I’d slept with. How it was a perfect multiple of the number of guys I’d slept with when I got married. Was sort of smiling to myself about that. And then I opened up the never to be published post where I keep the list and added the two new names.

I muttered a little to myself. There was editing needed. The last guy on the intercourse list was, in fact, someone I’d never slept with. I’d only sucked his cock. How did he get down there? Really. Where is my attention to detail? I made sure everyone was in their proper place and then I counted.

Well fuck. My number was higher than I remembered. By four. And was suddenly much closer to my age than I realized. The quick thinking part of my brain started reasoning. I was 15 when I started having sex. I’m 32 now. That’s 17 years of having sex. 28 divided by 17 averages me 1.64 different partners per year. That’s respectable. Hell that’s boring.

Then I looked at the list again. Of the 28, 24 of those are post divorce. Which was three and a half years ago. So now I’m looking at an average of 6.8 different partners per year. Still not so bad. That’s a new one every couple of months.

And then. God only knows why. I looked again. Of the 28, 17 were in the last year. 17. So that’s 1.4 different partners PER MONTH. Yeah. Not so respectable now am I?

It’s all relative really. What seems like a huge number to one person is nothing to someone else. Although it seems that by this time next year, if I continue this path, my number will be larger than my age by a handful, truth is I’m comfortable with how I live my life. Clearly, or I wouldn’t be writing this blog. I have an IUD. I always use condoms. I get regular tests. I’ve never had an STD or an unwanted pregnancy.

All the same. I won’t be counting up the whole damn list anytime soon.

I hadn’t planned on going out. Some drinks after work, yes, but nothing after that. He’d requested the pleasure of my company the night before. But that request came late. When I was already in the bed of someone else. When his text came, late in the afternoon, I didn’t see any reason why not to accept.

I took my time at the bar. Enjoying cold margaritas and pretty girls and lively conversation. He could wait for me.

He came to my apartment. He brought beer and condoms. We sat on my couch with all of my windows open to let in the breeze. We talked. He’s going through a divorce and clearly rusty at dating. I’ve been there so it didn’t bother me much. Especially not with tequila still warming my belly.

He asked permission before kissing me. Light touches of his lips that were hardly kisses at all. Brief darts of tongue into my mouth. He asked permission to take me to bed. I accepted. Taking his hand and leading him to a dark room.

We stayed fully clothed for a while. Lightly kissing. Then he asked permission to undress me. I knelt on the bed and lifted my hair. Standing behind me he reached for the zipper of my dress. Pulling it toward my waist until he could push my dress away from my shoulders. He paused there for a moment. With his hands on my shoulders and his lips at the nape of my neck.

Undressed we tumbled once more to the bed. His knee between my thighs, his mouth at my nipples, my hands in his hair. I knelt between his legs and patiently tended to his cock. He pulled me to the edge of the bed and lowered his head to my clit. My legs were dangling off the bed. I was unable to brace against anything. I felt helpless as he sucked at my clit and thrust his fingers inside me. Helpless as he slapped my clit until I came.

He asked if I wanted him to fuck me. He asked if I wanted him to use a condom. Both of those answers were yes. He crawled between my open thighs and thrust into me. He fucked me for a long time. Until we were both hot and sweaty. Until we decided to move back into the living room where the breeze was stronger. I turned off the lights and we fucked on the floor. The carpet rough on my bare back.

He said the condom was throwing him off. Making it hard for him to cum. My hips had begun to hurt. I pushed him to the floor. Rolling the condom off of him and lowering my mouth once more. After a minute the latex flavor went away. He was full of words. Instructing me on how to use my mouth and hands in tandem. When he came it was salty and warm. And plentiful. Spurt after spurt landed on my lips and my cheeks and oozed down my hands.

He left the beer. He left the condoms. He’s asked permission to return. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll be granting that request.

He didn’t look exactly like his picture. People never do. He was broader somehow. But still very cute. We sat on the couch and talked for a few minutes, just talking. The conversation was pretty shallow. We both knew why we were in the same room together.

He leaned over to kiss me. His kisses were soft, but not too. Tongue involved without being too much. We kissed for a bit. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer to him. My breasts crushed against his chest. His hands roaming my back and the side of my breast.

I pulled back slightly. Indicating that we should go someplace where we could be more comfortable. We adjourned to a mostly dark bedroom. Settling down on the bed and resumed kissing. And this is where it became like a long forgotten high school memory.

His hand slipped under the hem of my skirt. Running up the inside of my thigh. Finding my pussy. A few glancing brushes of my clit and then his fingers began to push inside of me. I was just wet enough for it not to be uncomfortable, but not so wet that I was entirely ready. He began to thrust with his hand. His lips still on mine. Then he slipped in a second finger.

It was fast and furious and lacking finesse. He would hit my g-spot just often enough to create more wetness. It’s not that it felt awful, it was OK, just not great. He stopped when I clenched my thighs around his hand. He withdrew his fingers and reached for the shoulder straps of my tank. Pushing them off. Running his hands across my breasts.

I sat up slightly and removed my tank top. Reaching behind to unclasp my bra. “Wow, you have great boobs,” he exclaimed as they fell free. Which for some reason reminded me of a teenager. Something about the tone of his voice combined with his vocabulary in that moment just made me roll my eyes inwardly.

He latched on to a nipple. Again, not lacking skill completely, just not knocking it out of the park. Or even to the back wall. After he played with my nipple for a while, just the one, he went back to fingering me. This time when I stopped him, I made a move for his cock.

I pulled off his shorts and his boxers. Slightly disappointed in what I saw. Definitely on the small side. I’ve learned that size (large or small) can be totally irrelevant in the face of skill, but I didn’t exactly have high hopes for skill at this point.

Never the less I lowered my mouth to him. Taking my time licking thoroughly before sucking him into my mouth. It felt like I had barely started, had just found my groove, when all of a sudden my mouth was being flooded. My mind was racing as I swallowed. “Seriously? Already? You are no match for me.”

So then I was in an awkward situation. One which I quizzed my best guy friend about the next day. Is there a tactful way to ask if a man, or in this case boy, is done for the night or if we wait, oh, say 20 minutes, there will be another erection? We agreed that no, there isn’t.

Now. I think I’m fairly well on record that I generally prefer older men. 10 years older than me seems to be the average. In my experience, older men tend to be aware that there may only be one load in a night. So if they need to delay they will. Or if they cum early, they make up for it.

This guy is 5 years younger than me. Little Buck best be getting it up again.

We cuddled for a while. He fell asleep, snoring lightly. I started to notice a weird smell. It wasn’t his breath. I hadn’t noticed it at all while kissing. But he’s a chef. So it was like something he’d cooked that day was still lingering somewhere. Only I couldn’t figure out what and where. And then I dozed off out of boredom.

When I woke up, he started kissing me again. I confirmed that the weird smell wasn’t his breath. But then it nagged at me. The way weird little details will. And that’s a bad thing. If you’re kissing me and my mind is completely somewhere else. (I fully admit to having a brain that will never completely focus on one thing but I can usually shut the random stuff if good sex is happening.)

We kissed for a few minutes and then I felt him reach for a condom. And heard the distinctive rip of the packaging. While he rolled the condom on, I reached between my legs and rubbed my clit. Prepping myself.

With me on my back he slid into me. Leaning over and kissing me occasionally as he fucked me. And again, it wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t good. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander to dirty places. Every time I opened them he was there, above me, looking directly at me. Which to be quite honest is something I’m a little uncomfortable with, even someone with whom I’m very close. Which he and I are decidedly not.

He fucked me for a while in variations of missionary. Then he rolled me over and fucked me from behind. He came. I did not. He collapsed against me. Kissing me between my shoulder blades before rolling off to the side. We lay there for a second and in the silence, he burped. Not once, but twice.

Seriously.

I was so ready to be alone with some porn and my hitachi.

We lay there for a few minutes and then we both started making noise about being tired. It was a work night for me and I needed to be up early. Or so I said. He thanked me. Kissed me goodbye. I haven’t fucked like that since I was 15. There’s a reason for that. There’s a reason I prefer men and not boys.

Get your paws up y’all. HHNT

“Are you touching yourself baby?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Aww baby. Are you gonna cum for me? Cum for me baby.”

“Tell me all the things you wanna do to me.”

And so it began. In the dark and the middle of the night. With a thousand of miles in between us. When we were both on the brink of sleep. No toys and no porn. Only our voices, reaching out to each other.

He didn’t have to say much. Talking softly of his lips and teeth on my thighs. His tongue on my clit and his fingers inside of me.

I cried out his name as I came. It was not an earth shattering orgasm. I find my orgasms to be as varied in strength and speed and intensity as anything about my sexuality. Or my life.

It did not leave me shattered and spent. Unable to catch my breath and super sensitive and not wanting to be touched.

It left me wanting more.

I could feel myself hovering on the brink. A second orgasm like a shining light on the horizon. Beckoning. My fingers never stopped moving. He never stopped talking.

I lost track. Only aware of the sensations between my legs. Of his voice. He told me this morning he counted to four. I could have gone all night. Ever so gently and peacefully in that place of bliss. Making love to him from afar. Cumming for him.

“What are you doing?”

“My hair was in my eyes, interfering with your blow job.”

I paused in the doorway as I reentered our bedroom.

“Oh, baby. Are those pigtails?”

I nodded, eyebrow arched. “Had a feeling you’d like that.”

“Mmm, you know I do. Now come over here and suck Daddy’s cock like a good girl.”

This is the first in another series. I dug out my old pom poms from my days as a cheerleader and had a little camera fun. Enjoy. HHNT

He’d gotten out of bed before me. That happened most mornings. I’m a girl that likes to sleep as late as possible. He rises with the sun no matter how late he was up the night before. I stirred awake to the sounds of him in the kitchen.

I smiled and snuggled back into bed, letting my eyes shut again. I knew that he would come get me when breakfast was ready. He’s the only man who has ever cooked for me. I was happy to let him.

I’d hadn’t realized I’d drifted off until I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up and he was standing by the bedside, a glass of orange juice in his hand, on ice the way I like it. I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, taking the juice. We padded into the kitchen together, in our bare feet.

He’d set the table. There was fresh cut fruit. A carafe of orange juice. Our plates held eggs with hot sauce, sourdough toast, and beautifully seared lamb chops. He’d snuck out for fresh flowers and a copy of the New York Times. I kissed him lazily and settled at the table.

We ate without talking. Only the sound of newspaper pages turning to break the silence. We lingered over the paper. My feet finding his lap. His hand resting casually on my shin.

Somehow we both managed to set down a section of paper at the same time. Looking at each other and smiling. “We should clean up,” I said. “You cooked, I’ll do dishes.”

“Not yet.”

He reached for his plate. Plucking a lamb chop mostly stripped of its meat. A few morsels clung to the bone. Charred fat clinging to the joint. The hand on my shin wrapped around my ankle and lifted my foot. He traced the arch with the remnants of the lamb chop. Running it across the ball of my foot and between my toes.

I simply raised my eyebrows in question.

When he’d thoroughly marinated my foot in the charred, greasy goodness, he returned the bone to its plate. And then his tongue followed where the bone had just been. Running up the arch of my foot. Diving between toes. He took his time with my toes.

My other foot found his cock. He was hard against the sole. Through his sweatpants I caressed him. Happy to watch him doing something he so obviously enjoyed.