Mmm…

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CONTENT WARNING: Mommy/little D/s sexual dynamics

Feed Mommy your cock…

The thought whispers through my mind, conjuring a vision of youth — tussled, smiling, lean — kneeling, hard, between my legs, eagerly waiting for permission.

Push, baby. Go slow…

And in the same way I dream with lucidity of feeling, so too do I conjure corporeal feeling from fantasy (and what *is* this fantasy, anyway? I’m no good at fantasy.1 But until recently I’ve been no good at desire either, but my libido is slowly kicking over at a low hum — like the slow hum of a furnace kicking on after a long, cold outage — and if this is where my mind is going to go while my body is powering back up, I’m not going to overthink it), imagining the split-ridge gentle push against wet resistance, the slow glide forward, slightly back, forward again.. and again… until he is seated deep. Tensed. Waiting.

I imagine this child — how old is he? 29? — vaguely in countenance; in body, approximate; precisely in appendage. His cock is thick. Swollen. Vein-ridged. I can feel his heartbeat — my own, in reality — as a low thrum against my cervix.

I imagine him, trembling slightly, torso tensed, wanting…

But no.

Be still, baby boy.

And he is a good boy. He holds still.

While *I* move.

Tightening and releasing, inner walls flexing, I tilt my hips ever so slightly back and forth around him until I’m al… most…

Cum for mommy.

There.

1Unless we’re talking about dragons.

Ripple

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image modified from a combination of two found at Pixabay

It’s a flutter. Heavy, weighted with unexpectedness, turning deep circles behind my navel.

Awareness turns damp.

A swell.

A ripple.

Memories of lips soft and the urgency of once… before… back then… floods forward to now.

Fingertips to the first knuckle coax muscles learning to un-taut.

Circling.

The weighted somersault flips inside, landing skim-skip against long-still waters.

And the undulations roll unsplashing through the spectrum of light now illuminating the depths.

Breathe Through It: My First Session of Pelvic Floor Therapy

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'breathe' neon sign via Unsplash!
header photo via Unsplash!

Breathe Through It

I never realized, until this week, that having spent several years under the ministrations of a massage terrorist would help me with vaginal issues. But it’s true.

Because, you see, when Helga The Horrible1 used to knead and press and dig her elbows into my overtight, sore muscles, I had to breathe through it. (And then, when I relaxed into the pain a bit from the breathing, she would dig in further and I’d have to breathe some more.) (I think she was a sadist.)

And that’s what I had to do during my first pelvic floor therapy session: breathe through it.

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Allergic

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image borrowed from the Cambridge Dictionary blog

Sneezing.

Coughing.

Runny nose.

Watery eyes.

Achoo!

Bless you.

Repeat.

ARGH!

It seems my annual bout with allergies has been continual this year. After my horrendous non-COVID sicky-ness, I got hit with the a case of The Blossoms.TM Apple blossoms don’t usually bother me, but for some reason, this year, they did. Then the pear blossoms sprang up, which meant I thought my Blossom Bout was over…

Except that I forgot to account for the cherries. And cherry blossoms ALWAYS get me.

So from approximately the beginning of March through the middle of May, I was the reigning queen of allergies.

And then the cottonwoods started snowing.

Like, literally, the view out the window of the kindergarten I’ve been working in (we’re off, finally — hooray!) looked like snow. Coming down, floating in the air, accumulating on the ground. Snow.

6-yr-old (on a 60 degree day in May): Mrs F, is it snowing outside?

Me: No, the trees are shedding their fur.

(I also tell them other absurd things. LIke, that the penguins who live in my refrigerator will escape if I leave the door open. They know fact from fiction. So don’t get your panties in a twist about trees not having fur. Trees have plenty of fur when squirrels are in residence.)

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