the Heart Approaches What It Yearns

Monsieur called me from work yesterday.

He asked how things were going and we chit-chatted and he said that I needed a night out, on Saturday.

“Sounds nice,” I said. “I mean I haven’t been out in a while. I get asked out but I’m not especially interested in going out with guys or the dating thing.”

“I understand, of course,” he said. “But I have arranged for a sitter, for until 2 AM.”

“A sitter?” I was watching Littlest Boy and chatting online and should have been paying more attention.

“Yes, of course, if you and I were to go out, someone would need to stay with the children,” he said slowly, as if he were talking to someone dense. Which, he was.

“Oh! You’re asking me …” blush, big sneeze, “sorry.”

“Salud.”

“Thanks. Um, yes! I’d love going out with you!” my voice went up an octave. I cringed listening to how eager I sounded.

“Excellent. For Saturday, then?” I could hear him smile.

“Sure! When will the sitter be here? Who is it?” I had no idea about a sitter.

“Oh, I contacted [H] and she would be very glad to do it.” H is 18, very smart, and just started college. She lives in the small town near us.

“She would? Do the boys know her?”

“Yes, she has watched them before,” he said. I could hear him smiling as he talked. “I must go now but will speak to you of it when I come home.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” I said, somewhat out of breath. “I’ll see you then!”

“Oh, and if we go out, whether to hear music, or whichever – can you please not call me ‘Monsieur’ in front of others? I mean, I know you enjoy to do it, but it is somewhat difficult to explain someone who is so formal with me, whom I am sharing the evening. Do you understand?”

I blushed again but stifled the sneeze. “Oh, OK. I mean, of course, Monsieur.”

“Thank you, ma chère. Au revoir then.”

“Bye-bye, Monsieur.” I hung up.

“WOOT!” I yelled.

Littlest Boy looked up from his road construction work. “Woot!” he replied, and drove a toy ambulance to me, sirens blaring. “Woo-woot! Woo-woot!”

I picked him up, kissed him, and said, “I love your daddy. I love you, too.”

“Pa,” he replied. “Pa, pa. MMMMMM … wah.”

Mwah, indeed.

I was talking to my girlfriend J about my living situation, (without going into the detail that I am occasionally getting the Hot French Monkey Love action) and she said I don’t seem to be “getting enough out of this deal.”

To which I said, as politely and sweetly that I could, well, I should be the one to decide what I get out of it.

Am I getting enough out of this deal? Monsieur pays towards my student loans. He pays for my food, and rent is free. The only thing I need to wait tables for is extra money, like for clothes and extras, and to pay on my Visa card debt, which is pretty high. Somehow I racked up about a $4500 balance in five years of college. Which as I hear, isn’t out of the ordinary.

I buy my own health care and beauty stuff. I haven’t bought music or anything like that in a while, since I’ve been listening to the music around here so much. (There’s tons of it, some of it on vinyl that is older than my dad.) Also, for music, there’s a public radio station out of Austin and it plays a lot of the world music stuff I like, at night. It is better for me than the public radio stations in KC but M really thought the ones in KC were far better. Then again, she was into the jazz thing, which the KC public stations were really into.

Anyway, point is, I get plenty out of it. All my needs are answered. I don’t get everything I want, but who does? It’s a good life.

Lest you think this life I lead is all just a cheap romance novel (in which Our Heroine is kept by the Lord of the Manor for his personal, private pleasure, [tingle, tingle]), I do work. I get up, make breakfast, dress children, assemble them in a van, take two of them to a school, and care for the toddler. This includes diaper changes, meals, play, reading aloud, nap, reading aloud, doing laundry, picking up toys, assembling lunch, making grocery and supply lists, and generally making sure that the house is safe, clear, clean and stocked.

Also I break up arguments, remind them to share, and I hug, console, and discipline.

It sounds like a lot, but these guys a very self-sufficient. They’re satisfied to come home, and start building and playing with space ships and satellites. When they get rowdy or fussy they’re usually ready for snack. Neither Middlest Boy nor Bigglest Boy has ever hit anyone, to my knowledge, as long as I’ve been here. Littlest Boy has been known to bite.

Yesterday Monsieur got onto Bigglest Boy for muttering to me under his breath in a rather disrespectful way. I usually let that go, or I say, “That hurts my feelings,” or something that avoids confrontation with him. I don’t want to butt heads with the kids. Well, Monsieur is a little more strict, and he got onto Bigglest Boy for it. Monsieur told Bigglest Boy if he ever heard him speak to a lady like that again, his life would be a misery. Then he took away TV for ALL boys until Saturday. Whew.

Later, the children were all asleep and as Monsieur was getting out of the shower, I asked him if he thought I was handling things wrong with Bigglest Boy.

He got onto me a little for not being stricter about respect from them. I felt reprimanded. I lower my eyes and said, “Yes, Monsieur,” like a good girl. His voice got gentler and he said, “I really think it’s important for you to be more firm with them, and for them to be aware of certain limitations with regards to behavior. I want that they grow up to be gentlemen.”

“I want that, too, Monsieur. I guess I am afraid of confronting them. [BB] is very strong-willed.”

“So he is, and that is all the more important that he does not behave badly, as he did. I know that most children are not raised quite so strictly but these children are very intelligent and very likely to figure out how to get the better of both of us. If you want to care for them, you must be vigilant that they give you the respect that you deserve.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” I said, my eyes lowered. My face was hot.

“I am not reprimanding you, [YH], I am trying to give you advice rather than telling you what you did wrong. Have I mentioned that you are doing wonderfully in what is a demanding, thankless and overwhelming set of circumstances?”

“Am I really?” I asked.

“Of course, and I really can not do without you now. That is why I want them to respect you, as they will remain in your care as long as you choose to remain. It is really the better for them.”

He needs me. I was floating on air.

“Can I ask you something else, unrelated to this?” I lowered my voice.

“Yes, go ahead,” he replied.

“The other night was … magical,” I continued. He looked embarrassed, poor thing. “Now, don’t look like that. I just wanted to know, if I can ever … expect it. Again. From you,” I added.

He looked stricken. My god, I thought, I went too far this time. I put my arms around him and hugged him. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “I just want you to know that I need it, a lot. And if you do too, then, well, please don’t hesitate to get it from me.”

“I’ll um, I’ll remember that, [YH]. I may not be able to give you as much as you need, but I assure you I give you as much as I can, and as often as I can.”

I grinned. “That’s good enough for me, darling Monsieur,” and as I hugged him tighter he kissed me on my cheek.

I can’t for the life of me stop thinking about … It.

Him. It. On me. In me. In my mouth, on my skin. I’m becoming obsessed, an animal craving, hungry, crazed. It’s like a fever.

More than love, more than lust, more than desire, I want to meet him at the door naked, on my knees.

(Of course I won’t, since the boys are awake when he comes home. I’m not even sure how he’d react to that.)

I’ve never, never ever, felt this way for anyone. I’ve always been my own woman, even in high school when I thought I was so immature and so easily pushed around by my boyfriend, I knew where my boundaries were.

Right now I’d do anything to see that look of satisfaction on his face.

Last night, after everyone was asleep, my mouth was hungry for him. Monsieur was reading something or another, work-related, and sitting there at the dining room table. I came to him and put my hands on his shoulders, and he looked up at me and smiled.

I knelt, took off my shirt and my bra, and reached for his waistband.

“You are in need of it again?” he asked.

“This time I need this,” was my reply.

I tugged his pajamas down, and took his fabulous length into my hands, running my tongue over It. It was still soft, but It moved, like a drowsy animal.

My tongue circled the head and then I opened my mouth and sucked on It. I love the spongy feel of a semi-hard one, and my eyes closed. I was deliriously happy.

His hands were on my shoulders and he breathed softly. I took his hands and put them on my head.

He began to fill my mouth and I could sense the heat in my body, rising. I open my eyes, looked up at him and closed them again.

He was beginning to fill my mouth more than I could take, so I pulled off of It and began to lick it from below, getting It wet and cupping his huge sack in one hand. I could feel his pulse in It as my hand circled the base, and I started to feel so randy I needed to lay down.

“Let’s go to the couch,” I said. He nodded, his eyes burning into mine.

He sat and I lay down perpendicular to him and took It into my mouth again. Stroking, sucking, licking … touching myself, my hair cascading over It and blocking his view. He moved my hair to one side, and I loved that.

It was too much for me to take at one time. My eyes began to water and my mouth, forced open wide just to get the head in, began to tire. My jaws cramped and I knew I couldn’t keep my teeth off of It no matter what I did.

He gently pulled me up to a sitting position. Drool ran down my chin and I wiped my lips, which were puffy and sore. He kissed my lips, and then he picked me up by me waist, and sat me down on his lap. He looked up at me, his dark eyes smoldering.

“You make me feel so … alive,” he whispered.

I blushed. Then, I sneezed.

That’s so embarrassing. I don’t know why I do that. Whenever I get embarrassed, I sneeze. It’s so weird, and then I get more embarrassed and I giggle and sneeze again – which I did, then. He handed me a handkerchief.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m such a lady.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “You are – such – a lady.”

He lifted me up to my knees, and held It in his hand. I looked down at It – purple and red, almost menacing and yet so beautiful. I felt myself gush.

Placing my knees on either side of my waist, I lowered my hips to meet It with my tiny sex.

He rubbed It over my labia. I moaned. He simply held it there, and I realized, since he knew how big It was, I would have to make the commitment to have It enter me. I gathered my courage and lowered my hips more.

I could feel It flex, so I reached down to open myself. It lodged in my labia, knocking at my door.

I took a deep breath.

Then I lowered myself onto It.

It hurt but not as bad as before. It felt like I was being impaled on a steel fence post. His finger, soft yet rough, found my clit, rubbed it, and his mouth went to my throat and kissed my. He held my hair out of the way and he gasped. I felt another gush, and I felt my wetness running out of me, all over him. I pushed then relaxed. It popped in.

Then it was my turn to gasp.

It’s hard to imagine, I’m sure, how I react when I can actually hear my muscles and tender tissues stretch, but I could hear that. I was scared by it for a second but Monsieur sensed it and I heard him, as if from a great distance, whisper in my ear. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh, oh yes, Monsieur,” I cried.

“You are certain, chère?”

“Oh, oui, oui, oh mon amour … donne-moi le … le…” but my pathetic high school French failed me then and I simply squatted down on It.

Oh … my … god.

The pain was tremendous, but … I could sense something else. She was here, I could feel it. “Maggie”. She was somewhere behind me, and I could feel her, like a warm breeze. I smelled the almond oil that she would put on her skin after bathing and the honey and balsam shampoo that she would use on her hair. There was a certain… lightness to the atmosphere, that would only occur when she entered the room.

I remembered what she told me about opening myself up, and I imagined that, like a flower, my sex was changing from a tightly packed little orchid bud to a flourishing, mature blossom. It was intense, the feeling, but the pain went to another place, and I felt it become bearable.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Monsieur whispered to me. It was as though he was a mile away, instead of right there, his mouth in my ear, his cock stretching me.

I nodded, my eyes closed.

“Don’t allow me to hurt you,” he said, “I only want you to feel good.”

I smiled gently, in spite of the intensity. I looked down and then I realized that he hadn’t moved since he first entered me.

I rocked forward. The pain seemed to ebb, or at least go to a place where it wouldn’t bother me, and it transformed into a feeling of intense joy.

My eyes opened and I could see the concern on his face. I must have looked like I was in agony and to reassure him, I smiled, then I leaned forward and I kissed him.

“Feels. So. Good, ” I whispered.

He made a noise in his throat. I placed my hands on his shoulders for balance, my face alongside of his.

I balanced on my knees and held my sex just over his lap, and he began thrusting up, slowly.

My sex is the red orchid, I kept thinking. I am blooming. I am the result of generations of women who can push babies out of their vaginas. I am strong, powerful; I am the essence of femininity. I am opening up. I am what he wants. I am a woman of pleasure. I give pleasure … “unnnnhhh…”

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Yesss … big … thick … cock … fuck … me … Monsieur….”

He gripped my ass, pulling me up and down on it. The blood went straight down to my tender, swollen clit, swelling it further and forcing it to scrape along his shaft with each thrust. I tried so hard to hold off and wait for him….

I couldn’t.

I came.

Hard.

He wasn’t even in all the way.

There was like a snag, something catching inside of me, and I rocked, moving my hips up and down trying desperately to keep up with his timing.

Try as I might, I couldn’t take him all. I was getting desperate. I wanted it, in One Smooth Stroke, but I wasn’t going to get it this time. I felt his hands on me, on my hips moving up to my breasts. When they closed on my breasts I gushed yet again, then I leaned back and whatever caught, was now clear. There was an unobstructed passage, and I lowered slowly onto his lap and I looked up into his eyes.

“I love you,” I whispered, “…Monsieur.”

He began to move earnestly with deliberateness to his strokes.

I took his hands and put them in my hair. “Pull it,” I whispered, pleading.

He gave a slight tug, but I begged in a slightly higher voice, “No, PULL it, give it a yank for me.”

He grabbed it in his fist and pulled down.

I came again and when my eyes stopped swimming and I could see again, I was full of him, my sex yawning open around the base of It.

He wasn’t moving

“Please, don’t stop,” I begged, and he gathered me up in his arms and lifted me up and down on It. I could sense he was getting close and I wrapped my legs around his back ad pressed my body into his, and whispered naughty things right in his ear. “Is that how you like it? Is this pussy yours? Do you like this pussy? Am I your girl? Oh you naught man, you … delicious … mm … sweet … thick … hunk of … mmm … man-flesh.” I cried out and came again and he leaned back, arched, and filled me with his seed.

Sated. For a time. For now. Until I could hear It cry for me once again.

I could feel him, pulsing into me, his heart beating against mine, hugging me so tightly, so warm, so sweet. I felt a fluttering behind me, sensing “Maggie”, watching us and I almost felt self-conscious in front of her like this, on her husband’s lap. Then I knew it was where she wanted me to be. The last thing she said to me, before she went in to the hospital, the day she died: “Take care for them,” she said to me, the last thing she said, before she passed away.

I will. I will, “Maggie”. If that’s all I will be able to do, I will take care of them, as best as I can.

My friend K from work said today on the phone, something like, “Oh, but [YH], you’ve got a man now, right?

It made me sit down and think. “You’ve got a man now,” – but do I have him? the only thing I’m really sure of is that I’m the nanny to his kids who holds off for two weeks (or more) before he finally asks me, very sweetly, for sex.

I know I willingly am here for the kids, and for him. I put myself in this situation willingly, almost blindly, knowing I would end up in love with Monsieur like I was crazy for “Maggie” – and now my heart is hanging on his every glance.

But. It. Drives. Me. Mad.

I am wondering if that’s not the point, right? for Monsieur – maybe he is trying to keep me on the very edge, all the time, so when he finally does give it to me, like he did the other day, it’s as though he is plucking me like I’m a ripe fruit. I burst in his mouth.

And, like the other day, I yield, like an eager bride.

Yesterday when I was sucking Monsieur (funny how I call him that now, even to myself, in real life) I kind of wanted to measure it. I’ve mentioned he’s big, but I didn’t have dimensions. And, of course, I can’t just say, “stay right there! I need measuring tape,” so I used my fingers, thinking I’ll measure them later. He’s two of my hands plus three finger widths long, and three full fingers thick across just behind the head. He’s maybe another half finger thick at the base. I remembered that measurement so I could measure my hands later. (You wonder why I don’t just ask him if I can measure him? If you knew him, and knew his demeanor, well, you wouldn’t wonder. He just is so proper, and so correct all the time, that it’s not really something I can broach.)

Well, so he’s at least eight and a half inches long, probably more like nine when he’s fully engorged. I’d say he’s almost a full three inches across at the base.

Damn, no wonder I’m sore.

Now, dear blog of mine, unless you think I’m a size slut, I’m not. There are some problems to having to deal with a cock like that. For one thing, good old fashioned deep-throating is really impossible. For me. Right now, that is. Maybe I’ll work up to it.

I’ve seen a tool that big before, I think, but I wouldn’t let it in me then. I think, no, I know I was afraid it would hurt. I didn’t want it in me. I used my mouth and hands on that guy, way back when, then let him ask out my friend Angelica who was into the big ones. He was a nice enough guy – thicker in more places than in his package, though. Not my type.

With another guy, I would have said no. With Monsieur, I’m just so in love that I want to be possessed by it. I want him inside of me. I am totally owned by him whether he knows it or not.

So I guess the point is with anyone else, I would have given up. It’s really too big to be comfortable. With Monsieur, I don’t want to be comfortable. I want it to hurt at first then feel good; that warmth of surrender is what I crave.

When I first saw it, when sex reared its head a few weeks after “Maggie” died, I was scared of it. I didn’t think I could do anything with it. Monsieur’s hands, fingers, tongue, voice, all made me surrender to it. And even then I couldn’t take all of it. So, you remember, I purchased “the Monster.” Mostly to get used to the size of something so huge, and also for my own relief since Monsieur did not consider me his ‘girlfriend’ or whatever and I couldn’t count on him to give me regular sex.. (I still don’t think he think of me that way.) Well, the Monster helped me with it, after a few times. I can now take him all. My next task, which I have chosen for myself, is to be able to take him all at once, the first time. No pausing, no crying, no “Ahh! Easy there!” or pain I can’t handle. One. Smooth. Stroke. To the base.

“Maggie” told me she could take Monsieur all the way, into her throat. I wish I could have seen that. She was so beautiful. Her eyes, her lips. Her voice.

She had a Korean father and a Chinese mother, and her hair was so black it had like blue highlights. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence – with fire when she was angry, and with bubbles when she laughed.

It’s no secret to readers that I loved her too. My first girl crush. I miss her so badly.

5:30 AM. Sound asleep, and Monsieur woke me up by pulling my toes. I sat up with a start, worried, I guess that there was a weather emergency or something. I hadn’t slept well since the storm (Rita) started for the Texas coast and I had been asleep since the moment I got home from my waitressing job. He put his finger to his lips then to mine and motioned for me to get out of bed. I followed, obediently. Littlest Boy was sound asleep in the big bed.

Monsieur held my hand and walked me to my old room, what will be Littlest Boy’s room once he can sleep all by himself. I pretended to be sleepy and said, “What is it?” just so I could hear him say it.

“I want to make love with you,” he whispered.

(Gush!)

“You do? Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” he almost moaned, then pressed his body into mine.

My arms wrapped around him. “I’ve wanted you so much, Monsieur,” I whimpered, “so badly. I didn’t know if you wanted me anymore.”

“I’m so sorry [Yearning Heart], that I have been ignoring you. My heart has been tossing back and forth. I miss ‘Maggie’ and I feel like I am being unfaithful to her when I want you in this way.”

“Hush,” I whispered, “you’re still a man and you have needs. Just let me take care of them.”

I undressed him and slipped out of my jammies. “How do you want me?” I asked.

He gave a little laugh. “I am not particular,” he replied.

I stroked him; it was like an iron bar, so hard. I could feel my desire, like a living thing, inside me. I knelt down and took some of it into my mouth, as much as I could, my jaw stretched open wide. He gasped.

I looked up at him and knew I couldn’t even come close to taking him into my throat. “Maggie” used to brag how she could. She seemed like such a tiny woman. I admired her even more for her ability.

Resolving to be the second-best fuck that Monsieur ever had, I pulled off of his cock and knelt on the bed, bending over and spreading myself for him. I reached back and took his cock in my hand, pulling him to my sex and rubbing it up and down my folds. Then I let go of it and spread myself open with my fingers. “Please, now, in,” I whispered. He pressed it into me. I heard him gasp again and it sent a shiver up my spine. “All the way. Please,” I begged.

It started its long journey, tunneling into me. It felt like a living thing, which, I suppose, it was. Stretching me. Plowing me. It hurt a little – ok a lot – but I wanted it.

I cried out then bit the pillow. He stopped. “Am I hurting you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly.

“Please, Monsieur, please, please take me,” I almost cried. I reached under me and held his balls in my hand, then I rubbed myself hard, in circles, with the tips of my fingers.

He held onto my hips and resumed going in again. My mind was going blank with the sensation, my nipples like burning points of steel and my body blushing crimson. “Oh, oh, I love you,” I blurted out.

He moaned and pulled my hips closer to him. I heard his breath catch then he began the rhythm of fucking me. It felt divine. I wanted him to use me for his pleasure, pull me hard and slam into me. He was so gentle, though. It was almost enough.

“Is that all of it?” I asked.

“No, it is most of it,” he said, pausing to breathe.

“I want it all, you know I can take it,” I whispered.

He held on to me and lifted my hips up, then slowly inched it into me, my sex widening as it stretched to accommodate him. I felt my cervix getting bumped and I started with the pain.

“Ahh!” I gasped.

“Let’s stop a second,” he suggested.

“No. Fucking. Way,” I said, gritting my teeth. I can do this, I said to myself, and imagined my sex was a flower, a tightly packed orchid, blooming, opening up, for Monsieur. I rubbed myself again, then began to rock on my hips.

“Oh, my love,” he cried softly. I was tight; I could feel the heat from the friction. It was delicious. He began to fuck me again, in spite of himself. I could feel the sensation build up, in my womb, spreading over my body.

“More,” was all I could say.

I could sense that his body was taking over. I surrendered to him utterly, biting the pillow and moaning to obliterate the pain of his thick cock plowing into me. Then it hit me suddenly.

“I’m coming – ahh!” was all the warning I could give him.

“Yes, my love,” he gasped and I felt the splash of his seed filling me, completely, bathing my sex and then running out of it. His hands found my breasts and pulled them, squeezing them as his rhythm picked up speed, and I felt another one rising up and consuming me. Sweet, sweet orgasm.

I must have blacked out. I could feel my senses returning, and when my eyes could focus again, he was laying beside me and holding me. I asked him if he’d had enough.

“Do you want more?” he asked.

“No, love, I’m fine. But there is more if you do.”

“I am sated I think,” he said, then laughed and muttered something in French.

Did I mention “delicious”?

Oh, and “yum!”

Sigh.

Rita slammed into the Sabine River pass and all we saw were 30 mph winds. At least we have all the canned food and water we need for a while. And diapers.

Now the storm’s path is curving up towards northern Louisiana and Arkansas.

Work was jamming. There is a music festival in town plus all these people from Galveston, Houston and East Texas. All hungry. I made $113 after tip-outs today and gave $15 to the Red Cross.

I’m going to take a nap. Tomorrow will be even busier, I bet.

Wichita KS drill team the Dynamic Steppers, was practicing routines at McAdams Park near 13th and I-135 Saturday. When members of another drill team, the White Tigers, showed up and challenged the others to a “dance-off.”

”When it became clear the challengers were losing,” said police, a 28-year-old woman whacked a 17-year-old Stepper in the face with a drumstick.

The Stepper punched the woman in the face, then jumped in his Ford Exploerer and tried to run down witnesses. His mother, a Stepper coach, sliced open the other woman’s arm, a gash that required eight stitches.

50 people were involved, but only two arrested.

What I like about Kansas is the laid-back Midwestern attitude. You don’t see too much of that inner-city gangsta crap in Kansas.