the Heart Approaches What It Yearns

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…

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]

I’ve been really, really busy. I don’t think there’s been an afternoon this week that I haven’t come home from the school, gotten everyone fed and out into the backyard, and then plopped myself down into a bench, watching the boys as their boundless energy carries the around the yard and adjacent woods, careening and bouncing off of each other like an exploding bag of schizophrenic ping-pong balls. And each time I do, I think to myself, “How did Maggie do it, day in and day out?”

Tomorrow is the second anniversary of Lady Ann’s. It’s rather odd how a chat room has affected so many lives. It created tension and turmoil, not the least of which was between Maggie and me. Then it brought the two of us much closer together, and opened up our hearts to each other.

When I first heard about it from Maggie, I immediately thought, “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re talking about a chat room? Is it one of those places where teenagers hang out, typing things like “kewl” and “lol”? One of those places where half the guys pretend to be really hot studs and the other half pretend to be really hot women?”

Well, yes, there’s some of that, but they try to keep that to a minimum – the more important thing to me was the sense of community and that a woman would be cherished, and not treated like someone to hit on.

Of course, Maggie being there made it all OK.

I made some great friends there: Amber, Ann, Deacon, Eoghan, Eve, Suzi, and others. I’ve learned a lot about myself and my personality: what my limits are and what turns me on.

OK, plenty of requests for more information about how my date last week with Monsieur went. The short answer: it was lovely.

Oh, OKAY! I know you want details, you saucy little vixens!

It was Thursday evening and we were finishing with dinner. The dinner table was very crowded with our two guests, so I set up a little table for Middlest Boy, Littlest Boy and me to eat, off to one side of the dining area. I heard Belle-Mère chattering in French to Mademoiselle and Monsieur; it sounded as though they were offering something or another to him and he was refusing, arguing pleasantly about it.

The Littlest Boys were starting to act up, so I cleared their plates and went into the kitchen to start tidying up. Mademoiselle and Monsieur were drinking wine, and Belle-Mère got up to help me at the sink.

“Would you like to go out tonight? With [Monsieur]?” she whispered.

I looked at her with a questioning glance.

“Oh I think you should, dear,” she continued. “He says you two haven’t been out alone together in months. I think you should go out and see a show or something.”

“Well,” I said, “it sounds lovely but tonight’s a school night.”

“A school night? Ridiculous! You’re the teacher, non?”

“Oh I’m just kind of like a student teacher, really,” I said, modestly. “I’m not the real teacher yet.”

“Parfait!” she smiled. “Then it should be no problem if you are late, non? And the boys, if they miss one-half day, one day, I don’t think is it a crisis.”

“Why are you doing this for us?” I asked.

“Me, I have for two reasons: One, I think you both should be going out, yes? It isn’t good for young people to only worry about works, houseworks, caring for children – you need time away from the house to be a couple.” Then she leaned in and whispered even more conspiratorially, “Other reason is: I want to spend some time with my grandsons, without the father or the nanny around, to find out how things are really going.”

“You think there is something going on with them that they won’t say in front of us?”

“But, of course! I had three children, too, you know. One girl, two boys I have! Is there something you tell your grandmother that you don’t tell your father?”

“Well…” I started.

“Of course, yes, there is,” she winked. “Go to put on that party dress and I will work on your boyfriend. He only thinks that he can show a spine to me!”

So, with Belle-Mère reading Bonsoir Lune to a captive audience of two Littlest Boys, and Mademoiselle playing Math Jeopardy with the Bigglest Boy, Monsieur and I headed out to see some movie or another.

“We should be back by eleven,” I said to Belle-Mère.

“Midnight – not before!” she said to us over her shoulder.

“Maman,” Monsieur began.

“Go out,” Belle-Mère said, “get some drinks. Have fun.”

Monsieur apparently thought better of it and closed his mouth. He kissed the boys, took my arm, and we left.

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.