Tuesday, April 30, 2019

First Time, Again

Sleepy and disoriented, I opened my eyes to a slim crack of light coming through blackout hotel curtains.  Blinking awake, my gaze rested across the room on a vinyl desk chair, the backrest covered by my husbands blue jeans, black leather belt still dangling from the loops and two dark socks neatly folded on top of them. I smiled, reality setting in as I became aware of his heavy breathing behind me.  Ever so slowly, I rolled to my back, paused to ensure I hadn't disturbed him, then turned one more time to rest on my side, his body mere inches from my vantage point.

Eric.  My darling man.  Cheeks chiseled and pink from being in the sun, a sprinkling of sophistication grey at his temples.  My heart filled with love as each breath rose and fell in my chest, perfectly in tune with his breathing beside me.  Minutes passed and I valued each second as they clicked by, so often ignored or lost in the hustle of the day. This morning though, noticed, memorized, cherished. Eric stirred and lashes fluttered, spread wide, and exposed two bright blue eyes, magical pools that I fell into many moons ago.

"Good morning pretty girl," the words danced off his tongue and into my ears like the coo of a dove at dawn.

We lay, frozen, drinking in the shape of each other's eyes, nose, chin, lips.  I reached out, my hand in his hair, stroking his head until his fingers filled the spaces between mine and grasped tightly.

"I read the blog," he said pulling his body from the sheets and hovering over me, our hands pressing into the mattress slightly above my head. "The story you wrote about your first time," he continued referring to a prompt I had answered a week or so ago.  "I understand now, why you hold my hand the way you do, how you can be such a sexual girl even with some tainted experiences, and the importance of P to your history."

This man. always studying me, wanting to understand the thoughts in my head in order to always be whatever, whoever, I need.

"Someday I want to thank him," he said genuinely, "but today, I want you to relive that first time."

Then slowly, meticulously, as though he had been in the room, a strategic observer, Eric gave me my first time all over again.


Thursday, April 25, 2019

Risk: The Secret Voice inside My Head

Prompt #15: Risk – Consider this quote and how it might apply to your erotic life: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” –  Anais Nin

"I would move Heaven and Earth for you," Eric routinely said in our first year of marriage.  He was dashing in his wool suit, bright blue eyes sparkling at me as our home filled with morning conversations about everything under the sun. Politics, work, kids, fantasies, school, art, family.... the topic didn't matter. We were in love and he couldn't get enough of me.

"You are so pretty," he would coo in my ear in the evenings as I stepped from high heels and a business suit; another day of decision making, prioritizing, negotiating, and being a leader slipping away with night setting in.  "I'm so proud of you, my strong independent woman.  Never change who you are.  I fell in love with you, all of you."

Eric was clean cut, a pillar of society, with a conservative upbringing and a steadiness that assured me he would be stable and predictable; something I had never experienced in my own home, even as a child.  I was drawn to his stories of growing up, choosing a career, working his way to the place I found him, and then taking the time to study me, fall for me, and make me his wife. It was all good and we could have continued on that path for an eternity, except for the secret voice in my head.

I absolutely love it when I am thriving and motivated and ruling the world (or at least the little piece in which I live) but the bigger and bolder and better I am by day, the louder and more prominent the secret voices in my head become at night.  Self doubt, self  sabotage, you name it. The answer? I knew what I needed. Maybe it was something I saw at a neighbor kids, or read about at just the right time to stick with me as a teen. Deep down, buried inside, for what seemed like forever, was the ever arching desire to have the man I love take me in hand, hold me accountable, and spank me.  The more I piled on my plate, the more I put myself out of my comfort zone, and the more I fell deeply in love with my husband, the more I wanted him to step in and take charge.

One day, Eric was flipping through a men's magazine and there was an article about adult spanking.  He cut it out and left it on my pillow.  I was so turned on reading it, the years of fantasizing about being in a relationship that would include such a thing in a healthy manner flooded my brain until he came home that night.

"I found the article you left," I said coyly, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.

He smiled at me and casually stated, "You can be very playful in bed, sexy girl.  If you ever wanted to try spanking, I'd give it a go."

My heart leaped in my chest.

"but don't worry," he continued, "I'd never leave a mark."

And, my heart sank.  How could I let this loving, fun, playful conservative man know that I wanted a spanking for real?  That I craved a new dynamic for our relationship, one that had him as the Head of Household where he would hold his independent girl in check and accountable?

Finally, after wanting and wishing for far too long, we found ourselves in a library waiting for a study group of mine to show.  We were each reading on our phones when Eric asked what I was looking at.  I took a deep breath and showed him a series of spanking tales I had been devouring for years.  He was fascinated.  For days, he researched everything out there and then, once he felt he had a real handle on what the possibilities were, struck up the conversation.

In July of 2015, I started blogging as my husband and I set off on a trail of a ttwd lifestyle.

My only regret as of yet?

Not telling him of my long held desires, sooner.


Wednesday, April 24, 2019

A Steamy Sex Filled Weekend

Guess who is meeting one incredibly handsome Eric Michael in

Image result for big apple new york city?

It's me!!!!! 

Eric has to come back to the States for four days so I'm meeting him for the weekend.


I bet I only see the airport,

the hotel room,

my love,

and the airport!

This came as a very unexpected bonus.

I can't wait to lie next to him, look into his eyes, touch is face, kiss his lips...

and then....

I'll be back Monday!

Amy Lynn

Sunday, April 21, 2019

Realization: My First Time

Erotic Journal #14:

Write about a moment of self-realization…one of those moments when you noticed suddenly that you liked something or wanted something that you weren’t expecting or that was new to you. This can be a moment of sexual self-realization, or any kind that is relevant to you.

"Sex will never feel good," my mother stated curtly, having just informed my sister and me that sex is when a man's penis shoves it's way into your vagina, splitting your insides, and then dumping warm, slimy living organisms in your raw, gaping hole.  She left the room and we sat frozen, perched in the sunny yellow kitchen on stools we chatted from daily over breakfast, our stomach's churning.  

A moment later, my father walked in and whispered, "but if you're in love and with the right man, sex will be the greatest thing you ever share. Don't believe everything the ice queen says to you."

It was the only time my Dad ever said anything demeaning about my Mom and two months later, they were divorced.  We girls moved to a tiny apartment 200 miles from our/his home and the divide between the two became legally and literally, permanent.

Fast forward five years. Communication with my parents evolved.  I said very little to my Dad, who dated women just a few years older than me, who left my mother penniless, who bought a fancy sports car and stopped by on occasion with scantily clad gals on trips to wild parties in mystical destinations.  My mother, on the other hand, maintained her tight grip on my views regarding men, sex, money, and love. At 18, I was guarded, suspicious, and cold; the inquisitive child in me stamped down like gun powder in the shaft of an old riffle.

Enter P.  Four years, my senior. A decade, my experience.

"Hey Sunshine," his greeting every time I entered our workplace.  Eyes glistening, smooth dark hairless skin, large rippling muscles, and a smile that lit up the room. He routinely made me laugh, dancing with a mop after closing down the place, whispering secret messages in my ear when a manager frowned about customer service, and walking me home in the wee hours of the morning because I had no car.  P spent time listening to my stories, sharing his ever different upbringing, and watching after me while my mother planned her move to another state. Taboo? Every inch of P.  College boy, another race, older, experienced.

April, bratty, I found myself in Daisy Dukes (look it up if you weren't around in the 80's) sitting across from P in a dorm room on campus while he studied a large hardback book and I kicked my feet, agitated that the man was paying no attention to me.  He barely glanced from his work, as I flopped from one side of the bench to the other, long legs sprawling in the tiny space. 

"You should go home, little girl," he said, and I was suddenly intrigued by his tone, his direction, and the term of endearment.

"Or what?" I mocked, sliding one leg across his lap and straddling his waist underneath the reading material.

P looked deep into my eyes and held the book steady between our bodies.  Time clicked by as though the world was no longer spinning, the clock had stopped all together, and the breath between us had frozen mid air.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"Yes!" I answered and the book found itself tossed to the side with the same motion that lifted me from P's lap, over his shoulder, and hauled up a built in ladder to his loft.  Gently P lay me down on a thin flat mattress and as he undid the button on my denim shorts, placed random kissed along my belly. We had kissed twice before and though my shorts and underwear fell away from the bedding, it still had not crossed my mind what I had said "yes" to.

P continued kissing up my body, removing his clothes simultaneously, his six pack abs and large chest blocking my view in cramped quarters.  I recall seeing him reach over my shoulder to a jar of body cream and then he touched my privates and suddenly it dawned on me, the position I was in, as his fingers danced below my clit on swelling lips.  

"I'm honored that you're allowing me to be the first," his voice swayed throughout the room as my body responded to the slow, meticulous massage, and P's lips connected with mine.  Music played softly in the background and he hummed,  as though a master carrying out his craft.

"You're doing okay, right love?" he asked and I nodded, fear setting in amidst a pleasurable heat growing between my legs.  

P rose up on his knees, the first glance I got of his manhood, and he rolled out a clear condom before coming back down to kiss my earlobes, cheeks, chin, neck, breasts, and belly.

"Are you ready?" he asked again and my voice was lost, hiding behind the slight nod of my head, a lifetime of mixed messages pinging around my brain.

P moved forward, the weight of his body on my chest, and using his fingers to open me wide, dipped the head of his cock inside me.  Suddenly, his hands were over my head, his fingers entwining their way between mine, squeezing tightly as he moved ever so carefully in and out of my virginity.

"That's right, love," he said, "hold my hands and look into my eyes.  Feel me inside you."

His humming continued and the room got steamy and warm, our sweat mixing between our chests.

"I'm going to stop now, love, because I don't want you to get sore," he stated as though instructing me on how to use an exercise machine properly for the first time. "Next time, I'll make you cum."

About fifteen minutes later, I was driving home, elated.  It didn't hurt.  It wasn't horrible. And I didn't hate it, at all.  My mother had been wrong and I was so relieved.  My Dad was correct and through personal experience, I learned that things can happen different ways for different people and still be okay.  As a result, I do not judge people and am truly an "each to their own" kind of girl.

Since that time, I've ebbed and flowed in and out of what my mother would consider socially correct associations and behavior.  I'm married to a man who fits her exterior mold, though the ttwd dynamic we share is something she would never understand. 

Eric knows about P and if nothing else, is grateful that my first experience was one that left me open to exploring, experiencing, and wanting more. He is truly the beneficiary of a wife who wants all the greatest pleasure only a man she loves can provide.


Happy Easter

Wishing you all a very Happy Easter.

I drove to my sister's for a long weekend with the girls and family.

I stayed less than 48 hours before a got hit with a terrible cold.

At the break of dawn, after my fourth coughing fit of the night,

I tip-toed away, leaving notes of regret and fears of making everyone sick

The drive was long, filled with pit stops to sneeze, gag, and pee

Finally home, I landed on the couch with an array of syrups and pills,

on a mission to recover.

The phone rang.


Out of sync, not our routine.

"Happy Easter Honey!"

His time change calculation off a day, I squeaked out a, "To you too."

"Why do you sound like you're asleep?  Are you okay?  What's going on?"

There he is... that man who is unaware the world exists outside of me, of us.

We talked, chatted, fantasized for over an hour and then he made me cum, over the phone, with a toy and the sweet sound of his voice. 

"Go to the mailbox," he cooed in my ear as the dopamine released the aches and pains from my limbs.  "Know that somebunny loves you and then go to bed.  Get well Sweetheart."

I did.

An Easter card, the best I've ever received in almost half a century, sat perched in the box, bright purple envelope, the word LOVE sketched on the front, an Easter egg, the O.  Inside, Eric added to the text, YOU.  An exclamation mark and his heart, the one I've tattooed on my ass.  Signed, EM.

Eric Michael,

you are my love.


Wednesday, April 17, 2019

A Deep Conversation with Eric

Today Eric said to me,

"The greatest gift a wife can give her husband is to be her best self."


Sunday, April 14, 2019

"Now go do the right thing"

Driving to the grocery store, Dr. Laura was on the radio.  She ends her program with, "Now go do the right thing." My head was full of fourteen hours of feeling like a tiger caught by the tail, being spun around and around with nowhere to land.  I blogged a sorrowful post.  Ella suggested I post again from Eric's point of view.  Comments ensued, a few side bar emails, and even a phone call.  Enlightening, if nothing more.

Time to change, and do the right thing.  I married Eric because I love the man he is.  He is incredibly intelligent and calculating in planning and executing exactly the life he wants not just for himself but for those he loves as well.  And mind you, the love list is short.  Eric has had some hurt in his past that make it a long slow process before he shares that soft underbelly and lets someone in. I am truly honored to be on that list. The reality is, Eric is the father I wish my girls had and though not in their lives that long, he has made a profound impression on them.  He has brought great joy to my father, both in conversation and prosperity.  He has stuck by my side through my crazy daisy days, the scares with my daughter, and the exploration of a lifestyle not socially accepted.

When I can put my own feelings aside, Eric is doing exactly what I would want and support him doing.  He is spending time with a son who for whatever period before getting entranced by his own future, is wanting to learn from and be his with Dad.  Eric lost his own father way too soon so how fitting and perfect that he would now have this opportunity to spend with his son.  I love it.  I want it for him.  Eric is and will always be committed to his family; that's the kind of guy I fell in love with and truthfully, if that wasn't the case, I wouldn't have fallen so hard.

Fast forward to today.  We don't know what the future will bring.  There are a million possibilities on the table but inside of me is residing a hurt little girl who has finally found her perfect prince charming and discovered, "happily ever after" can take many different forms.  I berate myself for being so selfish, knowing full well that once I kick and scream and stomp about, if Eric sat me down and said, "What exactly do you want me to do?" the answer I would give is the one he has chosen.  Of course I would change the situation and bring some balance to the table.  I spin myself in circles  imagining a thousand other ways things could be - 50/50 seems fair.  Heck, 51/49 has worked for the past four years!  It's not my call.  It's his.  

My heart is in pieces and I'm asking the question, "isn't it better to be so loved by someone who excels in life but is rarely home, than to be without sadness but all alone?"  And then I slip right back into, "Who the hell cares how loved I am if the man is never home to share our lives together?!" Ugh.

I learned a lot trying to write Eric's point of view.  If I were feeling strong and confident and like the independent girl he met so long ago, I would sit down with him and map out a way that we could both have everything we want in life without taking away from or hurting each other.  I would give him 100% and I would be accepting of the 100% he offers to me.  We would be logical and practical - what things do we need to feel whole individually, what things do we need to feel whole as a couple, and what steps can we commit to in order to ensure our connection stays strong no matter what we face in life?

Maybe I haven't been waiting for Eric to come home so much as waiting for him to say, "I'm the HOH and this is what is happening, period." but that hasn't been our relationship so why would it change now?  I can't crawl in bed every minute that I'm not working or forcing myself on the kids one more weekend because I'm waiting for Eric to rescue me.  It's not fair to blame him either but it sure would be nice if he would take the time to collaborate and come up with a solution that works for us. I know there are a lot of unknowns and I can already hear him, "Be patient. Why make decisions before we know what's really on the table?" 

May is almost here.  I am trying to find the strength to be supportive and loving and giving to a man who is living his best life, at a great distance from me. I never had selfish or jealous or resentful on my list of character traits but I'm fighting a side of me I've not known before, and a girl I do not like becoming.

"Stop it, Amy Lynn."

"Now go do the right thing."

Eric's Point of View

Ella suggested I try writing a post from Eric's point of view.  Thank you for the suggestion.  It has gotten me to a thoughtful space away from the cliff I found myself dangling from in the wee hours this morning. This is not his voice at all but his point of view, anyway.-- Amy

Calculating, steadfast, and squared away, everything I have spent my entire life working toward is reaping the benefits now.  While friends and acquaintances mocked me for putting in extra shifts, counting my pennies, and staying abreast of trends and technology, I am now seeing the fruits of my labor without the fear or stresses that so many others I know face at the break of every dawn.  My career, which I have been committed to for over thirty years, is strong and steady. The past three years have been difficult and I truly considered leaving but the windows of a new day have been opened and I find I have everything I want and need, am fulfilled personally and professionally, and have grand possibilities on the horizon.  An unexpected gift, my son, now a man, has shown great interest in the world I currently live and has joined me, overseas.  Together we are creating an empire, our family legacy, one filled with travel, old and new friends, experiences.  My return to the states is scheduled for May but this partnership can easily turn into a two year project, a once in a lifetime opportunity for father and son, here on the other side of the world.  Our days are filled, all encompassing, and time escapes as we bond, explore, and create together.

My Amy Lynn, I am so proud of everything she has accomplished in the past six years.  While I've made my way here, she's gotten a degree, set herself on a path of potential career changes, and let go of a negative past that held her down for far too long.  She is so pretty and I am her biggest cheer leader; wanting nothing but happiness in her life and willing to move heaven and earth for my girl.  She is strong and independent.  I believe in her and know as long as she continues to put one foot in front of the other, she will have the life she has always dreamed of.  I worry when she vanishes and find my own tears escaping when I know she is alone and struggling without me there.  I do not ever want to disappoint her but I also can't be the answer for her; a commitment I made knowing she became dependent years ago on someone who truly hurt her.  I miss my sweet pea every day and my dreams are filled with incredible fantasies of times we have shared and those to come.  I am busier than I've ever been and take the moments I can to check in with her but our schedules are polar opposite now, the playful phone sex curbed with my son living here, and Amy taking off to spend time with her daughters.

Amy has always believed in me and told me that I can have it all.  She's never given me an ultimatum or threatened to take away from anything I want in my life.  The sentiment is mutual.  We never have enough time together and at the moment, she's feeling stuck while everything is moving forward for me.  If I left now, everything I've spent my life building would crumble but by staying, I'm creating a life changing path with and for my son.  The elephant in the room is a long list of promises I would be honored to keep today, right now, but we both know the logical, practical, smartest plan is to stay the course and continue a 30 year track.  I no longer share my excitement or progress with her, the sound of her voice fading as I disclose an upcoming 80 year celebratory event, mini trips around the country, and things she is not a part of.  My greatest moments cause her pain so I find we drift with one sided conversations as I share my love and support knowing what is best for me at the moment is hurtful to her. She is my all or nothing girl and I need her stay in the middle of the road. Patient.  Small swings.

There is nothing I can do.  If I let this go, I will resent her.  As long as I stay, there is a part of me that is always missing and as of late, I hear a deep seeded hurt in her that puts a wedge between us all.  My wish is that Amy would get out of bed, leave her sadness behind, and thrive in her own right until I come home to stay. I cannot say when that will be but she's waited before.  She's waited but thrived at the same time.  I do not know what it will take for my girl to grab hold and move forward again. She chooses to bury herself in empty sheets, waiting, waiting, waiting in puddles of tears... she has friends and family and endless potential to do whatever she wants but her spark has gone dim.  One foot in front of the other, Amy Lynn.  Find your way.  Nothing's changed.  I still love you.

Slipping Away

I wake, in the middle of the night, convulsing
Sick with shoulders shaking and heaving sobs exuding from my chest.
Hands on forehead, searching for clues of what ailment has struck me,
I find no fever but tear streaked eyes and cheeks instead.  There is no illness afflicting my body.
I have been crying in my sleep, dreams manifesting so deeply I am physically overtaken
and though not awake, responding.

In my dream, I am standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean; our place of solace, our piece of the world that brings hope and joy and comfort, inspiration, love.  Eric has filled my palm with white tiny grains of sand and folded my fingers protectively around them, each one representing a moment in our lives together. He leaves me again, perched precariously on my own with kind words of reassurance, "You're in my head. YASP. Nothing has changed. I love you so much."  I stand at my station, a dutiful soldier protecting the cherished connection between us, weathering the storms of doubt and loneliness, anxiety and depression.

Bits and pieces of conversation weigh heavily as I realize Eric is living an entire life without me; another world he has no intention of including me in, even though it has become all consuming.  Steadfast and determined not to let go, I squeeze my fist tighter around the grains of sand only to find them slipping between cracks dividing my fingers. The empty pit in my stomach grows as they vanish and become mere memories of daily dialogue, shared plates of food, hands intertwined on walks near the water, drives in the car, kisses on our lips, cuddles on the couch, and making love in crisp fresh sheets.  Frantically searching to find whatever remains, I open my hand to count the left over bits of sand when suddenly a gust of wind hurls every last grain into the air and over the rocks, lost to the sea far below.

The wind is relentless and my ears ring in response to the piercing crack of my heart breaking. With the disappearance of each grain of sand, Eric is off on his own exploring the world, eating, sleeping, living and thriving while I stand hollow and alone on that cliff, time eroding away at the ground on which my feet clutch at the impenetrable.

"Nothing has changed," his voice resonates in my head and the elephant in the room, the hard conversation we never have, batters my soul.

Everything has changed,

except the situation,

and it is the one thing that keeps us apart.


Saturday, April 13, 2019

Sweet Pea

I used to wake up everyday to:

"Good morning, Sweet Pea"

Last year, Eric gave me a small potted plant which we put in the yard.

Today I realized how big and beautiful it has become.

"Good morning, Sweet Pea!"

Thursday, April 11, 2019


Eric called.

Nothing unusual about that.

We chatted.

Nothing different there.

Then he said...

"It occurred to me I don't tell you what's in my head, what I think about you.  You are so pretty.  I love your face, your flat stomach, the way your butt looks no matter what size you are; up or down you are so pretty to me.  I love you so much.  I just wanted to say it.  To share what's in my head."

We all need to do a little more of that.

Don't you think?


Wednesday, April 10, 2019

Buried Alive - A Wicked Wednesday Entry

The door closes behind me and the room becomes a vacuum,
the outside world with all of its noise and chaos
pulled away through a funnel that ends in a tiny pin prick
of space that becomes barely visible in my head as I
lay on cold empty mattresses, often still clothed, kicking off shoes just before the weight of heavy lids and heavy breathing become too much to bear as bedding wraps its way around a still, mummified version of me, who moments before was a vibrant living functional being now buried alive by 5:05 every evening hearing nothing but the distant echo of past conversation like a dripping faucet of voices, "Mom?" "Honey?" "Amy?" that cannot reach me
as long as the veil of depression cloaked as white cotton sheets shackles any ability I have to rationalize, feel, move, speak.

I am lost in the black murky mire of what could potentially be, had I not once again been sucked back into bed, escaping a planet that chooses to spin on without me.

 Mental Health #358

This was written in response to Wicked Wednesday Mental Health Prompt #357