Spit on my face and tell me that you love me

He was on his back, and we’d both been playing the we’re-not-really-having-sex game. You know, with the kissing and the touching and the getting wound up and pausing and calming down and starting up again.

At one point I brought up the fact that he still hasn’t been for a new HIV test, which probably dampened the mood again. Nothing like discussing risk factors regarding transmission of sexually transmitted diseases to kill the mood.

But it was nice to be next to him in the bed last night, and even talking about why he hasn’t gone to the doctor yet was nice. Sure, it killed the mood for about 10 minutes, but the mood came back. We needed the emotional connection more than the sex. But then there was sex anyway. Sort of. If orgasm counts as sex. Okay, there was sex. Actually, I think I will lose all my femdom cred when I tell you that he came and I didn’t. I didn’t really want to.

What I wanted was to touch him and talk to him and wrestle with him a bit, and pull him by his legs down the bed and push him down and take him in my mouth to hear him gasp, and lick his stomach and the tender joining of his legs to his torso, lick him everywhere, taste the salt of his sweat.

“What am I, a steak?” he said.

He was tasty. I like to taste him.

I also like to push him down and play with him. I like to watch him when he’s excited, when he’s in that other space, when his eyes close and they crinkle at the corners.

I was supposed to leave around 10pm, but time in the snug is relative.

Sometime in that relative time, he was on his back, stroking himself. I was egging him on, and he begged me to spit on his cock. I did.

I used to hate seeing that in porn — people dropping big gobs of spit on each other before doing all sorts of friction-inducing, lubrication-ameliorating things. The phrase “big gobs of spit” is about as mood-killing as “HIV-testing.” When I first saw a man drop a big gob of spit on a woman’s ass right before sinking his cock into it, I was disgusted. It seemed so disrespectful to spit on someone.

But the first time Bran and I messed around, I scooted onto my back and held my breasts up so he could slide his cock in the valley between. And before he placed his cock between my breasts, he leaned down and dropped a big gob of spit on my chest. The feel of his cock, wet and hard, sliding between my breasts, the sound and the feel of him pushing, excited… It felt dirty and intimate and… sweet.

So I spit on his cock and watched him stroke himself harder, faster. I held him down and kissed his face and did things to his chest that made him gasp.

Then he asked me to spit on his chest. Which I did. And then I spit on his face. In his mouth. Repeatedly. Until he came.

It was dirty. And intense. And intimate. And dirty. And loving. And very, very dirty.

Summer vacation

I’m going to let this blog lay fallow for a little while. I’ve noticed that it’s sapping energy from my other work — the kind I can attach my name to. I hope to get back to it at the end of the summer. In the meantime, you can catch up on your reading in the sampler.

Undisciplined

I am the most undisciplined discipliner ever. I let Bran come all the time, even when I tell him he can’t.

I told him he couldn’t come until Saturday, but then we went and drove down to the shore to meet his parents on Friday. <begin long digression>I was totally on my best behaviour — I even brought a hostess gift! But at one point at the dinner table, I know I was thinking about having his cock in my mouth.

On the way back, we got into an argument about violence and gender. I don’t feel like getting into it. We made up, though. And later that evening, I got to do what I’d been thinking about during dinner with his parents. It’s strange — the more into a guy I am, the more I actually love him, the more I love sucking his cock. I love cunnilungus because it feels good, and as the mattress on my sheets will attest, I love to come myself, but it’s pretty much impossible to keep my lips from off his cock once it’s hard and ready.

I like to pinch the air out of the little reservoir tip while he’s rolling the condom on, and then to take the latex-covered result in my mouth. To hear him gasp and feel him tremble. And then to pull him down on top of me, to feel him hard against me, poised between my legs.

On Friday night, I took his cock and instead of guiding it inside lay it between my lips so that the head was pushed against my clit. It felt amazing as his hips moved back and forth, and then he tipped his pelvis just so…. and slid into me, smooth, delicious, sweet. Home.

“It’s like diving into the ocean,” he said.

When he fucks me, it’s like flying. I become incredibly light. I want it to go on forever. If I were more cruel, I’d insist that he keep fucking me, that he hold back until he passes the point of being able to orgasm. Once he pushes past it, he’ll stay hard for hours. That’s fun for a while, but </end long digression>I like to see him come. And I just can’t stand that look on his face when he’s inside me, so close, so earnest, holding back, on the brink, so… in pain.

So I hurry up my own orgasms instead of letting him suffer and taking my time. It’s a terrible tendency of mine to stampede toward the climax. Perhaps it’s instinct or something. Perhaps it’s greed. Perhaps it’s just a sign I need to slow down.

I’ve been so restless, irritated, and discontent of late. It’s not fair to Bran, who is so incredibly eager to please.

Dragons ahoy

The search for….

Truth Check. Got a healthy dose of that this morning from my sponsor.

Love Check. As the Flaming Lips said, though, “I was wanting you to love me/But your love it never came/All the other love around me/Was just wasting all away.” No one person can give this hungry omnivore all the love she needs.

Beauty Decidedly lacking. Especially in the mirror. Air conditioning is beautiful.

Mind-blowing orgasms Check. Ho-hum.

Orgasm control makes the heart grow fonder

We lay in the heat, the fan whirring cooler air from the evening into the room. I turned off the light and we talked, in the dark, about our families. It was too hot to touch much. It was also late, much later than we’d planned.

Eventually I leaned over and draped my arm across his side, my hand resting right under his belly. I stroked him idly through his boxer shorts, felt him harden in response. He began to undulate his hips and to moan. I slipped my hands under the waistband of his shorts to feel the smooth skin of him, hard now, completely hard. My hand was a bit too dry to properly run it up and down the length of him. I ran my tongue down my palm and returned it to its little nest of fabric and flesh and hair and hotness.

In unison I pulled away and he rolled onto his back, began to work himself, pulling up and down from the top, cupping his head in his palm. His breathing quickened.

“You can’t come,” I said.

“But…” he was plaintive. “But I want to come!”

“You can’t,” I said.

“Please,” he said. “Please let me come.”

“No. You can’t come until Saturday.”

And I pulled his hand away and began to stroke him again.

“Please, I want to come,” he said, begging me, and each time I said, No. No. No. Chanting it while I touched him, while I pulled down his shorts and just kissed the shaft of his cock with my lips, rubbing my cheek and my lips against him — soft skin, hard cock.

“Please.”

“No.”

And I flicked my tongue just beneath his frenulum, kissed him again with closed lips.

Please. No. Please. No. Please. No. Kissing him and teasing him and taunting him, now with him sprawled beneath me and beginning to not be able to speak.

I licked the place where his thigh met his belly, on either side of his cock, and his moans reached a new timbre. Holding his hands to either side, I licked and licked, tasting the salt on his skin, tracing the curve of the underside of his belly, dipping down again to that nexus of him, top and bottom, side and side, nexus genesis paradise. And ran my tongue up his side, to his right nipple, the first place I touched him and made him gasp. He shied away when he felt my tongue flick across it.

“No,” he gasped. “No, I don’t want you to hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I said. “I’ll be gentle with you tonight.”

“You get so excited,” he said, but I held him down and worked my tongue back and forth over his nipple until he was writhing and moaning, and I was gentle, I didn’t bite once.

“See?” I said.

And did it with his other nipple, stroking his belly and his cock, avoiding his ticklish sides, then licked my way up his chest and his neck and to his ear, where he gasped and moaned in a whole new way when I flicked the tip of my tongue against the little hairs that grow just outside his ear canal.

And I kissed him. Reared up over him in the dark, gently pinned his questing hands up above his head and worked my way down again.

He was bucking his hips. “Hold still,” I said. “Hold still or I’ll stop.” And I opened my mouth then to take all of him in — down to the very back of the throat. The angle was wrong. I couldn’t fit him in as far as I wanted, or maybe he was just extra hard. I swallowed him as far as I could, backed off again, licked him up and down, closed my mouth over the tip and sucked… He kept wanting to buck his hips, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him down with my hands and told him, again and again, to keep still. He trembled with the effort not to move.

He was still begging to come, and I was still denying him. “You can do it,” I said. “C’mon. Be a good boy. You’ve done it before.”

“I want to fuck!” he said. “I want to come.”

But I wouldn’t let him.

“Say it. Promise me,” I said, hovering over his face. He pursed his lips shut and screwed up his eyes. “Say it. Say ‘I promise not to come until Saturday.’”

“But…” he started.

“Say it!” I slapped his cheek lightly then, in time to my voice. “Say ‘I promise not to come.’”

“I promise…” he said, and stopped.

I had to drag it out of him, but he promised. And I sent him home still frustrated.