I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 2 of 2)

January 28, 2008 at 1:42 pm 2 comments

I don’t remember exactly how we get from you across my lap to you on top of me on the sofa — you still naked, and me still clothed. I’m sure that it involves my bodily pulling you up and pushing you around, and I remember that at one point my head and shoulders are off the couch, and you wrap your arms around me to pull them up so you can keep kissing me. Your arms were one of the first things I noticed about you when I met you — I touched the tattoo on your right shoulder, and when I did, I felt the definition of the muscle. Even men who don’t pump iron have that definition, and it makes me jealous that, with all my time at the gym with the free weights, my arms will never look quite like that.

That’s why I like you above me, because it makes your muscles pop. And then you’re biting me, and pulling my hair, and I’m the one making the noises.

-You like it too, you say, delighted.
-Yes, I do. I like it.
-Do you want to be a slut for me?
-Yes, yes I do.
-What do you want to do for me?
-I want to suck your cock.
I can tell by your reaction (or lack) that this isn’t the right answer, but it’s the truth. And you tell me you’re too tired to top, which I’m fine with. It’s Friday night, far past the hour that would make this anything but a booty call, and we’ve both had long weeks. And now, with the spell broken, we stand up, and I tell you to put your underwear back on.

We spoon for a while in your bed. You’ve lit candles all over the house, and when you greeted me at the door I smelled your aftershave. These little preparations make me happy, say that you looked forward to seeing me enough to make these small gestures. We tell our stories in the bed, heads on shoulders, skin on skin. I love touching your skin, the feel of your chest hair under my cheek. We talk about our tragedies and our triumphs, our escape from failed relationships. I run my fingers over the tattoo of Ferdinand the Bull on your shoulder.

You’re not the one. Something you say, I can’t remember what, or maybe it’s the way you say it, makes me realize this. I see you clearly. I understand. I’m here for the sexing, for the companionship, but not for love. It won’t be love, not that kind of love, between us.

And I still want the sexing. Which is easy to do with you. You’ve told me the two things that will always get you in the right frame of mind. I pull your nipple ring, hard, and it changes your face. I slap your face, more lightly than I did the first time you asked, and your face goes slack, ecstatic, ready.

-What do you feel when I slap you?

You pause. I can’t describe the way your voice stops while you’re looking for the right words, but it’s one of the things I like about you. It’s evidence that you are a thinking person who cares about words.

-Anticipation. Surprise.

I wait. I know there’s more.

-It makes me… go deeper.

And I understand.

Later, I’ve taken off my shirt and bra and skirt, and I’m naked and you’re telling me that my body is beautiful. It blooms under your words. What do you love about it, I want to know. I can ask you these things because you’re my boy and you have to do what I tell you. It’s strong, you say, and you’re caressing me from hip to shoulder and then I’m turning on my stomach and you’re saying that I have a beautiful ass and you’re kissing it. My poor, maligned, neglected, fetishized, worshiped ass. It becomes beautiful under your praise and your hands and your kisses. I clench you between my cheeks, and I can tell by the sounds you make that you really like that. So do I.

Later, you’re kneeling at the end of the bed with the toes of my right foot in your mouth–that lovely, soft eager mouth of yours–and you’re rubbing yourself against my left foot. I can count on one hand the number of times my feet have been loved like this, and every time it’s turned me on. The last time we saw each other, you made me come just by licking my feet. You say that you want to come on my feet, but I won’t let you. I don’t want to let you come yet.

Later, you’re on your back with your legs open and I’m kneeling above you, teasing your ass through the fabric of your boxer briefs, rubbing the tip of your cock with my other hand.

-Would you like me to fuck you in the ass? I ask
-Yes, you say, in that way, that begging way, that open way.
-Why should I? Why should I waste my time?
-Because it would make me yours.

I thrill to hear that, even though I know I can’t own you, not really, can’t even keep you from sexing someone else.

Later, I’m saying nasty things to you and making you say them back to me, but differently, and the words get tangled up in your mouth and we both collapse in a fit of laughter.

Later, I ask if you want to kiss me on my mouth, and you say yes. I make you beg for it, and you do, so very prettily, as I sit with my back against the wall and you leaning toward me.
-Please, please, please let me kiss your mouth.
-Oh please, I want to kiss you.
-Please let me kiss you.
-Oh please I love your mouth you have such a beautiful mouth.
-Oh please, your mouth feels so good, I want to kiss it.
-Please please please I want to make you feel good too.

With each No, you push closer and my hands holding you away give a little more, and my No’s get weaker, until finally No turns to Yes. When I decide, when you’ve pleased me with your groveling, made me hot with it.

That kiss is amazing.

Later, I have you get three towels to cover the bed because it’s clear I’m on my way to coming, and it’s clear it’s going to be a gusher.

Later, you’re kissing my breasts and I’m rubbing my clit and we’re saying all kinds of nasty perverted things to each other I can’t even remember, because whatever it is that’s said is what makes me come finally, once with clenching, once with the burning in my ankles, and then I’m really coming, all over your bed, so hard that I can hear it. And when I do, I hear your own moans and I know I’ve found someone very special. You like it when I hurt you, and you love it when I come. You’re not afraid of me, of my hunger, of my push.

Later, you walk me to my car and kiss me in the empty street. I told you I wouldn’t call you, would wait to hear from you, because after almost a year of dating men I’ve remembered that they’re not like women. They have different rules. I know that you’ll call me, but I don’t know when, and when I drive away I know that the hell has begun:

the desire.
the waiting.
the remembering.
the letting go.
the moving on.

I write this all down so that I can let it go and get on with the rest of my life.

Entry filed under: kink, pr0n. Tags: , , .

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2) In love with

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