Posts filed under ‘dominance and why that’s hot’

Rule one of assfucking

“Rule one of assfucking,” he said, “is that it has to come last.”

His belly was covered with his own come. I’d just come back from the bathroom, unhooked the harness, disposed of the condom from the newest addition to my pegging arsenal.* I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, even if he did have to request extra lube. I’d managed to get the damn apparatus on in a pretty reasonable time frame — the leather harness, even, which feels classier even if it is a bit more awkward to put on. And I’d been patient and…

…the feel of my finger in his ass. Hot. Warm. Close. Mine.

His ankles were on my shoulders, and I was leaning over him, trying to be gentle, to be sensitive, to be all the things men are supposed to be when they’re fucking a woman… and his ass, the feel of my being inside of him. Yes. Just as gorgeous as it ever was being inside a woman.

I wanted to fuck him face to face, even if it did feel awkward. I wanted to see his face, feel his skin against mine. I eased the head of my cock inside him, gentle, gentle, sway with the push, with the rhythm, with the in-and-out.

The leather straps around my thighs were loose.

I don’t think I asked him if I could go deeper — he’s always so considerate of that with me — I just pushed. Hoped for the best. His hands were on his cock, mine on either side of his head. Thrusting, regular, gentle now. Barely thrusting any amount of time before he said he was going to to come.

“Do you want to come? Go ahead and come,” I said, shoulders up high above him, hips down low between his legs.

“Oh, can I come?” he said, eyes closed. Face — beautiful agony.

“Yes, come,” I said. “Please come… COME!” And saw him spurt all over his belly, put my hand over his on his cock, wouldn’t let him go, licked his nipple, pushed him through his no’s, pushed him past the initial rush and into the aftershocks. Pushed through no to yes.

Rule number two of assfuckery: If you can’t take a little poop, then you shouldn’t be pegging. This is why latex — gloves and condoms — are as essential a part of assfuckery as lubrication. As is ready access to running water.

He was in no condition to fuck me after that. I do love him fucking me, but it was okay, really. Because I’d been feeling like a bad switch, been feeling like too much of a girly girl. Been going down easy and letting him do all the work. All the fucking.

I think all women should be expected to peg. I think it would give all those I’m-not-a-feminist-but-I-like-to-make-derisive-remarks-about-my-husband bitches some good food for thought. Fucking is hard work. Fucking well, paying attention to the needs and the pleasure of your partner, is even harder work. And men, frankly, even when you’re fucking them, aren’t nearly as demanding as women are. Women’s bodies — mine included — are like high-performance sports cars. They require constant tinkering and more than a touch of intuition to get them working properly. When they do, though, whoa. Men’s bodies respond well to tinkering, too, don’t get me wrong. But the ignition is usually pretty easy to find.

Eventually I broke out the Hitachi, and he and all my stuffed animals watched me moan and wail and mess up the sheets. It was what I wanted at that moment, even more than the burning-flight feel of him inside me, thrusting me into yes. I wanted his head in the crook my shoulder, watching me, admiring and unafraid, as I pushed my body into high gear, pushed it up and out, past no and yes and into pure sound. Into pure… something.

Some distant part of me still shrinks from letting him see me do that. From letting him see the deep and endless capacity for pleasure in my own body. But all he says is “you’re awesome.” All he says, later, is “I liked watching you come.”

And all I can say is… yes.

* I’m not getting paid to say this (I’m not even getting free sex toys for saying it), but I feel the need to tell all you dear readers that the Mistress Silicon Dildo is an excellent step up after the Bend Over Beginner kit. Once you’ve trained your victim’s partner’s sphincter to relax and let you in nice and easily, you’ll quickly become frustrated with the shortcomings of the ol’ fingers and other implements. Now I finally understand why gay men are such size queens! The nice thing about the Mistress, in addition to being the awesome product of a female-owned, sex-positive small business, is that aside from a semi-realistic head, it’s got a nice, medium-width, smooth shaft. Perfect for ass-fucking.

November 3, 2008 at 6:28 pm Leave a comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

The good, the hot, and the mushy

The good
Back when I was a wee recent college graduate (sans health insurance), I discovered one of the unsung consequences of sex with men: Urinary Tract Infections (UTIs). The standard medical treatment for a UTI is a short course of antibiotics. Which gets rid of the infection, but in the process also kills off all the helpful bacteria in your system which keep the yeasty beasties in check. Which means that the yeast colonies that live in, among other places, the hoo hoo, will run amuck. It can become an ugly, ugly cycle: UTI, yeast infection, UTI, yeast infection. Neither of which are good for the ol’ sex-with-men life.

Luckily for me, my post-college boyfriend was a total SNAG (Sensitive New-Age Guy), and he asked one of his exes, who worked as a midwife, if she knew of any herbal remedies that help with UTIs. Sure enough, she did. So the next time I got one, I took this little herb called Uva Ursi, and then I drank nettle tea for about a month. Eventually my body got back into whack.

SNAG-boyfriend and I also took the advice of the expensively-out-of-pocketedly-paid-for nurse practitioner I saw, and started making sure that (a) he was keeping this bits clean and (b) I was peeing right after penetrative sex. In fact, peeing after genital contact in genital general is a good idea. While stinky, urine is also antiseptic, and flushing the pipes right after messing around with the plumbing can get rid of any newly introduced bacteria and whatnot.

The hot
Bran laughed at me on Wednesday night. “You’re so predictable,” he said. But apparently he was better at predicting my behavior than I was. After dinner, we came back to his pad to find his living room full of dykes from Wellesley — lovely friends of his lovely roommate. Neither of us was in the mood to socialize though, so I found myself in the interesting position of nodding hello to my fellow Seven Sisters… Sisters and then following the straight white man into his room. I love my straight white man. Part of the reason I love him is because he’s friends with more dykes than I am. I’d like to think that I’ve come to terms with the whole identity-politics-angst bullshit that haunted me for most of my 20s. And I know I had a better time after I followed him into his bedroom than if I’d stayed out there to talk to a bunch of strangers.

This is not why he called me predictable, though. It was because, as we lay there very carefully not making any heavy-breathing-bouncy-bouncy-type noises in his bed (the only thing that separates Bran’s bedroom from the living room is a curtain and a pair of French doors), and as he turned off the light, and we both rolled over in unison and began to spoon, it occurred to me that the probability of my actually getting out of the bed had suddenly dropped to .00001. I’d had every intention of shrugging on my jacket, hoisting my bag, and heading out to my car for the long ride across town to the silence of my lonely room my own bed and my snuggly kitty cat. But then he turned off the light. And suddenly all my body wanted to do was sleep.

I did sleep over. I even used his toothbrush. And in the morning, I slipped out of bed around 5:00 am, just as the very first hint of light blue was beginning to rise through the night-blue sky. In the half-light and the silence, I slipped on my skirt, and my blouse, and was fumbling around for my socks. And then he reached over out of his dreams and pulled me back into the bed. I went willingly, kissed his scratchy face, his soft eyelids, rubbed my cheek against the smooth fur of his hair. Then I rose up on my knees, above him.

I began to stroke him, first his strong arms and shoulders — arms that reached up to me and touched me about the waist. He had a t-shirt on, but no boxers. I slipped my hand down past the hem of his T-shirt, to the soft spot where his belly joins his hips, and then traced the curve of his little boy-ass, down the backs of his thighs and his knees. His legs opened under my touch, his eyes closed. I held him in the palm of my hand. A precious bird, a rare mushroom, an egg.

He bloomed under my touch, moving gently from side to side, his cock swelling, his thighs luminous in the early dawn light, his face open and innocent and utterly mine in his sleep.

I slipped a hand up under his shirt to pinch one nipple, gently, gently–rrr. Difficult to do it gently.

And slipped off my blouse and straddled him, cupping his face (eyes still closed) between my breasts. Face to heart.

And stepped back, undid the zipper of my skirt, let it fall from my waist, and carefully placed it and my blouse atop my bag on the other side of the room, where they wouldn’t get wrinkled.

“What are you doing?” he said.

I didn’t answer. I straddled him, slid his hard cock into the slick fault line of my labia, enjoying the wet/hard/push/pull.

“Can you feel how wet I am?” I asked, knowing how he’d answer.

His cock, skin to skin with my cunt, slick and inviting. Leaning over him, I bumped my hips up and then back, and he was sliding into me.

“No,” he gasped, suddenly awake.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” and now his eyes were opening, worried.

“We’ve both been tested,” I said. “And I’m still bleeding. It’s all right. There are no eggs left. We won’t make a baby. It’s just… sport fucking.”

And I began to move, up and down against him.

What I hadn’t said was that I also had a sea sponge tampon inside me, which decreased the chances of any sperm actually sticking around, even on the off-chance that Ovum hadn’t yet left the building. And that woo-woo intuition part of me said that it had.

He relaxed into it, and then more than relaxed.

“I love… I love fucking you,” he said, in rhythm to our movements.

“Oh yeah? Why do you love fucking me?” I asked.

“Because I love you.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. It made me want to fuck him harder.

Which I did, and we made all the noises we’d been careful not to make the night before. Unashamed, I pulled my lips wide and worked my clit — hard — as he fucked me, as I fucked him. I came, or something approximately like coming anyway.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he said — suddenly, in my mind.

“No,” I said.

“Do it,” he said.

“Make me.”

He grabbed my wrist in a half-hearted attempt to wrestle, but then he used another, stronger lever.

“Do you want more cock?”

“Yes.” I was surprised to hear myself say it. But yes, yes I did.

“Then do it.”

I did. I stood up and placed my hands on the edge of the bed, bent over just as he ordered me to. He slid his cock, still hard, between my legs, then reached over and held a towel under my nose.

“What does it smell like?” he asked. It was damp.

“You,” I responded.

He dropped it to the floor, between my legs, and before I knew it — I didn’t think it would happen at all that morning, and certainly not so soon, I was coming, with his cock inside me and my finger on my clit, coming all down my legs and onto the towel. A pavlovian response.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“Did I tell you you could come?”

“No… I couldn’t help it.”

He continued to fuck me, told me to get my ass lower, he didn’t care how I did it, and I did, obeying him and loving every minute of it.

“Are you going to punish me for coming without permission?” I asked, working my pussy against his cock.

“You sound awfully confident for someone who’s getting fucked,” he replied.

And I thought of Bitchy Jones taking Jack’s voice and to my horror delight horror I found that I wanted Bran to take mine. I wanted to be… not the professional, competent, self-possessed, well-educated, eloquent, cerebral woman I am most of the time, but something else. Not self-possessed but possessed by another. Voiceless. To speak without voice. To not speak, to speak with the body. And I was silent. I bit the side of the mattress, I found myself growling.

He pulled out, sat on the side of the bed, leaned back. Winded, maybe — not physically, but winded.

I kneeled on the floor in front of him. I reached for his cock, still hard, with my lips. He pulled it out of reach.

“Not unless you want to,” he said.

I didn’t want to use my words. I wanted to show him. I whimpered.

Once again he prevented me from wrapping my lips around his cock.

“Not unless you want to,” he repeated.

And I knew then that I really wanted to. It wasn’t about him, his pleasure, it was about mine. Oh shame, shame! What will the Seven Sisters grads say! But it’s true, I loved to take him between my lips, and to taste myself on him, and to take him all the way down to the back of my throat. To have him fill that most hungry and forceful and overused of orifices.

“Watch what you do,” he said. And I knew he was close to coming. And I pulled up next to him on the bed, and pulled his hand to his cock, and stroked it along with him, our hands together, our bodies together.

“Please come,” I pleaded. “You’re so beautiful when you come.” And he did. And he was.

The mushy
So I came down with a UTI a couple days later. The fact that I was in a hurry and didn’t pee after sex probably had something to do with it. But I knew what to do, even though it hurt like the dickens, and now I’ve got enough uva ursi and nettle tea, plus a few other kinds of herbs (because you really can’t visit the bulk herb section of your favorite natural foods store and buy just one) and will probably float away any day now.

On Saturday we went for a long hike in the woods, which are still yellow but not yet orange-red, and had dinner at the Whole Foods hot- and cold-bar (it makes me homesick for New York). And watched a romantic comedy which I found annoyingly formulaic, although he pointed out the idiosyncracies of some of the characters.

“Given the fact that my parents will probably be divorcing in the next year, romantic comedies give me a hope for my own future,” he said as I pulled out of the parking lot of the theater.

“I’d say your future is looking pretty good,” I said. The fact that Bran’s parents are still together after forty years of marriage completely blows my mind. I wonder what my view of the world would be like if mine had stayed married. Well, if we’re talking about my parents, I’d probably be a serial killer right about now.

We didn’t have sex that night. Or in the morning. We had something far more intimate.

October 6, 2008 at 10:18 pm 3 comments

Second date

So here’s the thing: Bran and I didn’t have sex on the first date.

Um.

Right.

That depends on your definition of “sex.”

Was there penetration?

Does my mouth count? What about his fingers inside my cunt?

Was there orgasm?

Um. Yes.

Did you have to change the sheets afterward?

Um. Yes.

All right. If Bran were a girl, no one could say we didn’t have sex on the first date. Unless, of course, you don’t think girls can have sex with each other without a trip to Good Vibrations.

Does wrestling count? My god, that boy can wrestle! I knew I’d met my match then, when he picked up my legs and I stiffened my torso and suddenly found myself upside down, with only my neck and shoulders and head on the floor. Submission is hot, but when you match me for strength, and for spirit, when I know that you can win sometimes — now that’s really hot.

There was also a good deal of cruelty on my part, with tongue and fingers and sharp nails and teeth. I slapped him around. I looped his own belt around his neck and dragged him to the bedroom with it.

But wait! See, ’cause, when we were still tussling on the couch, right, I was all like… I don’t remember how it came out exactly, but I must have mentioned something about fucking a man up the ass, because then he was all like, “would you fuck me up the ass?”

“Not tonight,” I replied.

And then later, still on the couch, I was all like, “would you fuck me in the cunt?”

“Not tonight,” he replied.

So right from the beginning there was this thing about holding back and saving something for later. Something about discipline.

Of course I did come plenty that night, and he was impressed. “Look at you,” he said, after I’d pulled his mouth away and rubbed out a huge gusher all over the chux I’d had the foresight to put down first.

And he came too, although that was sort of unexpected. I lay on my back and offered up my tits, and he dropped a huge gob of spit there and then slid his cock in between them. It was hot. Dirty and hot. I remember the feel his thrusts and how they increased in intensity until — powerful, sharp, short — he came, across my chest, so that it dribbled down my left shoulder and into my hair. And he was thoughtful enough to bring me a washcloth, one that he’d warmed under the hot water tap.

Later that week, the memory of those thrusts, and what they might feel like in another configuration, made me squirm in my seat as I drove to the office.

We spoke on the phone a few times that week. I told him as he left that he didn’t get to come until he saw me again. And he was game. On IM, on the phone, we teased each other, and I let him hear me come, but I wouldn’t let him… ordered him to stop. I went away for a weekend retreat with some friends, and on the way back, while my friends were shopping in an outlet mall, I sat in the car and talked to him on my cell phone, made him say the words, “I don’t get to come because my cock belongs to you,” — and he said my name. My cock.

It was sweet torture for both of us. The next Monday was a holiday, and I called him up at 7am and ordered him to come over to my house as fast as he could. “But I haven’t shaved!” he said.

“Bring your shaving kit with you,” I said.

And he did.

August 6, 2008 at 2:41 am Leave a comment

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.

July 23, 2008 at 6:12 pm Leave a comment

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.

July 1, 2008 at 7:42 pm 4 comments

Take it for me

“What’s your safe word?” I asked him. I’d wrestled one of his hands in the cuffs but not the other.

“I think you know when I don’t like it,” he replied. It’s true. I do. It’s just more work. It requires me to pay extra attention, to check in more often, to hold back… hmm, all the things I need to do with him anyway.

“Yes, I think I know,” I replied, and raked my fingernails down his side. He gave that “agh” that means pain and something else — something good. I kissed his face, his cheek, his nose, his eyes. I was straddling him. And I leaned over, pulled his other arm to the side of the bed where the other cuff is anchored to the leg of the bed frame. He resisted, his muscles bulging.

“Come on, be a good boy,” I said. “You know how much I like this.”

He struggled, and struggled, and I pulled on his arm, bore down on it with my whole weight, still he slipped and struggled out of my grasp. And then there was still the awkward business of fishing out the cuff on its tether from under the mattress, slipping his hand — fighting and clenched, still trying to break free — into the cuff. When I finally got the velcro closed I realized it was too tight, and I had to open it again, make sure I could slip a finger or two between the cuff and his wrist.

But oh, how it turns me on when he struggles. It’s hard to say which of us would really win in a fair fight. Probably him. But neither of us really wants to win, and that’s what makes it fun.

I had him strapped to my bed then, face-up. And I was kneeling over him and he was gasping and a bit afraid. He was doing this for me. Weeks before, he said he wasn’t sure that he’d ever let someone tie both of his hands. And here he was, for the second time, doing it for me. Not because he wanted it, but because I did.

I wanted him helpless on my bed. I wanted him to trust me enough to let me win the struggle as I forced his hands into the cuffs.

And I wanted to use the new toy I brought back from New York! I’d found it in a flea market, of all places. It’s a handmade flogger with short tails, made of very soft leather, with a puff of feathers on the other end. It’s lovely: red and white leather, braided around the handle, easy to hold, pretty to look at. A beginner’s toy. I’d slapped it against my forearm there at the vendor’s table, as hard as I could, and while it stung it was manageable. Unlike some of the subs I’ve played with, I don’t have a very high tolerance for pain. I’ve tried my favorite toy, the crop, on myself, and couldn’t believe how painful a single stroke of that thing can be. Hats off to the subs who can take ten or fifteen strokes from my crop, especially when I put my arm into it. Bran isn’t that kind of boy. I’d bought this whip with Bran in mind. An easy toy, fun for me, for the slap of the leather and the challenge of the aim, not too challenging for him.

I gave him a few strokes on his chest, not hard at all, and then one that slanted away further than I’d intended at the end. He gave out the bad kind of cry, and I crouched down, apologized, rubbed the spot with my hand, kissed his face, snuggled up against him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, and his eyes were shut and he was struggling against the cuffs. “Well, I do, but not like that. I only want to take you to the edge–” and here, I ran my fingernails along his side again, heard him gasp and snuggled against him. I licked his nipple, his extra-sensitive little nipple, softly, slowly, gently. Felt him moan in a different way. And then pinched the other one hard.

“See?” I said. “I only want to take you to the edge. Just to the edge, not over it.” And my hands were busy all over his body then, slapping gently with the whip, turning to stroke with the feathered end of the handle, stroking him gently, down his torso to his lovely thighs, then raking up the insides of his thighs, slapping his thighs with my hands one moment, stroking the next. Soft, then hard, and hard and hard and soft again, random and precise, paying attention to his breathing and his moans. I put my hand on his cock, stiff and exposed. I stroked it with my hand and stretched out next to him.

“Is it pain–” I pinched his nipple hard– “or is it pleasure–” I ran my hand down his stomach to his cock and stroked him lightly. “Which is it? Which is it?” I asked, alternating, again and again, whispering in his ear, licking it, biting it.

I slipped down to his lovely cock and slid my mouth around it. He was thrusting, uncontrollably, and I teased him with my mouth, taking only the tip, and then plunging it to the base. His moans, louder, turned to groans of pain when I let my teeth dig into the tender flesh of his shaft and head — just for a moment, just for a moment.

Back and forth I went, until he was incoherent, until he could barely speak.

“Take it,” I said. “You’re strong. Take it. Take it for me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I’m — taking — it — for you.”

“Why? Why are you?”

“Because…. unh… oh… because I want to be with you.”

I kissed him on the mouth then, full and strong, straddling him, rubbing myself against him.

“You’re so wet,” he said. “Oh, I can feel how wet you are.”

“Yes I am,” I said, sliding my slick outer lips around the shaft of his cock.

I made him beg me to put a condom on and fuck him, and he did, he begged so prettily. Bran, strong lovely Bran, in subspace, helpless, begging for me to take him inside me. And I did. Eventually. After I felt he’d begged sufficiently, after he’d pleased me with the abject begging — the same way I’ve begged for him.

I rolled the condom on slow, teased him with my mouth, and then eased on, slowly, slowly, ordered him to stay still, thrilling to his groans, his struggle to keep from thrusting his hips upward. I slipped onto his head and pulled myself off again, over and over, and he couldn’t even beg anymore, he was reduced to just guttural noises and moans. And then pushed down quick and hard, so he was all the way inside, so I could feel him against my sweet spot and he could feel me all around him.

“Is this what you wanted?” I said, knowing he couldn’t answer.

I rode him until I was tired of riding him, and then I leaned over and loosed one of his cuffs and he picked me up and threw me on my back and fucked me from above.

“Why did you let me go?” he said, as I fumbled with the other cuff. “Did you want me to get free? Did you want me to fuck you? And it was my turn to moan and writhe and not make sense, while he fucked me and smacked me around a bit and fucked me some more. “You’re like the earth,” he said.

And I was happy.

June 17, 2008 at 2:37 am 4 comments

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