Stupid universe

Universal forces are aligning to suggest that a new houseboy is not in the cards for me right now. Sigh. Looks like I’ll be doing my own scrubbing and vaccuuming. Or figuring out what to cut out of the budget so I can afford my housecleaner again.

Kit has effectively broken up with us. Six weeks without messages, calls, or a date is a pretty clear indicator, n’est-ce pas?

Bran and I are still having pretty amazing sex, so why am I so ho-hum about it? Just spent 10 minutes trying to find reference to a study I remember reading that shows that boners are more intense with new partners. Of course, nobody gets funding to measure girl-boners.

Possibly the problem is that I’m not getting my fill of kink. Meaning bossy, haughty, dominating, demanding, bitchy get-on-your-knees-and-bring-me-your belt kink.

I guess I’m back in the game

It’s been nigh on a year (maybe more) since I last had a houseboy in service. Bran and I are still a couple, we’re still seeing Kit, and the sex is still good. I’ve been dealing with a boatload of health problems, most of which I blame on job stress. Bran’s been working 70 hour weeks and commuting two hours a day on top of it.

Given all of that, it’s kind of a miracle that we manage to find time to spend together at all, let alone do the horizontal mambo. The nasty. The wild thing. You get the idea.

The good news is that, as I recover some of my energy, I find the idea of finding and training a new houseboy appealing. I’d love a housegirl too, actually — Kit threw a party a while back with lots of hot, kinky people, and one cute little submissive girl in particular got me thinking. But housegirls are even harder to find than good houseboys. Half the fun of kink, after all, comes from reversals and taboos.

So I’m back in the game. I updated my fetlife profile (that site has really exploded since it started a year or so ago!) and got a few interesting messages.

I also decided to cast my bread upon the waters of Craigslist again. This time, I used more standard kink/BDSM wording in my ad. As a result, the ad hasn’t been flagged off, and so far I haven’t gotten one nasty email suggesting that I come over and suck off some guy after doing his dishes.

That’s not to say that the screening process isn’t as fraught with peril as ever. And then, of course, there’s the whole polyamory piece of it. Bran is fine with my pursuit of a houseboy, although I know he doesn’t understand it. For me, it’s a complicated mix of desire for attention, nurture, control, and — yes, I admit it — sadism.

My last post about this process may have overstated that last desire. I definitely took suboy to new depths of subspace — and myself to new depths of sadism — but I don’t think I’m interested in that sort of heavy play right now. The top drop afterward can be way too intense.

A lot of my work these days has been about staying grounded and present. The sort of intense power and energy exchange involved in a serious whipping is not something I think I could deal with right now. Instead, what I’d like to explore is the possibility of accepting love and nurture from a man in the form of service. As the dominant party in a service submission relationship, I feel a sense of control that I don’t in my relationship with Bran. And it’s not the sort of role I want to be stuck in with a life partner (or a right-now partner, or whatever Bran and I are to each other right now). It is, however, something I want in my life, in one form or another.

There was one young man (early 20s) who served with me for a short period of time. He’d just begun to touch his foot to the tip of the iceberg of his submission. One day, I sat at my desk on a conference call while he kneeled at my feet, dressed only in shorts. I laid his head against my thigh, alternately petting him and grabbing his hair. Later, he went back to sorting through my papers. It was delicious. Light and delicious, like flan.

The pull, the delightful frisson of that sort of arrangement — that’s what I’m longing for now.

Plus, it’d be nice to have someone else doing my dishes and my filing.

Five things, featuring teeth, thigh highs, and my favorite MiP shoots

1. Teeth.
2. Met Bran for lunch outside my office today. Pulled up my knee-length skirt to show him the tops of my thigh-highs. I love thigh highs.
3. I love them so much I’m seriously shopping for a garter belt so that they stop trying to turn into knee-highs.
4. Teeth. I’m thinking of teeth. Gwen Diamond’s teeth in particular, and what she’s doing with them here. Nothing on this site is SFW, really, but that link, especially.
5. I unearthed an old cache of pr0n from Men in Pain. Penny Flame has the craziest intensity about her and I love to watch her flog florentine-style. Sandra Romaine has the prettiest, softest, roundest breasts (and ass, come to think of it) I have ever seen popping out of a latex waist cincher. Whenever she says “talk with me” and forces her bottom to crane his or her neck to look her in the eye, I just about cream my panties right then.

   People like to complain about how Men in Pain is all catering-to-men. Which is true. But it caters to me, too. Hot women in latex, hot men in… um, pain. What’s not to like? I just wish they’d show the riggers at work. And the unrolling of the condom. When the camera jumps to a suddenly-sheathed cock and a fully-bound… bondee, it’s weird. l like my pr0n unadr0ned. Although I suppose the fluffers and the riggers would cost more if they appeared on film.

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.

Good girl/bad girl

“Am I a good girl or a bad girl?”

“I don’t know. Which one do you want to be?” He’s like a tai ch’i master — he moves with the motion of the other, but always, ultimately, firm, in control. I want him to tell me. But I know which one I want to be.

“I want to be a good girl,” I say. And maybe this is why he doesn’t tie me down. Because good girls can keep still. I’m eager to please.

Being a good girl is hard, though. Bad girls get punished, but they also get restrained. They don’t have to restrain themselves.

Later, I’m talking to him on the phone about military service. “One of the reasons I didn’t join up is because I didn’t think I could cut it.”

“I think you could have.”

“Well, I don’t like taking orders.”

“Yes you do.”

He’s got me there.

100 sexxay things about Omnivore

Inspired by Wendy Blackheart at Heart Full of Black, I give you 100 things about me, the sex list (with some love and truth and beauty thrown in for good measure).

1. I took my own virginity.
2. No, really. With a small, pink, very ladylike bottle of roll-on deodorant. I broke my hymen, and that hurt a bit, and then I pushed the bottle in farther and it felt good. And then I stopped. Because I was afraid.
3. This was after an aborted attempt to “give” my virginity to a boy in the back seat of a car.
4. While he was pulling down my pants, I asked him if he had a condom. “No,” he said, rising up to kiss me, “but you don’t want a piece of plastic in you the first time, do you?”
5. He couldn’t penetrate my little 13-year-old cunt.
6. There was no foreplay, which probably didn’t help.
7. We broke up soon afterward.
8. I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school the first time I had sexual intercourse.
9. I was 19 years old before I had sex without a condom.
10. Twice I went to the same anonymous HIV-testing clinic with a man so we could fuck without a condom.
11. I think it’s kind of romantic to go get STD screenings together.
12. I paid attention during sex ed. Back then, they actually told you about the various forms of birth control and how to use them.
13. According to the current abstinence-only curricula taught in public schools across the country, I am a piece of scotch tape that has been stuck to so many arms that it can no longer “bond” properly.
14. I’d rather be a slut than a whore.
15. I reclaimed the word “dyke” early on.
16. I didn’t reclaim the word “slut” until I was over 30.
17. I didn’t reclaim the word “bitch” until this year.
18. I fell in love with a little red-haired girl when I was in the first grade.
19. I fell in love with a little brown-haired boy when I was in the second grade.
20. I told my fourth-grade teacher that I loved my best friend so much that if I could I would marry her. Her response shamed me deep into the closet for a decade.
21. When I was a toddler, I remember discovering the interesting folds of my vagina while sitting in the living room watching TV. “That’s a private place to touch,” said my mother. “You should only touch that when you’re in the bath or in bed alone at night.”
22. I didn’t have a real orgasm until I was in college.
23. The boy who gave it to me was a black boy with a moustache. We were never really dating.
24. He did it by going down on me with enthusiasm, and by doing it longer than anyone had done it before.
25. The first time I ejaculated was with a small, hard plastic vibrator. I was about 19 years old.
26. I had to throw away that futon less than a year later because it started to smell really funky.
27. My boyfriend said “Are you sure it’s not pee?” the first time I came on his face.
28. Later, I asked my girlfriend what it tasted like and she replied, “your hot, salty cum.”
29. The first woman I fell in love with was a summer exchange student from a local community college.
30. She gave me a tiny hickey, and when my mother asked me who had given it to me, I told her.
31. My mother’s initial response was “Ew”.
32. Later, my mother told me she loved me no matter who I was or who I was with. She bought me combat boots and a toolbox.
33. It took me ten more years to realize I didn’t have to be butch to be a dyke.
34. I didn’t come to terms with my bisexuality until five years after I came out of the closet.
35. I used to call myself a traitor to my own kind.
36. I am very, very good at eating pussy.
37. I am very, very good at sucking cock.
38. I can deep throat, but only if I’m really into the guy.
39. Finger-fucking gives me carpal tunnel syndrome.
40. I like 69ing, but I’d rather be on top.
41. My favorite way to come is on my back, with intense stimulation on my clit.
42. After I turned 30, I started having vaginal orgasms regularly and repeatedly.
43. When I come during PIV sex, my cunt has been known to clench so hard it pushes my lover’s cock right out.
44. I have been known to ejaculate from PIV sex.
45. I have been known to ejaculate from a spanking.
46. I think cybersex is cheating.
47. I don’t think I’m really polyamorous, but I like to pretend when I’m single.
48. I once spent seven years in a lesbian marriage (the old-school, illegal kind) that suffered from serious Lesbian Bed Death.
49. I have cheated on more than one partner.
50. The part of cheating I hate the most (in myself and in others) is the dishonesty.
51. I like to have sex at least three times a week.
52. I can go for extended periods of time without any kind of sexual contact, without missing it.
53. Twice after long-term relationships I’ve used Craigslist to find and fuck a good assortment of lonely, horny men.
54. Once I got an email from the girlfriend of a man I’d slept with once. It turned out that he had lied to me about being single. I apologized to her and confirmed that he and I had slept together.
55. I have never had sex with a transgendered person.
56. I find butch women very attractive, I’ve had sex with many “gay” men, but men in drag do nothing for me.
57. I see transgendered people as my siblings in gender rebellion.
58. I’ve fucked women with my “psychic cock” and made them come.
59. I’ve come while fucking women with my psychic cock.
60. All of my genderfuck is behavioral. On the outside, I’m very clearly a girl.
61. I’ve taken people to task for using the word “queer” as a pejorative.
62. I love the word “queer” because it includes all sorts of sexual and gender minorities.
63. I have had lovers of many different races and nationalities.
64. I lost count of the number of lovers I’ve been with sometime in my early 20s.
65. I used to feel deeply ashamed for having so many sex partners.
66. I have been deeply in love somewhere between four and six times in my life.
67. I have never consistently enjoyed anal sex as much as I have with Bran.
68. I didn’t come to terms with my BDSM tendencies until January 2008.
69. The first time I heard about fisting was when Susie Bright came to speak at my college in the early 90s.
70. Less than a month later, my tall, rangy boyfriend with the really large hands managed to fit all five fingers inside me.
71. Cunnilingus is my favorite thing in the whole world.
72. Sexual intercourse is my favorite thing in the whole world.
73. Rubbing my face in a woman’s wet, juicy pussy is my favorite thing in the whole world.
74. Group sex is my favorite thing in the whole world.
75. The first time I made out with more than one boy was when I was 15 years old.
76. My first threesome was with two men, as a freshman in college.
77. FFM is my favorite threesome combination.
78. Bran and I have fantasized about bringing a submissive woman to bed with us.
79. I fall in love very easily.
80. I’ve often confused lust for love.
81. I’ve had sex in the back of a car on Highway One in Northern California, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz, in a hotel room with lots of other people having sex around me, on the kitchen floor, on a golf course, while driving, and probably lots of other places I can’t remember.
82. I find double-penetration (one in the cock, one in the pussy) fascinating.
83. I have never been fucked in the ass and the pussy at the same time by two actual men with actual penii.
84. I have experienced double penetration twice with a man and a handy dildo, and each time it was AWESOME.
85. Once, when I was walking by some neighbors, I heard them repeating something I’d shouted rather loudly the night before.
86. The thing I’d shouted was, “Oh, baby, fuck me in the ASS!”
87. The windows had been open.
88. I was embarassed.
89. I’ve let a butch woman get away with emotional and physical abuse I would never have tolerated from a man.
90. I attended a support group at a local women’s shelter to get the moral support I needed to get out of that relationship.
91. I thought I was different than all the other women in the room because I was gay and they were straight, but our stories ended up being exactly the same.
92. On two separate occasions I have violently pushed my female lovers away from me.
93. I used to think that men were made of iron, that I could say all sorts of mean things to them and they wouldn’t feel it.
94. The only time I’ve ever hit a man was during a scene.
95. I love to wrestle and win.
96. I love to wrestle and lose.
97. I love to dominate my lovers.
98. With Ace, I discovered exactly how sexy it is to hurt someone.
99. It’s only sexy if they’re into it too.
100. I like to say I love power exchange more than sadomasochism, but sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

Naked surprise

He picked me up at the airport when I returned from California, and there was some welcome-back sexing. Which I enjoyed. The rest of the week, though, was too busy for any real quality (aka naked) time. So we made a date for Sunday afternoon, Labor Day weekend.

I’d gotten gussied up for him — one of my new pretty skirts and the fishnet thigh-highs. And the new high-heeled shoes I’d just gotten from Zappos. He came up the stairs with a bouquet of flowers. I love it when he brings me flowers. And when he greets me with a deep, passionate kiss. And while I was putting them in water, he crawled into the kitchen, naked, and began to kiss my feet.

I was surprised, but in that happy way. I felt like a bad top — now that he’s naked and at my feet, what do I do with him? I’ve been a bit of a pillow queen lately. But I did, after all, know what to do.

It involved fingernails, and a thorough polish of my new shoes. And his leash. And some wrestling. And an orgasm or two.

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.

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.

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.