Tuesday, 15 November 2016

Behind the door

I touch your marks, still damp with my saliva and the residue of evaporated whisky, my fingertips briefly and gently resting on the M, then move your head away, raise my hips, undo my belt, unzip the trousers, pull them down, kick them off, your breath damp and warm on the skin of my left thigh.

"C'mere J," I murmur, sliding myself towards you, my legs wider, "Lick me," I say, somewhat redundantly in the circumstances but I like saying it and I think you like hearing it so I say it again as I spread my legs wider, pull my cunt open with my left hand and pull your head in with my right one, your face now less than an inch away from my wet pussy. "Lick me, slut."

You start with long ones on both sides, flat and slow, up and down, the tip of your tongue tracing the grove to rest in the little hollow above my clit. You circle round, then down along the slippery slit, dipping in as I raise my hips to your mouth, then back up to gently take the erect tip between your lips. I moan and pull you deeper, closing my thighs on your head, my ankles crossed, heels digging into your back, just below the marks I made earlier.

All my sensations are pooling in one place, not in the throbbing bud of my clit, not even deep inside my cunt where the hot and heavy pleasure can explode from, but further back, deeper.

I've pulled you under my skin and under the layers of flesh; to the bone, your breath feeding the dark red glow at the root of my being, your mouth at the bottom of my spine as the lava crested waves of pleasure wash over me, heave with every touch and recede with every break until an unexpected, unhurried orgasm slowly boils over in concentric circles through my belly, legs, arms and head.

I stop breathing for a second, maybe longer, then breathe deeper, your face covered in sticky wetness damp on my soft inner thigh, my feet back on the floor, my hands in your hair.

I'm done now and so tired that all I want to do is to slide into sleep but I know realistically I won't sleep well on the sofa so I drag myself up and into the hall. You follow me, naked, collared and hard as you are.

"Good night, J," I say pausing at the door of the first bedroom. You give me this look then, part hurt, part petulant, part needy, with a brief flash of anger that raises up for a fraction of a second. I wonder if I should invite you to my bed tonight, it's a double after all and I am probably tired enough and drunk enough to be able to sleep well with another body next to mine. I wonder what the correct thing to do would be, I wonder what the unprinted but nevertheless very much real Manual of Proper Dominant Behaviour would say, and I decide to do what I think it would advise.

I'm stepping away from you, pressing the door handle.

"Please, M..."

"Not yet," I say, as I should, and close the door behind me, as I should, even if something stops me to listen, some part of me that isn't as invested in the notion of Proper Dominant Behaviour, that wants to throw the manual into the fire that's still going in the living room grate, that wants to watch its pages burn and char, that wants to do what it wants to do and not what I'm supposed to. One that's both a little worried and at the same time very much hoping that you might still be there.

All I can hear is silence. You could have walked away, softly on bare feet along the hall rug, like I told you to, like an obedient, good boy that you are, that you are becoming, here and now for me.

And thus I'm standing by the door, still confused by what I should do, how will it work, will it work (but yes it is working according to the plan -- what plan actually – what the fuck is my plan -- do I even have one and even if I do does it matter that I follow it?) and what is actually going on.

All the notions and prescriptions and advice regarding the pacing and the teasing and the control and the rules of denial and withholding and the Proper Dominant Behaviour are swirling in my head. The herenow bubble is deflating, its skin crinkling unpleasantly. It's not just us here anymore but a crowd of voices that attempt to tell me what the right way to do this thing is, even if I don't quite now what this thing is, or even if it is a thing at all, voices that attempt to tell me how to be the thing I am, even if I don't know what the  thing I am is, and I am getting increasingly annoyed with the  notion of being any particular thing at all, and even more annoyed with the notion that I should indeed be wondering about what I am and, for that matter, what you are.

It only takes a few seconds, maybe half  a minute, in which am trying to work out what I should do, what I want to do, what I should want to do, and then, fuck it, I stop trying, the voices are gone, I am back to herenow, and I open the door.

You have just about turned round, two paces away from me, but now you halt mid-step on hearing me, seeing me lean against the door frame, bare-legged and bare-assed, the latter somewhat attenuated by the long, white shirt I am still wearing.

"C'mere, J," I say, smiling, with a laugh rising in my voice, the pages of the imaginary manual curling in the fire.

When you are near enough, I reach out and grab you. I pull you closer, lead you by my cock, softened but now quickly filling up in my hand again, warm and still a little sticky with drying precum; into my bedroom and onto the immaculate bed, where I lay you down on your back, my cock now fully erect, but, less to be sure, and more because I really, really want to, I lean down and give it a long lick, my left hand on your inner thigh, my right one on your balls, my flat tongue moving along the slight ridge on bottom surface, resting for a moment on the frenulum, teasing it with the tip, curving round the crown like slow swirl around an ice-cream cone, my lips closing on the hot, taut, velvety smooth skin of the cockhead.

It's dark, the only light coming from the barely-ajar door to the hall, magnifying all the sounds and tastes and touches. I hear you moan, your hips move as if to thrust so I let go of my cock and slap it lightly a couple of times, watch it bounce sideways, look up at you.

"Be still."

"I will, M."

I lick you some more, then place my ass at the same height as your hips, but not straddling you. I am too tired for that much effort, so I just reach behind and pull you onto your side and towards me. You slide in, my cunt still flushed and swollen from the recent orgasm but ready for this, wanting this; my muscles clenching on your hardness as I push against you, not quite riding you but with my body raised on my left arm enough to allow for freely grinding my ass against your pubis, my right foot hooked around your leg, as I fuck you, hard and fast, each contraction of my muscles, each movement of my hips causing little eruptions of pleasure inside me, spreading outwards to my inner thighs and clit, travelling up my belly to my chest, nipples, neck, mouth, hands and the back of my skull; the grinding swirl alternating with thrusts, my right hand clasped on your hip, fingers digging in.

I can hear your breath speeding up, panting and groaning, my cock swelling inside me, I am panting too, "I want to feel you come for me. Now," I moan, my hips rocking sideways, my cunt clenching harder, milking my cock, squeezing it through your orgasm and after it subsides.

I can feel your body relax behind me as I slip off, but I am definitely not done with you yet, so down the bed I slide, you on your back again, grab the softening cock and give it a quick lick and suck, the same kind that would drive you crazy at other times but which I know will now hurt the sensitised cockhead making you flinch and shiver and yelp out.

"Lick, J, ' I say, shoving myself up, spreading open my cunt, dripping with your cum and my juices, pulling you round, pulling your face into me, rising my hips so I can rub myself against you, your tongue obediently lapping up until I tell you to stop and pull you back up again to lean over you in the dark, to lick around your lips adding my own saliva to the whole gooey mix.

"Good boy," I say, and although you probably can't quite see me, you must be able to feel that I am smiling, and even if you don't, you will know how well you did because even if I wanted to, and I have no reason to, I can't quite stop the satisfied, joyful laugh that bubbles up through that smile and kiss in the dark.

Something has shifted, has fallen into a place that feels right, that is starting to feel right, not because this is the correct way to do these things but because this is what I want.

But there is still a small but insistent voice telling me that now I've checked you are OK, I should assert my role with all its prescribed trimmings and kick you out of my bed, even if I don't want to, even if it would make me feel worse than what I want to do. So I tell the voice to shut the fuck up and hold you, close, your breathing getting deeper, your heartbeat slowing down to normal, your head on my chest, my arms around you.

"Stay, J. Stay here tonight, OK?" I say, in a low whisper, quietly, quietly enough so I could pretend it never happened if you baulked. But you don't and we shift down the bed an under the covers together, deeper into the daze yet higher, my hands gentle on your back and shoulders.


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