15. The night that followed

           I decided to go full pink, for the evening. I’ve mentioned before that I sometimes like pink because of how much I hate it, right? I can’t stand any of that girly shit. Do you get what I mean if I say it’s like blondes wearing light blue eye shadow, or am I the only one who wants to punch those people? It’s cute, by which I mean gross. The only acceptable response to cute, as far as I’m concerned, is to defile the ever loving shit out of it. But the defilement of it, the desecration of it, well that’s a different story… Because that’s so hot that it makes the pink worth having in the first place. So I got out the little pink and white panties (they even have white-on-white butterflies, if you look closely – they’re so sickeningly sweet that I own two pairs in case one of them ever gets irretrievably adulterated), and the clingy little see-through top. I have exactly two pink hair ties that I got from my niece, and I used them to make those little knobbly pig tails. (My hair is too long and straight for regular pigtails; even I can’t debase myself that far.) I can’t let go of my youth enough to ever forego too much thick, black eyeliner, but I made up for that with pink lipstick and eye shadow and toenail polish like bubblegum ice cream. I made the preparations necessary for railing Barbie in the ass.

            If I can get to the cock before it’s erect, there’s a move that’s among my very favorite things to do with a penis. You flip it up, and rest the side of your head on his stomach. Take the head of his cock in your lips and gently suck it all the way into your mouth, then use your tongue to gently push it almost all the way out again. Repeat. What you get is a blow job with your standard in and out motion, but the cock is the thing making it, while your head is completely still. It can only continue very briefly because it stops working once he’s hard, but you get to feel every increment of that hardening in your mouth, as it happens. Maybe other people aren’t as fascinated by the workings of the cock as I am, but I love to bear witness to that shit – especially as the instrument of the transformation. After the mood of the day, it was only seconds before my little trick was no longer viable, but the result was gloriously huge, and hard as calculus. That’s when he threw me onto my back and loomed over me.

            The first thing he did – because sometimes he’s a fucking mind reader – was the Nina Hartley. Unbelievable. I didn’t tell him that that had been my first method of the day, because his not knowing he’s a damn psychic was part of what was getting me off. (Well, that and the fact that he’s really good at the NH!) He didn’t let me come though. He brought me right up to the edge, and then he took me by the collar and pulled me back onto his cock. I went down on him for awhile, alternating between the deep throat and a wet tongue – or thumb, or both at the same time – to the frenulum… That’s stupid to say ‘alternating,’ because what it is really is everything in between and on either side as well. I love that head space in which there is nothing but the sucking of the cock, but infinite ways in which to do it. You can be doing one thing and just slightly change the position of your hand or your lips or your tongue or your grip or your mouth or your spit and that one thing becomes something else. Change two things and it’s something else again. Switch to a different first something and all the changes change again. It’s beguiling. Sometimes it makes me a little delirious. Apparently this time I got fairly caught up, because eventually he had to stop me physically so he wouldn’t come – I tend to miss or ignore the signals when I get like that, so he pushed me away from him onto my face and put a few beautifully distinct hand prints across my ass. Sometimes when the marks are really good he’ll stop and let me admire them in the mirror, but this night he was too absorbed with the prospect of going down on me.

I am unmistakably fortunate that my husband likes my pussy in his mouth as much as I like his cock in mine. Also, the man is skilled; sometimes when he’s going down on me my mind just untethers and floats away to a whole other place (where undoubtedly there are virgins – remind me to tell you about all the virgins in my head, sometime). I even have a game around trying to stay present in the throes of his attention – to watch and feel every fraction of his wet flesh on my wet flesh without letting myself get carried up into the spinning delirium of it. That’s a really good orgasm, when I win that battle. This night though, we skipped right over the clitoral orgasm. I’ve told you how adept he is at bringing me to Orgasm #3. We have a really soft blanket with a waterproof interior layer, to save the mattress, because of it. That’s where he went next, right to the g-spot. I don’t think it took three seconds before I was raining into the palm of his hand with a puddle under me. He looked at me with that cocky little eyebrow thing and said “Really? It’s not even a challenge anymore.” I started to laugh but before it even made it past my lips he was making me come again, and again, and again. Sometimes there’s just no end to Orgasm #3.

Do you ever have those moments when your vagina is hypersensitive? I don’t mean in the bad way, where you can be oversensitive, like a clit in the hands of someone who needs more practice at it. I mean in the way where you are aware of every bit of it. There’s the kind of fucking where your pussy is completely and utterly full, where there’s no more give to it at all, and you feel yourself impaled as though your whole body is nothing but a tight wrapper for the thrust of his cock. Then there’s this other kind of sensation, when it’s not just varying stages of filling and withdrawal, but when you are aware of every single smidgen of his cock moving against every last scintilla of you, from your labia to your cervix. When the nerves in your pussy behave more like the nerves at the back of your knee or the inner of your elbow, places where you don’t just feel yourself being touched or not touched, you feel the exact quality of the touch – the extent of the pressure changing and the very particles of its motion. That’s how he fucked me next. He put me on my side and took me from behind and in the pleasure of that sensory overload I ended up taking over most of the movement, the slow (and then not so slow) writhe of pressing back onto him, all but still, and feeling everything like my pussy could taste him. Is it any surprise that he would make the leap of only an inch, from there? He fucked me in the ass from that sideways and behind position, and then he pulled me onto my back and put my knees beside my ears and fucked me in the ass like that. Then he flipped me and put my face in the pillow, pulled my hips up onto him and fucked me in the ass like that. I don’t even remember which of those positions were the ones that made me come.

You know how you’re never supposed to go ass to mouth? Yeah, I do that all the time. Sorry if I offend your tender sensibilities but it doesn’t bother me even a little bit, and if it has thrown off my internal flora it has never done it in a way that I have noticed. A blow job after ass fucking is not the same thing as a blow job after vaginal fucking. That I think I once described as a taste that brings out a territorial streak in me, like a cat rubs itself against anything it wants to mark as its own – That’s right, that’s MY pussy all over your cock… With ass fucking I think it’s more about the taboo of it. You’re really not supposed to do it, which is probably why I like to so much. Which is why it then always leads me to put it back in my pussy again, because you’re not supposed to put it there after ass fucking, either. I really am a simple creature. It’s no wonder my husband always knows what’s going on in my brain. And that’s how I got to the vaginal orgasm of the evening. My dear friend Orgasm #2. Not the most violent or uncontrollable of the four (that would be #4), but always that beautiful internal body melt, always something like coming home. That’s how my husband came too, in my pussy. Sometimes I feel him come with the wet sensation of the come itself. Sometimes, like this time, it’s the rigid spasm of the cock I feel, like it is a separate entity that even he can’t always keep in control. It’s hard to let him go after that. It makes me want to grip him in a kegel and just hold him there.

            I’m not sure how I want to end the story of that evening. I’m tempted to go back and tell you about the part that I skipped, but I think I’m going to save that bit for a later time, when the topic is more about the intricacies of the Dominant/submissive aspects of the relationship. There are other bits of the night that I’ve forgotten, too. I know because there were moments in the evening when I was saying over and over to myself Oh gods, remember this! Remember this for later! knowing that doing so would bring me to orgasm some day while my husband was at work or away on business. However, when I told him that and asked him “What did we do right before ___?” he’d been too caught up to recall it either. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s pleasing to think that there are those things we’ve done that though lost to memory, cannot be undone. I think I like the idea that our sex life goes deeper than even the two of us know.