23. The brief payment of a minor debt

     Without going into the background details, let’s just say that I owed him. It wasn’t a bet I’d lost, but you can think of it that way. (Plus, the night before had been a pink night, and while those were originally designed for his benefit, they have since clearly become about mine.) So I had dressed to amuse him: Little knobby pig tails, infinitesimally tiny boy shorts that I bought in the stripper section of the adult store, and my polka dot bra – I don’t know what the full effect is in reality, but in my head it makes me feel like a pin-up girl. All that was missing were my high heeled Mary Janes with the ankle strap. I had every intention of a straight (five star, major league, righteous) blow job, that would bring him all the way through to the finish.
     I was settled in, and I was showing off. The Vegas trick, kitten mouth, ice cream on the spoon, the envelope, ripe peach, tongue trap, lady left, threshold, the hitchhiker, deep throat with a wave… He stopped me three times. I took it as a compliment, he wanted to make it last as long as possible and didn’t question, but on the third stop, he stopped me.
     “It seems counter-intuitive that I would stop you here, but I’m going to.” Then he got up and walked away from the bed. His demeanor suggested that nothing was wrong, so I sipped my wine and waited to find out what he was up to. He returned with a cigarette, a lighter, and a bottle of the good lube.
     “Don’t come back until you’re ready for me to fuck you in the ass until I come. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to make yourself come before I do that. Take as long as you need.” I guess I’d need the Mary Janes after all.

     I went outside slightly baffled (he does this to me with malice of forethought, no question). It had only been a few nights before that he’d sent me outside with a cigarette and similar instructions. This hadn’t been such a common occurrence for awhile; he must have read the same thing I did, about inconsistent reinforcement. I started in a squat – you know that good, ass to Achilles’ tendon, high heels and elbows on your spread knees position that’s great for smoking a cigarette, half naked. I rolled my stripper panties down so that they were cutting into my thighs just below my ass, took a drag, and slid a finger into my ass from the front, on the exhale. I understand smoking porn, I really do. I’d rather be the object of it than watch it, but the concept gets me off just the same. I was enjoying myself, but there was something about his instructions that was nagging at me, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I tried to appreciate the cigarette, long, straight exhales through just-pursed lips and perfectly round smoke rings sailing away wider and lighter. (It’s not easy to blow a perfect smoke ring while you’re fucking yourself in the ass, you know.) I tried to appreciate the ass fucking, too, to feel the full sensation of entry and withdrawal through the nerve endings in both the finger and the ass. But the cigarette was done too quickly, and I’d barely added a second finger to my ass from underneath and behind, and his orders had been so definite, like the ringing of a bell. I was missing something. I decided I just hadn’t done enough preparation, and he’d said I could take all the time I needed, so it didn’t matter that my cigarette was done. I dropped the panties to my ankles and bent over from the waist. I added more lube, spread my ass and used two fingers well and good, from behind. I introduced my other hand to my pussy from the front, but I didn’t want to get off completely, without my husband there to witness. Then I had it: “Don’t come back until…” Did that mean if I was going to come, I had to do it before I went back? Knowing my husband, he couldn’t possibly have meant it that way. He likes to watch me make myself come as much as I like making myself come while he watches. But his words were spoken with such casual command that I was scared to death to get it wrong. I really didn’t want to ask. I just wanted to get it right. My first instinct, the way I’d immediately understood it when he’d said it, included getting off in front of him after coming inside with a lubey ass and a brain that was mentally prepared. I would trust my instinct.
     And then I went inside and couldn’t make it past the threshold of the door. Technically you see, I wasn’t back yet. I had thought I was sure, but I just couldn’t pull it off. I never can. I have to ask or speak or whatever it is, every time. It’s the same as my inability to lie to him. Holding something back feels like not telling the truth. So I stood there and waited for him to acknowledge me, and I asked for clarification, when he did.
     “I can be as specific as you like.” He said it with this dangerous nonchalance he’s possessed since the day I met him. It’s a little scary and a lot sexy and it makes the air in my chest flutter. “The next time my cock goes in your mouth, when it comes out, it’s going straight into your ass, and I’m going to slow-fuck you until I come. What happens between now and then, is up to you.” He looked unblinking into my face as he spoke, and I had to hold onto the door frame to keep from going weak at the knees. Did he want to watch? Of course he did.
     I left the Mary Janes on, and re-lowered the panties to the tight bands I’d made of them, outside. I got out my pink toy and left it nearby – I wanted to bring myself almost to a clitoral orgasm and then put it in my ass and throw myself over the edge with the amplified intensity. I far overdid the lube, not bothering to count how many pumps came out of the bottle, and didn’t touch it at first, letting it slide from my clit to my pussy to my ass. I fucking love that sensation. It’s not hot like come, when you pour it straight from the bottle, but since it’s gone untouched by my fingers it does almost the same thing to my head, like being creamed on in pulsing spurts. Also, the lotion kind has the right look and feel to it, so if I’m sitting in a position from which I can see myself, I can imagine it from my husband’s point of view and try to know what it would have been like to shoot it there. At that point I can’t help but touch it with my fingers, play in it. I hadn’t been doing that long before I felt his fingers in my ass. He had said I could get myself off and that he wanted to watch, but he’d never said he wasn’t going to get involved; that had been my mistaken assumption. And he didn’t just fool around a little either, building me up – that had been my job to complete, outside. He went straight in with two relentless fingers and reminded me just how tight my little pink asshole actually is. How is it possible that he can fit his whole cock in there?! By the time he withdrew his hand, I’d changed my mind about my little pink toy. I left it abandoned on the bed while I produced my green Lelo vibe with the two heads and pulled the stripper panties off over my shoes.
     I backed up a little – physically, to be sure he had a good view, and in the masturbatory progression, to get a good build up going again. I started with it the “right” way, little head on my clit, big head deep inside me and out again fucking myself while he watched, and then of course, I flipped it over. I had the big head still in my pussy with the little one in my ass and my fingers on my clit and the whole thing was so slippery with lube that I could barely work the controls. I went from the weakest to the strongest continuous buzz, to the rising one that gets more and more intense and then ends in a pulse. This is usually where I keep it until I come, but I knew what was going to come next on this night, so that wasn’t going to be enough. I flipped the vibrator over again, so the little head was back at the top, but this time I put it in my pussy and slowly pressed the big side into my ass. So fucking tight, but there was more than enough lube to work it into a good rhythm. Then I went back to the slippery controls and switched to the fastest, most intense pulse it’s got, trying to keep enough of a grip on the thing to fuck myself as hard as he was going to fuck me, any minute now. That was the thought that did it. Well, that and the fact that he was whispering to me as he watched. Whispering about my tight little ass getting fucked like that and how it was going to take his cock next and how much he knows I like it… I came with him whispering to me to come for him.
     I was rewarded by getting to suck his cock again. Threshold, tongue trap, three piece suit, lady left, the ripe peach, the hitchhiker, three piece suit, deep throat with a swallow, happy dog, tree trunk, envelope, ripe peach, threshold, deep throat, push-pop, three piece suit, envelope, tree trunk… And then he was talking me onto his cock. It was just as effective as if he’d grabbed me and pulled me up onto him, fingers digging into my hips, but he did it with words in that calm, deadly serious undertone. He spoke my ass onto his cock. The whole time he was whispering to me, half filthy, half instructional, like he was teaching a neophyte concubine how to be sluttier. I was trying so hard not to lose control and just fuck him until I came, it would have been so easy, I was so close, but he kept reminding me with that voice bordering on reproach, “This one is for me.” Then he took me by the ass cheeks, holding me above him and spreading me open at the same time, and from underneath, he slow-fucked me just like he said he would, with his eyes locked onto mine, until he came, pulsing deep in my ass.
     Like I said, I owed him. It’s not my place to question whether it’s better to be the creditor or the one in debt.

22. Mend and Be Mended

     What I needed was more arms, like a Hindu god. And a palm frond. Yes, a palm frond to wave over him with one of them. The stress had been bad of late. I had him on his back, as relaxed as I could make his body, and his mind was starting to catch up. I would have peeled grapes and rubbed him with warm oil if those things wouldn’t have bugged the shit out of him. If I’d had the extra arms I mean, because the two I’ve got were busy. When’s the last time you gave an honest-to-goodness hand job? Me either – it’s always a minor element of a larger encounter, right? It’s always leading to or coming off of something else. Granted, this one ended up somewhere else too, but I’m trying to give you a sense of where my head was, and at the time I was happy to do nothing else. My only intention was to make him feel as good as I was feeling, and something about just manually overriding all the tension in his brain was making me feel good indeed. It had started with lazy fingers meandering between us, but I’d since decided to just go all out, like a genie out of a fucking lamp with a very specific selection of wishes to choose from. This was not going to be the handy of seventh grade and the back of the school bus. He was going to forget the real world for a little while; I was going to see to that.
     It was a long time before I even added any kind of lube at all. Just warm, soft fingers and gentle pressure, coaxing him out of the ugly part of his reality, into the lovely one. When I got to the lube it was just a carefully placed dab on the tip of two fingers and a calculating implementation. Of course just a little lube like that won’t be useful for long, but instead of moving straight to my usual overindulgence, I just repeated the process a couple of times, returning to the original light pressure tease in between each. His cock had been quite obviously on my side right from the start, but as his mind cut loose the strings that remained tied to the rest of his day, it became even more impressive. I started to feel like I was performing some ritual over a consecrated phallus carved from sun-warmed stone. (This is the kind of place my mind goes. It jumps straight to embroidery every time. I live happily in an extravagant universe of my own design.)
     Likely due to the imagery I was concocting, I began to feel the lack of my collar. Do you remember that I’d been in penalty? It was more than two weeks that I’d been without it, and it was wearing on me. I hadn’t said anything, because I didn’t feel like it was my place to bring it up. It seemed presumptuous. Of course he saw me thinking about it though, and asked what was on my mind. I told him, and he replied that he’d been enjoying the dues of my penalty, the right to use me for whatever he wanted at whatever time he felt the slightest desire. We shared a moment over the irony of that – the price of going collarless being essentially the same as privilege of wearing it – and then he asked if I wanted it back. It wasn’t a straight offer, he only asked, so I don’t know if he would have just put it back on me or if I would have had to earn it somehow. Regardless, I turned him down for the moment. It would have felt like cheating, like giving in, like failure, for it to have come from me. But I missed it, I really did. Rather than push away the sense of loss, I decided to revel in it – it was a deprivation, after all. What better way to feel like the servant than to be stripped even of the symbol of my servitude? With that in mind, I added a little lip and tongue to my imaginary cock worshipping ritual, and then I went ahead and overindulged in the lube. It was my hope that the contrast of this sudden excess to the long lead-in without it would have a notable effect and I guess it did, because it wasn’t long before he left off being the passive recipient I’d intended for him to be, pushed me onto my back, and buried his face between my legs.
     There were no virgins in my head this time, there was only that gorgeous cock. I closed my eyes and saw it again as it had been only moments before, hard, huge and hot. He teased me with his tongue and sucked my clit between his lips (do you ever get off on that, when a man is going down on you? The idea of being inside him instead of him being inside you?); he licked my ass and bit the insides of my thighs and he did whatever that thing is that he does, when he takes my whole pussy into his mouth at once, and all I could think of was his cock and how he fucks me. It was mostly that – the fact that He was the only thing I was conscious of – that made me call him by name when I came. Mostly. There was a little bit of me though, that wanted to test the nature of the night. He’d been allowing me to do whatever I wanted with him for over an hour, and then he’d brought me straight to orgasm, so on the surface there hadn’t been much in the way of domination or submission. Still, since everything I’d wanted to do was to service him, and going down on me is thankfully one of his favorite activities in life, the dynamic of the encounter was, in my mind, still in question. So I tested it. Nothing happened. He didn’t take his hands away or his mouth off of me, he let me come until the orgasm spent itself out. This was going to be a night of pure, physical sensation and sex with nothing off the table. Naked abandon. When I could breathe again I looked up and smiled at him. Was he smiling back? And then he took me by the throat and pulled me to my knees. He held my face right up to his and whispered against my skin, “What do you call me?”
     “Sir.”
     “Say you’re sorry.” … I begged him for forgiveness and he slapped me across the face so hard that my teeth knocked and my ears rang. So, that kind of night. Noted.
     I tried to slip back into service form, all my attention on his cock and his body, but his head was in the game now and he wasn’t going to be content to stay passive like he had been before. He brought me up next to him while I still had my hands on his cock and he took my breasts in his hands, squeezed my nipples between my fingers. I love my nipples. They might be my favorite feature. They pucker like raspberries, stand up like fresh #2 pencil erasers, and when you work them, they lactate. Not a lot, I couldn’t feed a baby or anything, just enough to make it interesting. However, they’ve never been the super sensitive type some women are blessed with. I’ve always been jealous of those who can come to orgasm from nipple fondling. (I wonder what kind of orgasm that is! Number 2? Has to be…) I have a bit of an extra erogenous zone in that spot where shoulder meets neck and I can almost get off just from his mouth there, but I have never gotten near even that, just from playing with my nipples. I didn’t this night either, but there was something to it – something enough that it took me by surprise. A little electric sensation that ran right from his hands on my breasts to the very center of me and into my crotch. It lit me up in a way it hasn’t before. It caught me off guard, made me weak and therefore vulnerable. He saw my reaction and used it to his advantage. He could see I was off balance, that I couldn’t focus, so he gave me more to focus on. He knows I can’t do two things at once, and he knew the state he’d just put me in, so he made me sit on his hand and try to keep my attention on his cock while he made me come into his palm over and over again. I guess I held my own even though my head was spinning, because he had to stop me. (This is what I tell myself, anyway – whenever he stops me, I let myself believe that it’s because he isn’t going to be able to stop himself. I don’t know if it’s true or if he’s just playing with my head or if he knows what I tell myself and lets me go on believing it. I don’t care. Questions I don’t need the answers to, I have learned not to ask.)
     He produced a cigarette and sent me outside with instructions.
     “I don’t know how you’re going to smoke this with three fingers in your pussy and two in your ass, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
     I did figure it out (of course), but it wasn’t easy. Not so much because of the difficult position (there’s no chair out there), or the fact that I only have two hands, but I still felt completely off guard. My head was scattered. I kept flashing through the moments of the night – I could still feel the slap on my cheek, the emotional shudder of realization, the echo of that kick from my breasts and his hard pinch to my nipples, not to mention the fact that I’d just had three or four g-spot orgasms in a row and then been put out the door. I was unsteady, and the unsteadiness of my physical predicament, trying to smoke a cigarette with three fingers in my pussy and two in my ass, only underscored the condition. Moments from my day began to flash in along with moments from my night, and over, under and in between all of it was my naked, naked neck. On other occasions when my collar has had to come off for practical reasons like going through airport security with no husband on the other side to replace it, I have used the opportunity to wear all the necklaces I used to never go without. This time I hadn’t done that. I had been bare-throated for more than two weeks, paying close attention to how unnatural it felt. Having said it out loud tonight had bumped it right to the forefront, and I could no longer tell the mental/emotional teetering from the physical.
     I finished my task and my cigarette and took a deep breath Get your shit together, girl, and went back inside. I thought I was going to pull it off, but my head space had fundamentally shifted. Then, before I had even settled back onto the bed, he’d pulled my head down onto his cock, forcing a deep throat, and I just untethered, like that feeling you get right before you panic. I have no idea what he asked me when he saw my face, but I broke down and blurted it out, Please, my collar, please, please could I have my collar back on… I don’t know if I had known I was going to ask until I did, but I felt the tears threatening before the words were half out of my mouth. He was 100% unsurprised. Without missing a beat, he motioned me onto his lap.
     “Put my cock in your ass.” He barely paid attention as I obeyed, reaching for the collar and the key, but when I went still, watching him, he gave me a chastising eyebrow raise and said “Don’t stop,” in a tone that meant “You know better.” I fucked my own ass with his cock while he took his time fitting the metal around my throat, securing it properly, setting the latch… The final tightening of the screw threw me full body into the joyous relief of orgasm #4. It was incredible how fast the world righted itself under me, and for the rest of the night I was sincerely thrilled to tag a “Sir” (necessary or un), onto every statement, command or question he gave me. I slid right back into my earlier form, a model of imaginary palm frond waving, and ended the night curled against his chest and shoulder, listening to his heart and his breath.

(Here's to the people who know how to fix us.)

21. The Way of the Moment

     I could have said “I’ll be right back, I have to pee,” but I didn’t. I said “I have to pee,” and then I waited for permission. That was my choice. He could have responded with “Okay,” but he didn’t. Instead, he took me up on the opportunity I’d made available. That was his choice. This is one, small example of how it works with us. Little signals get passed between us, that determine the nature of every encounter. We pick and choose as we go. There is almost always at least a wash of the Dominant/submissive in our liaisons, but the spectrum is wide (though not nearly as wide as a lot of truly hard core scene builders’), and of course there are infinite points on every line. We have some rules – some constant and some specific to certain activities or phases we go through – none are reproductions of anything anybody else has designated as “right.” We do not follow other people’s rules; we make our own. On a given night, I might choose not to speak unless spoken to. There is no standing rule that tells me not to. If I have chosen thus, I will likely be punished if I speak out of turn. That’s not to say that I won’t be punished for speaking out if I haven’t sent that signal, at which point I would know that he had chosen to put such a rule in play. Sometimes I might be told exactly the words I am to say on command, during the rest of the evening. (I’ve recently also been made to guess what they are, first: mytightlittlepinkasshole.) The choices are both of ours to make as we please.
     One night last week I made a very poor showing and cried out shamelessly and unrestrainedly, while he took the riding crop to me. Though it is often implied, there’s no hard written rule that says I can’t. Unless he tells me that I can’t (or punishes me when I do). Then there’s a rule. He didn’t do either, last Saturday. Then, for one particular bout, my conscience gave me that you know better than this look, and I conceded (a little ashamed of myself), and tried to stay quiet. As I think I’ve mentioned, I do not consider myself a true masochist. It’s one of the assumptions people make about me, if they’ve recognized my collar for what it is. Some of them argue it with me, but I don’t define myself by the imprecise characterizations of others any more than I cede to their doctrines of kink. I do not enjoy pain. I enjoy what bearing it does to my head (and to my cunt). It’s a hard bargain for me, and I struggle with it. So I set my mind (not my jaw – always be mindful of the position of your teeth and tongue, so you don’t bite yourself when the blow lands), and I tried to actually bear it, tried to shut the fuck up. I was praised for my effort – a signal passing back and forth, a rule developing. Then he turned it on its head, in that low, casual tone that’s a perfect combination of amusement and threat: “I thought I was going to have to put you in a ball-gag.” Instantaneously, this opened up a whole other question in my head, another choice he’d have to respond to with choices of his own… Which way do I let it play out? See it? Now that the rule was in play, I could follow it, be good, receive praise, feel proud, or I could break it, be gagged, be punished. It took the thinnest of seconds for all the intricacies of that question to flood my brain in swirling possibilities. It took half that time for my husband to spot it in me (or maybe he knew it would happen before he’d opened his mouth, maybe he did it to me on purpose), and I was immediately made to understand that such a choice was not mine to make. He called me out on it (which never fails to get a physical response from me, it stops my breath and sends an electric shudder through my body), and he striped the shit out of my ass, my thighs, my back and shoulders, the bottoms of my feet, for it.
     The bright flashes of pain that deepen instead of fade in the moment after the crack of leather on flesh, they are like switches thrown one at a time, the mechanism that drops me stage by stage through the seemingly undeniable compulsion to escape, the refusal to do so, the anxiety of doubt in my desire to and then in my capacity to maintain, and finally to the secret underground chamber of absolute certainty. This is the dwelling place of an alternate consciousness that exists only to know without question that this is the very least of what I would do, what I could stand, what I would gratefully endure. It is the embodiment, the active experience of a love that could lay waste to nations.
     (What’s better after that, the orgasm or the denial of it? You tell me.)
     Sometimes he makes conditions. Sometimes he makes conditions and then makes it impossible for me to meet them. Sometimes he makes no conditions at all. Sometimes I make them. (Sometimes I make conditions that I hate, because I hate them. Does that make me a masochist? I still say not truly.) Remember Pavlov and his dogs? It turns out, with further research and experimentation, that training for a desired reaction with reinforcement (positive or negative? In this case those lines are obviously less than clear), is far more effective when the reinforcement is inconsistent. The bell rings and the dog food comes sometimes, but not always. The chicken receives its corn kernel at random, but only after the peck of the button. The monkey gets the biscuit at the whim of the lab tech. The conditions we set are never impervious to variation, and they are never set because they are the way others do it, or expect it to be done. Assumptions about the way we navigate these corners of intimacy are misplaced. There is no right way. Not for us. There is only the way of the moment.
     Do you want to hear the rest of that first example? It’s the part that I skipped, way back in The Night That Followed. I don’t mind telling it, but I get the impression that many people are put off by discussions of things like pee. I get that. I totally get that. Tell you what, if that’s you, skip the rest of this paragraph and I won’t mention it again, after. Where shall I pick it up? Let’s see, I’d stated simply that I had to go, and was standing there waiting to see what he would do with the information. He didn’t deny me completely, though I know he’s sometimes tempted to do so, to tie me up and just wait until it’s simply no longer in my control (or maybe not just wait). He put his hand out, palm up on the bed, and told me to sit, hairpin style. I sat. My task was to let go just barely, enough only for him to feel the first traces moisture on his palm, and then stop. If I could do that, then I was free to get up and go relieve myself of the rest. Easy. I should have known better than to think so. He gave me about two seconds to settle into misguided confidence, and then he slipped two fingers into my quim. I don’t know about other women, but for me peeing and coming are mutually exclusive. I can be mentally aroused and pee, but the physical conditions work like a toggle switch: It’s one or the other, it cannot be both. The resulting episode on that Night That Followed, was a war in which he’d let me get just to the threshold of completing the task he’d set for me, and then he’d hit my g-spot until I was just to the threshold of orgasm, preventing me from meeting his conditions, and then abruptly aborting the rising orgasm he’d done it with and making me start over. He set me up for failure on both sides of the toggle switch, and he did it over and over again until I dissolved in tears. (Then he laughed and kissed me and let me have both.)
     I have no idea if this is the sort of game people in other relationships with a similar dynamic play. I don’t really care. I don’t mean that in a judgmental or self-righteous kind of way. I’m a subjectivist. No two people anywhere, are the same. People are who they are, they like what they like, and no values system of any kind is universal. Other people with differing tastes are not failed attempts at being me (or you). I’m sure I’m not the only sub who falls face down, ass up at just a certain look, an eyebrow, a slight cock to the head. The plug in my ass during or after some torture, be it negligible or serious, is probably common as teaspoons. It can’t be only a few of us who know the maneuvering power of the very lightest touch of the switch, lifting the pelvis with the barest of suggestions before the real stroke, turning us this way or that with hardly a flick. The positions into which I am placed, bound or (more trying still), unbound and expected to maintain, arms behind the back, bent at the waist, arms raised, fingers laced at the back of the neck, tipped over backwards, thighs spread open, thrown onto the front, soles of the feet raised… No matter the combination, I cannot imagine we’ve stumbled onto anything groundbreaking and new. My point is that it doesn’t matter. I have no more need for our practice to be unique than I have for it to be prescribed or customarily sanctioned. I have no need to be any way but that which is required of me at the moment, by one man.
     It was a joyful cock sucking we ended on, after the physical and emotional rending, last Saturday. It was the amusement park of blow jobs. I would have put any amount of money on getting religiously ass fucked before the night was out, but it just didn’t go that way. The way of the moment is unpredictable. I think he could see how happy I was, with my ass in the air, still plugged with pink glass, and his cock the object of my considerable affection. I think my joy was obvious and arousing to him. I wasn’t even sticking to my usual tricks, I was playing at invention, making up things I had no name for. I think he must have enjoyed how much fun I was having, because he let me finish him off, like that. I’d say “What he didn’t know was…” but I know better. (Just because I didn’t tell him, didn’t say it, doesn’t mean he didn’t read it in me.) That joy – the letting go and the freedom of that particular Coney Island picnic of a blow job, came directly from that moment under the riding crop. That moment when the elevator, the trap door, the false floor deposited me into solace. The drop through frenzy to stillness, when the scattering cards of my mind – like Alice in the court of the red queen – suddenly shuffled themselves into neat and perfect order, a magician’s trick, and the measly, squeezing tears of pain turned to the unbound spilling tears of Love, Love, Love.

(So potentially complicated that it's absolutely simple.)

[Yes, I changed it. Assume nothing - that's the whole point!]

20. Back and Forth or Simple Past vs. Past Perfect

(Two posts in one? - Oh, the confusion! Almost like I did it on purpose...)

     I was already wet. No surprise I suppose, I’ve been wet for two weeks. We weren’t doing anything really. We were just binge watching Battlestar Galactica again. But I was wet. I was wet enough that I had to take off my panties. That might have been what started it, I guess. Wandering hands, sneaky fingers… Then the casual turned serious, fast. I think it felt so serious because it was done silently. He didn’t say anything, he just took me and physically turned me over – ass up, face in the mattress. He didn’t have to tell me I wasn’t to move. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his fingers on my pussy again. The last time we’d had sex it had started with his fingers there – on my pussy, not in. He had slow played me then, teasy and external, drawing me out, under him (I’d been on my back, that time). When he had finally put his mouth on me, I’d been halfway to orgasm already, but he’d stretched it out even further, patient and wet. He always knows exactly what’s going to make me react how, and when. He knows when to barely touch me with his tongue, until I’m arching to meet his mouth. He knows when to lick my clit, stroke it until it pinks and plumps. He knows just when to turn to suction and how hard, rhythmically or constant, when to lick my ass, when to incorporate his fingers, when to incorporate mine. (There’s something utterly lovely about putting my own fingers in my husband’s mouth and on my own pussy, at the same time. Just gently touching us both in the warm wet of mouth and pussy, tongue, labia, lip, clit… It almost becomes indistinguishable to the fingers, and it does beautiful things to my insides.) That night he’d brought me along so languidly, completely ignoring my ass until I was so, so close, and then he’d just touched it with one finger – a half knuckle of in and out, and I’d had one of those loooong, slow clitoral orgasms that make you throw your head back and stretch. But this night wasn’t that night.
     This night it seemed he wasn’t in it for the long game, he was going to make me come right then and there. All the physical contact I’d been so desperate for that getting it hadn’t quenched my need, was concentrated all at once on my pussy alone. Once he’d positioned me as he desired, he didn’t touch any other part of me. It was a whirlwind of every trick he knew, every kind of touch, soft pads of fingers, strong, grabbing fingers, long, stroking fingers, pinching fingers, thrusting fingers, circling fingers, and I knew he was watching, because he didn’t touch me with his mouth. He was watching and with my face in the mattress, I could only imagine his expression. I was pulling the sheet up in the grip of my fingers, taking the last breath before the orgasm broke in me, when he stopped. Just stopped. And there was nothing. Only my gasping and falling back to earth. Still, I knew better than to move a muscle.
     The last time, I had sprung up immediately like it was my turn on the swing. I’d wanted to lose control all over his cock, but he’d left his jeans on and only allowed me access to the tip. I have a thing for being naked while he fucks me fully clothed. (I have another thing for being naked together, skin on skin, and another thing for stripping off clothing bit by bit as the night goes on, and another thing for dressing up in something wanton, so it’s kind of hard to go wrong. The only thing that doesn’t usually move me is staying fully clothed myself, while he strips. Funny that that’s the one with the most available porn.) Anyway, it was a good twist that he hadn’t let me all over him. It was a nice compliment to the slow play he’d just perpetrated on me, and oh, how I love to take on that kind of a challenge: What are all the things you can do, with just the top two or three inches of a cock? Think I can’t put you over the edge with only that? Yeah, we’ll see about that. I’d played many of the same tricks on him, that he’d played on me. I’d played with different amounts of suction, from just barely to almost too much. I’d played with rhythmic versus constant pressure. I’d alternated between the squeeze of teeth wrapped safely in lips and a total lack of any pressure at all. (I call this “kitten mouth.” You use every available surface of lip, tongue and cheek all at the same time and all in constant motion, but only with the very softest, wettest, often slowest caress. There is no compression, no tension, only a wet, smooth version of the way rabbit fur is so soft you almost can’t feel it at all. A rigid cock can feel it though, make no mistake.) I’d played with speed, of course, and angle, direction of the tongue stroke, I had tried to cover every possible combination of actions, and even made up a new trick that I don’t yet have a name for. It involves turning sideways and actually sucking the frenulum between your lips or your upper lip and your tongue, then you turn back and forth, slide side to side, almost like you’re licking an envelope over and over again. That night I had brought him to the edge repeatedly, wanting it to last as long as he had drawn out mine. Sometimes when he had been just at the brink of coming, I’d simply stopped and held completely still, instead of letting go of him completely, and waited for the episode to pass with his cock held warm and wet but sealed motionless in my mouth. I don’t know how many times he’d almost come that night. Maybe he was getting back at me for it, now.
     This night, when my near-seizure passed and I was still ass-up, waiting for my heart rate to slow and my muscles to unclench, I heard him reach over to his bedside table. The next thing I felt was lube. An unreasonable amount of it, being pumped directly onto me, from the bottle. He didn’t touch it for a long time. In fact, he grabbed his beer and sat there drinking it, watching copious amounts of my favorite come-looking lotion cream slide down my pussy from my raised ass to my swollen clit. At this point, without the distraction of the visual stimulation (interesting to be blind to it all without being blindfolded – I could see, I just couldn’t see anything but the sheets and the headboard), the changes in temperature began to command my attention. The lube untouched on the open air was cool and wet, chilly, then it warmed as his began to spread it around. When he reached inside me, the wetness there felt a thousand times hotter than the wetness outside, and he brought it out on his fingers and rubbed it over my clit, my labia, my ass. When I almost came again, he stopped and drank his beer some more, while I quivered. When he touched me again, his hands and fingers were cold from the bottle. He leaned over me from above then, and I felt hot spit fall onto me with the truly amazing accuracy that never seems to fail him. Every way he touched me worked, and every time it did, he stopped. Over and over again. Eventually he flipped me onto my back, but it was only another position for the continuation of the divine torture.
     It was the opposite of that other night, when I’d been torturing him. When he’d decided he wasn’t going to let me get away with it any longer, he had sent me to refill our drinks, knowing that I’d walk to the kitchen completely overwhelmed by the wetness of my pussy sliding against itself. By the time I got back, I was only too happy to let him have his turn at this game of oral-pong we’d been playing. He had taken that turn with his tongue in my ass, and I’d felt his hand underneath me, directing me up into the position he had just taken me out of, tonight. Tonight, on my back, he was spinning me up further and further, and the time it took him to bring me to the edge of orgasm was shorter and shorter. This is when he started alternating which orgasm he was bringing me to. All along it had been clitoral – the good and faithful #1. Now he switched me to the g-spot – the easy #3. But every time, he stopped me right before I got there. Finally, the time between cresting waves was almost non-existent. When it got to practically immediate, and I thought there was no way he was going to be able to hold me off any longer, he dropped all speed to the slowest of slow motion. Evil genius. In reality, I’d guess he’d been playing with me like this for a little over a half an hour. At the time, it felt like – well it felt like there was no such thing as time. Finally, in the climbing spike of this super-slow rise, he gave me verbal permission to come. He was on the clitoral side of the cycle, and like that other night, the orgasm was long and slow to match the motion of his attentions. This night though, before it ended, he switched to the other side of his back and forth: As the last waves were still running through me, he slid his fingers back into me and started a g-spot orgasm on top of the first. Then he did it again. Both of them. Orgasm #1 is the one I can almost never get two in a row of. My clit is so sensitive after I come that way, that another one is usually out of the question. He made it happen anyway.
     When I had made him come that previous night, I guess I had been as insistent. He had tried to hold me off. Maybe he’d wanted another turn at that back and forth. Maybe he’d wanted to win at oral-pong, as if he hadn’t already. Remember how I can’t focus on more than one thing at a time? He‘d tried to use that against me. I’d been playing with him hand and mouth, but I was sideways, so I was in his reach. He’d taken my nipples in his fingers and squeezed them hard enough to make me take my mouth off his cock and cry out. It had backfired though. I had lifted my head, but not my hand, and when he’d heard me howl, I’d felt his cock twitch, stiffen even further in my hand, at the sound. He’d tried to exert his command over me, but only shown that the command that night had been mine. Which I’d proceeded to prove, all over his stomach.
     This night, that was not the case. He sent me on another slippery beer run to the kitchen, and when I returned I was instructed to sit on his hand. I did so, sitting on my spread knees like a kindergartener at rug time, with his fingers back in my pussy and he proceeded to hit me with one g-spot orgasm after another. Repeated 3s until I had come all over my own feet. Then he stopped, but he didn’t remove his hand. Like I had done to him that other night, he just held still. But he wasn’t going to let me stop coming, not a chance of that. Instead, he told me I was to do it myself. Grind against his hand until I got the girl-cum. His fingers were inside me, it was up to me to make them make me come. I went from not believing it would be possible to full blown orgasm in about ten seconds. For that I was rewarded with finally getting to suck his cock. He didn’t give me free reign though. He held his own cock at the base, preventing me from falling back on the deep throat. Once again I had to prove my skill. This time however, my face was pressed down close to his hand… And his hand was slick with my secretions and bodily fluids. Sucking his cock, I could only smell my own pussy. This is one thing when I’ve been fucked and get to taste it, too. This was another. It was like being partially deprived of a sense. His cock didn’t taste like my pussy. It was similar to the seeing sightlessness of earlier in the night. If I could have torn myself away from his cock, I would have sucked his fingers.
     Again he made me sit on his hand. Again he made me use it to make myself girl-cum. Again I thought I wouldn’t be able to. Again I was wrong. He was wet to his inner elbow.
     I went back to my blow job and every little method I’ve got a name for in my head, including the new envelope move that had proven so effective. (I guess it has a name now!) Apparently its potency was still compelling, because it wasn’t long before he was telling me out loud that he wanted his cock in my pussy, my pussy on his cock. Yes, yes, yes. I slid onto him and started playing with angles and sliding that slide that had given me two at a time, a few weeks before. This resulted in another long, drawn out orgasm, but a vaginal #2 this time. I was still playing with varieties though, down on my knees grinding versus up on my feet lifting and lowering, lean forward and raise the ass up and down, speed up, slow down, I don’t know what I was up to when I started coming again. They were 3s, a couple of them, and then a 2 again. It was like the early evening, when he’d been alternating me from 1s to 3s, but now it was g-spot vs. vaginal. Which is without question better. He let me choose where I wanted him to come, and I chose pussy. It was so good by then that there was no way I was going to let him out of me, no matter where else he might have gone. His orgasm was long, too. So much so that I was able to hang on for one final #3, just to insure that the mattress would be irreparably soaked. I went to sleep in the wet that night, and when I woke in the dark hours later with my hand in between my legs, my pussy was still full of his cum.

(One side vs. the other - more fun than retaliatory.)