Sunday, June 23, 2013

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.)

No comments:

Post a Comment