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.)

19. A tactile creature

     There’s always a certain amount of stress around here. My husband’s job is a bottomless well of the stuff, and of course I’m not entirely sane or stable, so while one of the arguments for quitting my job was that I would be able to maintain a certain amount of tranquility around the house and be reasonable enough to talk him down off the occasional ledge (instead of my own work stress serving to amp up his, until we were one big, spastic snowball), it doesn’t always work out that way. Usually, as should come as no surprise, we burn off stress with regular sex. It’s a pretty dependable method of dealing. Sometimes you just have to let the rest of the world go fuck itself while you hibernate and fuck each other. Nothing chases away the ultimately inconsequential aggravations of a shitty day like a hand to the throat or a face crushed into a pillow. When a Tuesday fucks you the way Tuesdays so often will (have you ever noticed how much more often a shitty day is a Tuesday, than any other day?), it’s cathartic to let somebody throw you down and fuck you better, until you’re gasping and your pelvic bone is bruised – or alternatively, to rip the clothes off of someone who knows exactly where your head is, and pound them into a puddle of human butter. However, sometimes the aggravations aren’t quite so ultimately inconsequential, and if you don’t keep up with blowing them out of your system in explosive orgasms, they can pile up and smother the static electricity of even the most well maintained regimen of sex therapy. A week or so ago, we found ourselves at the bottom of just such an avalanche.
      When life becomes impossible and it’s all my husband can do to keep his shit together and not simply burst into flames, he becomes almost claustrophobic. It’s like the radius of his personal space grows three times the size (just like the Grinch’s heart – pop, pop, pop!). He needs space. He needs nobody anywhere near in his face. He needs stillness and quiet. When I’m at the top of my game, I can draw him back. Even if I’m running on low, I can at least get him drunk and make him laugh and we get through. If I’m my own special brand of psycho though, it’s a different story.
      I am a tactile creature. (I know, gasp & clutch the pearls!) Lots of people are visually stimulated – it’s part of why humans escape into art and action movies and porn. Some people are auditory and need music to keep them sane. Some are taste oriented, and they eat. (I wonder if there are people whose dominant sense is smell?) When I’m one step away from pulling a Thelma & Louise, what I need is physical human contact. Touch me. Grab me. Hold me, grope me, tie me up and wail my ass with a riding crop, I don’t care, just don’t leave me dangling in the open air with nothing to cling to. See where this is going? When my husband and I are freaking out at the same time, we have to catch it quickly, usually by fucking like monkeys, or our methods of dealing with stress only serve to stress each other out even more. Roll in the big, spastic snowball. Sometimes when the natural disasters of life – like, I don’t know, every relative you have who shouldn’t ever be in the same room with the others are all arriving and staying for a solid week of intense awkwardness and uncomfortable silence – the sex that is possible just isn’t enough to hold it off. This is where we’ve been, since last you heard from me.
     Frankly, we were there before the relatives even started arriving. We had known exactly what we were in for, and the horrible, spiky dread of it had us shuffling around, twitching, like a cross between zombies and Sylvester the Cat, post-kangaroo. I don’t think we were three days into the actual horror, before we hit the wall. Really, hitting the wall was what we needed, because it forced us into desperation sex. Are you familiar with desperation sex? Where the last thing you remember thinking is Fuck it, and then you’re in a mutual throw-down, a free for all? There is nothing slow or gentle about it, at any time. What might otherwise be a caress is a grip that’s likely to leave a mark. Kisses are borderline violent crushings of lip and tongue. Often it even manifests as battle sex, and you come away with injuries you don’t remember sustaining. It’s the fight club of fucking. Panties get ripped away, hair pulled, wrists caught and pinned behind the back… Usually if I’m deep throating my husband’s cock, he leaves me in control – I’m going to be less than humble here and suggest that perhaps I’m skilled enough at this point to be left to my own devices – but if it’s desperation sex I’m likely to be grabbed by the back of the head and have that cock forced into my throat, intentionally gagged, and in that moment I wish for nothing else. Until he’s thrown me face first against the headboard and is fucking me so hard from behind that it feels like he’s pummeling my ovaries, and then I wish for nothing else but that. Until I’m sitting on his face and he’s sucking my pussy until he can’t breathe (turn around & fair play, etc.), and then I wish for nothing else but that. It’s fucking in the moment and caring for nothing but morebetterfaster and I’m gasping “I can’t fuck you enough,” and riding him and grinding myself onto his cock until he has to throw me off to keep from being actually harmed, at which point he’ll pin me by the throat and do the same to me. You come away reborn and redeemed and in a state of relief that looks a lot like collapse.
     Usually. But we were only three days in.
     The familial onslaught continued, even after everyone ran out of things to say, only they didn’t stop talking… So the uncomfortable silences that followed the awkward conversations were in turn followed by inappropriate rants and bizarre, nonsensical ramblings… It was very like being trapped on a long airplane flight with a crazy seat mate who won’t shut up. Have you ever thought you were going to be that person who just flips shit and goes for the exit door? That was us. The deep muscle exhaustion of holding a plastic smile for days on end… It was too much to leave us capable of recreating the desperation sex, but that one go hadn’t been nearly enough. That’s when the random grope assaults began. I’d be sitting there, in the middle of my first deep breath of the night, after seeing everyone off to (separate) hotels, and suddenly his fingers would have my clitoris in a toruring grip. Or my nipple was grabbed and tweaked until I cried out. Two different nights he fell asleep with his fingers in my pussy. This, of course, is exactly the kind of thing to spin me right the fuck up, and our usual sex life was sort of renewed – except that it was more like our normal sex life’s alter ego. The evil twin (who we know and love, but don’t generally see on the regular). Short bursts of maniacal ass fucking and violent orgasms that totally destroyed the mattress, even despite the handy little waterproof blanket – or because we didn’t take the spare moment to spread it out. It was fast sex, fast and fearsome (and fabulous). On top of that, I am in penalty. I was so stressed out by the whole of the week, that I tweaked my neck and decided to go get a massage. Since the massage was to be neck-specific, I asked for my collar to come off for it. He agreed, but until it is put back in place (at his discretion), my ass and pussy are fair game and must be accessible to the whims of his mind and fingers at any time, whether or not there’s going to be actual sex in the immediate future. (You might point out that they always are, and you would be right, but that opens another topic on the dominant/submissive aspect of the relationship, that deserves its own post. I know I’ve dangled it out there before and not yet followed through, but I haven’t forgotten.)
     So, our established sex life reasserted itself on the dark side, such that even now that our house is empty again, I am a tactile creature with teeth. Instead of curing me of my desperate needs, it has reignited them over and over again, and I am simply letting myself spin out of control. I have more reason than usual to be sending pictures to my husband in the middle of the day, because I can’t stop fucking myself at the thought of him. I have dirty dreams that I can’t remember, and spend my mornings smearing my body all over his pillow. I’m taking sex toys on long car rides and showing off at stop lights and on-ramps for semi drivers and motorcycle riders. I am wet. I am wet all the time. I am wet right now, writing this. I don’t know where it’s going, but I am definitely riding shotgun.

 (And the kid just called to say that he’ll be gone for the night. Fuck, yes.) 

18. New Territory – it’s another thing entirely.

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17. Hitting for the cycle

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