30. Spit, flip, thwack.

     I may have been touching myself a little, just lying there next to him, but I can’t blame myself; I hadn’t stopped thinking about Friday. Whatever other sexual escapades had transpired over the last four days, I hadn’t stopped reliving that riding crop trailing over my chest and my inner thighs, and the sensation of getting off while getting hit. He reached over and casually groped my pussy two or three times, before he committed. Once he did though, it was a slow, calculated (wet) assault.
     Here’s the thing about spit: Spit on the ground, in the street, into a cup, even on the baseball field, and I am disgusted. Spit on my pussy and I will shudder and melt. He knows this.
     I still had panties on. A soft little black dress, a bra, and panties. (Funny that I use that word all the time now. I used to object to it unconditionally. I think writing this has desensitized me.) They were wine colored stretch-lace – you know that lace that’s not actually lacey? Tight without elastic that will leave a line on your skin? He groped me through them, cupping my snatch and squeezing, fingers pressing into and against me, and then he pulled them back, peered inside, and languidly spit onto my clit. He watched it slip slowly over my labia and down toward my ass, and then he put the panties back and groped me through them again. The spit was hotter than my pussy, and while I was already wet internally, it soaked into the crotch of my panties like I’d been fucking myself all afternoon. He was apparently unmoved by my intake of breath and involuntary physical response – my back arched, my arms went over my head, and I slid down the bed toward him. He just kept groping me until the slow writhe against his hand began. He let me move on him like that, encouraging me with his fingers and his palm, until I was almost caught up in it, eyes closed and forgetful of every single other thing, and then I felt him pull the panties back again, and there was the hot dollop landing with the same clinical accuracy, and the wet slide down the length of my pussy repeated. He varied his method of assault again and again, slow and deep, light and fast, slow and light, fast and deep, but in between each there came the hot, wet introduction of spit. Gripping and pulling, stroking and circling, pinching and probing, and always there was that slippery, dripping drop rolling onto me, until I couldn’t tell the wetness from without from the wetness from within.
     He flipped me over and rolled my panties down just halfway over my ass, then he proceeded to repeat his procedure from that side, thumb to my ass, fingers between my lips, and the inevitable spit slipping from back to front now. It was a longer drip with my clit on the underside, the new ultimate destination, because I had to wait for the warm pool in my ass to spill over onto my perineum and across. Again though, once the journey was made, he’d readjust those wet, wet panties and mash them into me with his hand. I was debating the question of whether to continue letting him do to me as he would until I came, or getting his cock in my mouth (which I could do from the position he already had me in, if I could just turn without repercussion), when he threw me out. He slapped my ass, tossed me a cigarette, and told me he wanted two fingers in my ass and my other hand on my clit, while I smoked it. I tried to get to his cock, if only briefly, before I left, but only succeeded in breaking the cigarette at the filter. He pretended not to notice or to be tempted by my attempt, and I had a moment of panic over being stuck with no options and a broken cigarette. There was no way I would dare to ask for another, tonight. His dismissive manner and the tone of his voice had told me everything I needed to know. It’s funny how my head can do that – get so caught up in the sex world that it can forget something as basic as the fact that despite hardly smoking in the last two years (you’ve read about most of it here), I started when I was fourteen years old and could repair a busted Camel in four seconds with my eyes closed in the back of a speeding car, without the slightest issue. I had to laugh at myself as I retreated, chagrined, out the back door. It really can take over everything.
     There’s an element of submission (even as mild as mine) – whether you’re talking about taking a beating or simply doing as you are told – that overlaps with a sense of extreme competence. When you’re in that space, you can do anything that’s expected of you. Or I feel like I can, anyway. Like I could take anything he could throw at me, and wait patiently for more. (Maybe it’s why he sometimes sets me up to fail – an impossible task or a game I cannot win.) A hint of that came back to me, as I went outside. And I even have a chair now, so once I remembered that I knew what I was doing (compared to something like a caning with the shaft of the switch), two fingers in my ass and the other hand at my clit with or without a broken cigarette, was so easy it felt like cheating. I put my feet up, tipped my chair backward, and tried to imagine he was watching me for mistakes or half-assing, through the window. I wished for strangers in the alley or neighbors over the wall. I put on a lascivious show for no one, debauchery personified, with my wet panties stretched tight above my spread knees, and my ass displayed in self-violation, pinching my slippery clit. If I could have blown a smoke ring at the same time, I would have. Maybe he saw it on my face when I came back in, because he motioned me back into the position I’d been in last – face down, ass up – and barehanded spanked me until my ass throbbed and radiated heat. (That must have been when he got rid of the panties – afterward I couldn’t remember when they had disappeared.) Reversing the move he’d made earlier, he flipped me over to the other side then, knees up, and did it again, slapping my ass from the opposite angle and my wet pussy besides. Then he turned me back. I could get dizzy on a night like this. This time, between flipping me over and back, he took my throat in one large hand every time he brought me back to face him, cut off my breath and looked me in the eyes. He gave nothing away in his own expression but need. He may have been looking for my limits in my face, checking on where I was and how far he could push me tonight, but from the outside it read of love. Love and desire and no false bullshit piled on top or getting in its way.
     “Take off your bra.” He’d had me on my back, slapping my pussy until it jumped and glowed. I hurried to comply, and any delusion of that sense of competence I’d still been harboring evaporated, as I got myself completely stuck. The bra was a cross-back, so even after the hooks are released, you still have to take it off over your head. I’d tried to get the little dress off in the same motion, and managed to get hung up with it tangled in the bra and wrapped around my upper arms and head. Ridiculous. Instead of laughing, my husband was quick to press the advantage, and descended on my exposed breasts with practiced cruelty. By the time I’d freed myself, they’d been slapped and pinched to pink, and squeezed until milk rolled down my sides and soaked into the bedspread like spit into a pair of cotton, stretch-lace panties.
     “You have five minutes to drink your wine.” I didn’t try to guess why he’d said it or what he was planning. His ambush of my breasts had reminded me that I’d lately fallen in love (again), with their ability to lactate. Yes, I had some wine as the minutes ticked away, but mostly I played with my boobs. I’d been thinking about this almost as much as I’d been thinking about Friday (no, pretty sure that’s a lie), and I just let go all restraint and decorum (that’s not). I squeezed them until milk rolled over my fingers. I drew milk from my wet nipples with fingers that were already wet with milk. I covered my whole breasts until they were so slippery it was hard to do, and then the sweetness of it left them sticky, and I was able to start all over again. I was about to start a third round of this, when he got up and walked away. What was he doing? Where was he going? Was he just getting his own drink? Why would he do that on a night of this flavor? I tried not to get insecure about it and lay back admiring the shine on my breasts, droplets sitting at the tips of my nipples. Then he came back not just with a fresh drink, but also with the riding crop and a set of restraints. You have five minutes to drink your wine. Ah. Because after that I wouldn’t be able to.
     It was the same crop he’d used on Friday. We have another one that we refer to as the switch, even though it isn’t a true switch (it’s not a true riding crop either though, as the leather tip is a double flap instead of a loop). I prefer the true crop, because it’s more bruisey where the “switch” is more stingy, so it wasn’t just the memory of Friday night that made me glad to see it. He lay stripes down on my inner thighs, before he took it to my pussy. There, he started with sort of a general punishing before narrowing his focus to the thwack of my clit. It was almost parallel to the way he slow plays me when he goes down, bringing me along incrementally until I’m about to come anyway, and then hiking me up to a whole new level when he shifts into the next stage of intensity and slingshots me into orgasm. By the time he was done with my clit, my legs were jumping and shuddering and I was squirming disgracefully. The dripping wet that had been spit first and then breast milk, was girl-cum in this incarnation of the game. He’d strike me to a point where I could no longer hold still for it, then he’d jerk me off, slip his fingers in to my g-spot, and drench me with orgasm #3. Then he’d flip me over and start again.
     I was face down when the demand came for my ass in the air. I had to have already been worn to slacking by that point, because I know how high it’s supposed to be raised. I adjusted promptly, and felt his cock at my snatch instead of the crop. There was no slow play now, this was a shock-and-awe pummeling. He crushed me into the mattress and fucked me hard, pinned me down with one hand to the back of my neck and the other at my lower spine, preventing me from fucking him back. So often he’s got his hand at my throat, looking in my eyes while he fucks me and watches me not breathe. This was literally the other side of that. His hand at the back of my neck forced my throat into the mattress and cut off the air just as effectively, while he slammed into me from behind. There was fear in it, because I always have the utmost confidence in his ability to recognize in my face the moment when he’s held it as long as I can stand (or just slightly longer), but now he couldn’t see my face. In reality I guess he could, as my head was turned to the side, but I couldn’t see him, so it felt very disconnected – isolating. The feeling was reinforced by the brutality with which he was railing me. There was no slow-fucking until I was beside myself, squirming and babbling lustful profanity; he was driving into me with force and at speed, and against all the stinging marks he’d laid across my flesh. Ultimately there is never any question of my safety with him, so I was free to feel the fear without actual panic, and free-fall into the sensations of his holding me down and using me.
     He stopped before he came, and pulled out of me. In a daze, I watched him produce the restraints he’d gotten out earlier. It was a hog-tie, so while I may have slumped in the aftermath of being fucked, I was hesitant to move from my position. He turned me back over himself then, and I saw that he had taken it apart. Now he had two wrist to ankle restraints, and he spread my knees and positioned my arms in front of them as he cuffed me, so that I could not close them. He knelt in front of me with his cock still hard and wet and took up the riding crop again. He started with my inner thighs and then my outer labia, and then he moved to the available underside of my ass that was still hot, sore and tenderized. Welts across fresh welts. It’s one of the things that most quickly tests my limits. Most other things walk me up to the line step by step, like a game of Mother May I?, but stripe-on-stripe runs me right up to the edge. (At least I think it’s the edge at the time – usually it’s really a different edge that will drop me into solace if I can just throw myself off of it.) His cock should have been cool against my crotch. It had been wet with my pussy and my pussy had been thwacked to bright pink. It should have been cool. It was hot. He didn’t fuck me right away though, he let his cock rest against me like that, barely inside the lower folds, then he gave me that look that makes all my bones dissolve and spit onto my clit. I closed my eyes and tested the cuffs holding my wrists to my ankles, feeling the restraint of it at the same time as the sensation of hot spit slipping down over my quim, while he watched. When it met the head of his cock, he pushed the tip into me just a little, slid out and over and around, spreading wetness. Now he slow-fucked me, holding my knees as far as they spread and my arms with them, for the restraints. With one hand he reached back for the crop and as slowly as he was fucking me, he put new marks down my sides and my hips and my belly. He flipped me again – manually lifted and flipped me, because I was still restrained, and this time the spit hit me in the ass, the splat echoed by the thwack of the crop against my outer thigh. Again, he met the spit with his cock and both of them disappeared inside me. He continued fucking and beating me, never quite losing control or getting carried away, and then he simply reached down and unlocked my cuffs from each other.
     “You’ll have to keep those on, in case I need them again.” He said it while he hauled me up by the shoulders, and then he pushed me over backward against the cushion at the foot of the bed. My ears were ringing, blood draining out of my head from being flung so quickly up and away, made me dizzy. There was a pulse in my temples that mimicked the smack of the crop as he used it to spread my thighs at the inside of my knees.
     “Touch your clit.” It was a whisper and I shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the music and the wooshing in my head. I remember having the strange thought that this was a space in which only his voice would carry. I played with my clit, pulling the way he does, squeeze and pinch like Nina Hartley, and then the simple two-finger-swirl of the prepubescent girl who’s just discovered what it’s for. Side to side, back and forth he smacked one inner thigh and then the other, working his way right up to the divot at the very meeting place of thigh and pussy, pushing me closer and closer to orgasm while simultaneously preventing it. Finally his objective climbed to my pussy itself, just under my slippery fingers, and his rhythm sped up until it was a constant patter of wet strikes against me and finally, finally, finally I came. Then came the tears. There’s a difference between tears and crying. I was not actively crying, but the tears fell out of my control while he pulled me to him, leaned back and sat me on his cock. It was clearly a reward, and he let me ride him as I pleased, arms draped over my own head with the D-rings of the unlocked cuffs dangling against the back of my neck. Twice I got off with his cock triggering my g-spot, full eye contact enhanced by the wet tear lines on my cheeks and the warm gush of my orgasms pooling between us.
     “Do you want to suck your come off my cock?” A simple “Yes” will not suffice at a point like this; I have to say the words. Before he let me off him though, he locked the wrist restraints to each other. I mistook this move for an invitation to a two-handed blow job, and was corrected with a hard slap to the face the minute my fingers closed around him.
     “Don’t you dare touch me with your hands.” The slap scrambled the shit out of me. It’s not even so much the shock of being hit, in those instances, it’s mostly the figurative slap of the correction itself. I’d misread him. Fucked up. The brain scrambling is a state I think of as ‘sub-head’; it’s a condition of being so desperate to please him, to redeem myself, that I forget I know how to do so. It’s the same thing that happened with the broken cigarette. In regular life it would be like panicking so much over the fact that your blow-up raft has popped that you forget you know how to swim. I do not need the use of my hands, to suck my husband’s cock. It took me a moment of frantic, undisciplined mouthing to remember, but when I did, I was praised … Praised and then Thwacked as the crop connected with my ass again. That’s how it went, praise and then thwack, praise and then thwack, as I sucked him off, the taste of my own come on his cock, on my tongue, pushed back into my throat as I took him deep. And now the spit was mine. I let it fall onto him from a wide-out – withdrawing from the deep throat with my mouth as open as I could make it. I spread it over him from root to tip, painting him sideways with my tongue. I spit down onto the head of his cock from above, and then smeared it down the length of him with my lips. I drowned myself on him, abandoned control and slid my whole face over his wet cock, like a cat rubbing her whiskers against your leg. I made a mess, while the crop relit the little, dying fires in my skin.
     Once I get on a roll like that, there’s not a lot I won’t try with a cock, whether or not I have the use of my hands. This is where I start inventing new tricks, making up new sequences and maneuvers. If I get too caught up I can get reckless with the approach of his climax. If he wants to fuck me again, he’ll often have to stop me physically, pull me up onto him... He wanted to fuck me again. He unlocked my cuffs and let me ride him as he had before. I was in such a state of arousal already, that I started having g-spot orgasms almost immediately, and the drench of spit became the drench of come again. At that point he grabbed me hard by the hips and held me still, with his cock buried in my pussy. I tried to stay just as he had sat me, but when he reemployed the riding crop to my thighs and even my clit, while his cock was still inside me (who’s reckless now?!), I couldn’t keep from squeezing. I did kegels on his cock while he smacked me, felt the wet splash of my come on his belly, and that over-emotional cris-crossing of pleasure and pain that I’d been obsessing about since Friday engulfed me. I let it. My husband trailed the wet leather loop up my body to my mouth, where I licked it, trading come back for spit, then he’d bring it down on me again and trade it back.
     Eventually we made that trade on his cock again, as well. I had my hands at my disposal now, and I was working some crazy embellishment of a cheek punch, with a tight grip and tongue across the frenulum (that remains undefined and nameless, as of yet), when he took one of my fingers, and held it up.
     “Put this finger in your ass.” I circled my ass with it for a moment, and then sank it in at the same moment as I pushed his cock into my throat until my lips were at his pelvic bone. He praised me for that, but again the praises came with punishment. I pulled up off his cock and met his eyes, then I withdrew my finger. I brought it to my mouth while he watched, exposing as I did so the side of my breast and my rib cage, on which he lay the crop (though not unkindly), while I coated my finger in spit. Holding his cock up tight in my other hand, I transferred my dripping finger to the tip, curled it around the head while he whispered loving profanity. Then I put him back into my throat.
     “Fuck your ass again.” I obliged, and repeated the sequence as before, while he verbally defiled me. I set caution aside at that point, and set to his cock in earnest. There was going to be no backing off before the end came now, and between tongue, hand, lips and throat, I employed as much spit as there had been girl-cum. When he went over the edge I sucked the come out of him like I was actually sucking the come out of him.

     Afterward, I lay along the length of him, wrapped in his arms, while he lightly caressed the stingy places on me. Some would be gone by morning, some were already purple and lasting.
     “Not bad for a Thursday,” he said.
     “Or a Wednesday.”
     “It’s only Wednesday?!”
     “Yes … Sorry.”
     *Thwack*

(Yep.)

29. Conflicts and Contradictions

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28. Frivolous? Yep. Worth it? You bet!

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27. Invitations, offerings and the space between us

     Chaos over – okay, mostly over, but with a nice little pause, a break, a day of peace before the trailing end, and some light at the end of the cliché tunnel. We had intended to celebrate. Plans to get dressed up, plans to go out to a really nice restaurant… But the more we lazed about making no actual preparations, the more we talked about how nice it was to laze about making no actual preparations, and the more obvious it became that what we really wanted to do more than anything else was be alone together. So finally we decided to celebrate our way, and spent most of the day lying around in each other’s arms. It was blissful. Of course it also led to sex. So, even better, yeah.
     Even if we weren’t going out though, I was damn well going to take a long, hot bath. I made a couple of moves to get up to do so, but was lured back by the soft, warm bed, the solid dip between shoulder and chest that fits my head and cheek so perfectly, the wandering hands, trailing fingers, groping… I’m a total glutton for groping. Is it any wonder I let myself be waylaid? This was a day of unapologetic leisure, after all. The groping became distinctly more deliberate, but he wouldn’t let me take off my panties or give in to my wordless, arching invitations to go under them. He pulled them back and looked appreciatively a couple of times, admiring the visible effects of his handiwork (also I’m sporting a pretty nice new little trim job – it’s a thin triangle with the point up instead of down, that I think suits me well), but he didn’t give in. I think he likes to make me come through my panties for the sake of the slow soak of moisture into fabric. I think the look and feel of that pleases him. Also, it’s a bit of a tease, and that pleases him as well. So I came in my panties for him, loudly, spread wide across the bed, in the broad light of late afternoon, with my arms flung indecorously over my head, and the bedroom door thrown wide to the empty house.
     Afterward, I half-rolled away from him to reach my glass and got the full body grope, from behind. He still had his jeans on, but there’s a quality about wet panties that I can’t imagine was wholly undetectable to that rigid a cock crammed up against them. He knows I love it when he does this, so he always claims that I do it on purpose, like I’m beckoning him over, intentionally tempting, suggesting, every time I take a sip of a drink. I deny it every time. Oh, but I can’t get enough of his cock long and hard against me from my pussy up the crease of my ass. He may have initiated the grind (enticement or no), but I was quickly overcome by that slow writhe that starts with my ass and gradually incorporates my whole body working against him like waves over a beach. I’ll admit I got swept up into it. I was enjoying the unmitigated freedom of having nothing to do but enjoy each other, and I let it carry me so far off that I almost came again just from the sheer indulgence – full-on frottage. We have a little history with frottage. A fond memory of balancing along the edge of paired orgasm on the PATH train from NYC where we’d been listening to jazz on Bleecker Street, to Hoboken where we’d parked the car. It was a hot summer night, and too late for the train to be crowded enough to warrant being pressed so tightly against each other. I had on my favorite dress which was made of nothing at all, and the sweat ran from my neck down inside it. My husband (though he wasn’t then), had me pinned against a corner at the door, and the train was loud and rolling us against each other. He is much taller than I, and I could see nothing of the other passengers or where they were looking. I could only feel the heat coming off of him, and my own ragged breath trapped against his chest, and his body rocking against mine. We didn’t speak at all, but it might have been the most truly intimate – physically, mentally, emotionally, intellectually, sexually intimate moment of my life, up until then. (”Ever do it on a real train, Joel?”) I suppose it’s doubtful he was thinking about the PATH train, but he was as close to coming as I was, so we had to stop or risk the sex being over before he’d even gotten his pants off.
     I got into the tub with a full glass of wine, an electric cigarette and a book of fantasy porn about a masochist and a djinn with a poire d’angoisse. It’s one of those books that pretty much opens itself to certain passages, due to the number of times I’ve read them. It’s possible I got a little over-friendly with the soap. My husband had music on in the bedroom and tribbing porn on the TV, which I could just see from my bath, if I looked up from my book. This is what life should be like all the time. Eventually, legs shaved to the thigh, I got out and set about the extras – hair, eyeliner, all that. I did it naked because I wanted to honey dust myself, but my skin and the air were still too steamy for it to really smooth and slide. I did the little knotted pigtails and black eyeliner, and then I threw caution to the wind and reached for the charcoal eye shadow, despite what had happened the week before. I don’t usually wear eye shadow at all, but the week before I’d been feeling badass as a result of listening to too much Joan Jett (as if there could be such a thing), so I’d dug out my gray-to-blacks and gone a little Do You Wanna Touch Me. I’d put on a tight, black tank top, and a pair of crotchless black panties made entirely out of straps. I’d had plans for my boots too, but my husband had responded before I’d gotten the chance. He’d never actually said Oh, you think you’re badass do you? We’ll see about that… What he’d done was slap my ass until his hand hurt, and sent me to get the ropes. Now, I don’t care if I think I am Joan Jett at the time, if you send me for the ropes my pulse is going to scamper like a kid for an empty swing. I’d brought them to him trying to maintain some trace of exterior calm, and sat on my feet with my hands clasped behind me like a good little sub, to watch him open the bag. Then, THEN, after fingering first the dark red, then the blue set, with the most artful, unspoken guile, he’d brought out the very PINKEST most pinkity pink ropes of pinkiosity that ever pinked into pinkness. Then he’d bound my feet sole to sole, cinched my ankles to my thighs, tortured my pussy as long as he’d felt like it, and then amused himself by fucking me stupid through my supposedly hardcore little straps-for-panties. It was a thing of beauty. He’d trumped my badassery without so much as batting an eye. (I highly recommend fucking people who are really good poker players. They can take all your chips and you never see it coming, but you’ll be happy to have fed the pot.)
     So now I had the hair and the eyes and I was deliciously honey dusted from smooth neck to silky boobs, ticklish underarms to delicate inner elbows to sensitive wrists, long spine to smooth scoop, smooth belly to ripe snatch to lovely under-ass, pale thighs to oh-gods-how-I-love-when-you-touch-the backs of the knees to silver polished toenails. Fucking honey dust. It makes me feel like that every time – like I could go naked to the king’s ball. Speaking of which, what did I feel like putting on? Panties? Sweet or sexy? Little skirt and no panties? I could go school-girl… Or negligee? No stockings; I didn’t want to cover that much skin… While I was standing there considering options, my husband signaled me over. He had his pants open but not off, and he told me to sit on his cock which was lying hard against his belly. Have I mentioned that I love to be completely naked while he’s fully dressed? I kneeled over him and nestled his long cock lengthwise into the slit of my labia. My pussy was cool from air drying after the bath, and the heat of his cock against it melted me, made me gasp. He slid his hands (Jesus, he has these big, strong hands) up my bare torso, took one breast in each, and squeezed. Right away my nipples let go and I watched the milkiness run over his fingers and splash onto his chest, soaking into his shirt. The sight of it made me wet too, suddenly, like I was doused from the inside, and it was at that moment that I decided to stay naked.
     So began a slow Slip n’ Slide with kissing and the taste of licked milk and honey dust passed between lips and tongues. Spontaneous, intermittent moments of penetration advanced into fucking, wet cock submerging in wet pussy, my brain saturated just as thoroughly, and then receded again into that luscious, self-indulgent slide. I leaned against him, my face and breath at his neck, and reestablished the full-body writhe Id been so enjoying from the other side, earlier. I wanted as much of my body moving against his as I could get, my nipples stiff against his damp shirt and his chest, my thighs bent double and working against his hips, and always his cock at my cunny, inside and out, but never so much as a bubble of air between them. His hands moved down my back to my hips and my ass and pressed me into him, over him, onto him, against him... The tactile element of my nature was positively delirious. As his cock slid out of me again, I sat up and leaned back, spread my pussy with my fingers. I pulled back and exposed my clit, displayed it for him, and then I positioned it just at the base of his wet frenulum and nudged forward, like a kiss, a lick, a slow, wet lick of clit to cock and again we both almost tipped over the edge.
     Intrigued by my pussy’s early reaction to my nipples, I retreated to the bathroom and dug out my nipple rouge. To hell with clothing; I would wear raspberry nipple rouge and lipstick. Nipple rouge is fabulous stuff. It’s a pain in the ass to put on, but once in place it turns you instantaneously into an old-school burlesque show girl. If you are feeling self-conscious, it will make you a show-off. If you are feeling free and confident, it will make you downright bawdy. I traipsed back to the bed and kneeled somewhat apart from my husband, presenting him with my handiwork and a mischievous grin. The effect was apparently well-appreciated, but he is however (and of course), more mischievous than I, and I didn’t have time to so much as settle back against anything before he stole across the bed and buried his face between my thighs. This was particularly interesting because usually when he goes down on me he wants me as open and spread out flat and relaxed as he can possibly make me. I think he knows I like the luxury of it, and he likes to get comfortable and settle in for the long game. This was far from that. I was not uncomfortable, but I had to support myself with my hands on the edge of the bed behind me, so I was not free to writhe and flail. The result was that I found myself arched and offering myself to his mouth, the way I’d been presenting my nipples to his view a few moments before. Recognizing this, gathering the sense that I was feeding myself to him, tipped my head into orgasm before my body even had a chance to catch up. Then when it did, the position I was in, bracing myself, caused one of those involuntary shakes that an orgasm can throw into your thighs, only it shook the entire lower half of my body, and the shake spiked and extended the orgasm right the fuck off the chart. While I was panting in the aftermath and still getting my head around Holy shit, that was fucking intense, he slid his fingers into me and found my g-spot, and brought me off with a #3 before I’d recovered from the #1. Fucking hell, I was wearing nipple rouge, lipstick and cum today, and I might never put clothes on again!
     There was more kissing than usual, I think as a result of those intimate hours we’d spent earlier, entwined in each other’s bodies. If I could bottle the taste of our lips and tongues by the time it was evening: Rum, honey dust, breast milk, pussy, cock, raspberry nipple rouge, sweet wine and cum, I’m fairly certain I’d have a love potion that could end war. Kissing with that elixir shared between us easily enhanced and amplified the groping and again I was flooding his palm with cum. He played at that exquisite torture where he brings me just to the edge and then stops and starts over, and then he spanked my wet quim until my legs shook. Of course I went down on him. I was working a combination of my Vegas trick and the suicide squeeze (where you take the cock back just to that point that triggers a gag you have to fight, and then squeeeeze the head between the back of your tongue and the back of your throat), when he almost came again. He tossed me over and railed my g-spot again (No thank you, I don’t want a towel, I want to lie here in a pool of my own come – it’s part of what I’m wearing tonight). His face was at my hip when he began to bite me. Slow, small bites that just stepped a toe across the line into too much pain and then stopped. Hip to waist, he bit me, creeping up my body. The under lobes of my breasts to my nipples, biting carefully to just the point of too hard. The delicate flesh even of my underarm between those sharp teeth in his calculating manipulation, when at the same time he reached between my legs and made me gush again. Satisfied and surveying, he trailed his dripping fingers up my body and over my breasts and my nipples in a wet line that shone in the near dark – the sun was long gone. I took my cue and took his cock back in my mouth. The same combinations I’d been playing with before were as effective now, then I moved into the deep throat. I only used a basic swirl really, on the upstroke, but with his mounting responses it became something of a basic swirl gone somewhat hysterical. And then I felt his hand at the back of my head and let him drive me down. Deep throating is a third level cock sucking in and of itself, but forced deep throating is where he red-lines, and the sustained kick of it ripped into me harder than I’ve felt him come in ages. An offering as surely as those I’d made of my body for him, an acceptance of my invitation, and welcome.

(Sometimes you just have to submerge...)