I had been feeling out of control and my libido had dropped a few rungs when I received a provocative and thoughtful email from a friend who happens to be dominant. He reminded me that if I wanted something, I had the power to make it happen, the responsibility to be kind, and the wherewithal to know the difference between recklessness and pushing boundaries.
I mulled it over for days.
A part of my real life had been spiraling out of control and I had to flex that muscle I’d built up while masturbating myself into true acceptance of all things The Neighbor. In other words, I had to just let go.
It’s worked, thank God, but it took a lot out of me and I could focus on nothing but that problem for most of my waking days.
It robbed me of my will to write like I wanted to and it’s the culprit behind the lowered libido, too, but somehow, insanely, my friend’s words continued to percolate and in the midst of my chaos I turned to TN one night as we cuddled and said, “I don’t want you to masturbate without me anymore. No touching, no cumming, nothing, unless I’m somehow present. You can have me involved or just in the room, but whatever it is, I’m there.”
I probably said it a lot more kindly than that because I am a very soft-hearted woman and a clumsy Domme. I probably also gave some reasons behind it — thinking I had to — but with a slow smile and a squeeze TN said simply, “Ok. I think I can do that.”
That was 3 weeks ago and he has kept his word like a good boy.
My bond to him has deepened and my trust in him has blossomed. I am also in utter disbelief.
There has been a time or two when he has admitted to waking up humping his pillows, a pained look on his face, and I just laughed and rubbed and loved on him like a giant puppy. A great, big, wonderful, love and sex puppy.
His hard-ons are epic and easy as usual, but there’s an air to our interactions that is different. I’m holding invisible reins and he’s wearing an equally invisible bridle. His reliance on masturbation to self-soothe and regulate his emotions throughout any given day is heavy and I take it seriously to be in control of his outlet.
I grip and stroke, and find my face buried between his tree-trunk legs far more often than I have in previous months, and I’ve found that magical prescription that milks the cum from his body despite his control tenfold more times than before my new Rule. And even my pussy has coaxed him to orgasm.
Whatever connection we had is growing stronger as he learns to rely on me and I learn to trust myself. It vibrates, it soothes, it’s sweet and sexy, it’s everything to me.
When I ask him if he wants to cuddle now, instead of saying, “Maybe,” I get, “Of course.” It’s been months since he’s missed a night anyway, but nowadays, he gets upset if I try to carve out some space alone. I hesitate to write the following words, but he might just need me.
On a new level, somewhere between primal and elevated, he needs me and his body knows it. I’m sure his heart does, but maybe now his head is beginning to realize it, too. And it’s the confluence of the three that I’m sensing in him. It just has to be. Either that or I’m just drunk from all the semen and Domme-y power. That can happen, right??
I had a dream last night that basically epitomized my feelings about being a Domme to The Neighbor: I’m a hack.
I was somehow partnered with a pixie-haired blonde girl, lithe and curvy with little breasts and a sweet, flowy energy. There were two men with us, TN and her man and they were both eager to please. I was awkward and weird where she was sure and innovative.
In my silences she gave them tasks to do and I watched somewhat horrified as my guy did as he was told BY SOMEONE ELSE.
She was encouraging me to engage, but I couldn’t, I felt like I was at a dance and they all knew the steps, but I didn’t.
TN was sweet and kept looking to me expectantly, but I kept hiding inside myself. They kept going without me. I was alone with my dick in my hand, feeling silly and horrible.
I don’t think TN really feels this way about me — thank God — but it’s enough that I do.
Lately, life has put the brakes on our libidos and the quantity and quality of the sex has gone down slightly (it hurts to write that, by the way, but I will avoid any self flagellation for now).
We still talk and see each other every night and day, cuddle and kiss and I stroke his big hardon and he suckles my breasts, but for some reason 10 o’clock at night no longer calls to me rise up. Instead, my body yearns to shut off and I answer the call.
I do my best, though, and if I look at it objectively (and more kindly) I dominate him considerably through a multitude of non-sexual ways: my tone of voice, my requests (aka demands), my moods, and my needs.
And the magical, impossible, ridiculous thing of it is: HE COMPLIES.
He complies and he yields and he bends and he offers. Always. He never says NO.
To be fair, I think I’m fair. Rules to follow include things like not teasing me about my age in a disparaging way (he may tease, of course, but I better not feel like it’s a dig); he is to kiss me before leaving the house; he is to do any favor I ask of him no matter how big or small (how many boxes of Topo Chico has that man lugged up 3 flights of stairs in 2 years is beyond me); he is to wear panties when he vacuums for me; and more recently, he is not to masturbate or cum without my presence.
In the absence of physical, sexual play, these little rules are what connects our dots.
Dumb Domme made an incredible list of her House Rules recently and it brought a tear to my eye; and Kink in Exile and Ferns have also both written about rules and their relationships to them.
What I’ve taken away from all of this is that it’s whatever fits the couple. It’s sorta like how a therapist is trained: they learn the theories and how they work and then they personalize the exchange for each client. We all take what we know about consent, D/s, power and play, and make them into our own. It’s a hodgepodge of rules and limits and we gotta take what we can get.
I don’t know whether or not I’m actually dominating him in his eyes, but I know I’m trying in mine. Perhaps he’s so wired to submit he doesn’t even realize it. Can that even happen? Or does he know on some level that I am always exerting myself over him?
My dream denoted my worst fears — that I’m a goddamned stupid idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing — but I guess I can take that as a positive: I don’t want to be around anyone who thinks they know what they’re doing and that includes me.
Welcome to e[lust]– The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #52? Start with the newly updated rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Welcome to e[lust]– The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #51? Start with the newly updated rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Since our discussion about my fears regarding PeytonThe Neighbor and I have been running like a finely tuned machine. We sparkle and tango and fuck and laugh and glitter until our lashes meet our cheeks. Something feels better.
Last night he came over wearing only silky basketball shorts and suggested we go lay down in my room “Just to cuddle,” he said. I rose wearily, my men’s pajama bottoms fluttered loosely about my legs as I marched behind him quietly happy. I loved this ritual of ours.
We lay down beside each other, assuming the position of a hundred nights before. Me on the right, him on the left. My ear pressed against his warm chest, his fingers tracing lines on my arm, my hand absent-mindedly stroking his soft bulge.
Our conversation included our day and our upcoming week. We were both in good spirits and we each laughed robustly at each other’s little jokes. One of his favorites is when I ask him what he’s thinking and he says something like, “Ants,” or, “Mountain blasting mining practices.” Last night’s was particularly entertaining.
“Hy,” he said smiling, “Ask me what I’m thinking!” I laughed knowing it was going to be something ridiculous.
“Ok, what are you thinking, TN?”
“How to light a match in zero G!”
Oh, the giggles on that one.
And then he was pinning me down with wrists and thighs because I was trying to pinch his tiny, sensitive nipples. In my most authoritative voice I told him to stop, but the truth was I was enjoying it immensely and let him have the upper hand.
“C’mere,” he growled and he gently turned my face to his and he kissed me.
And then his erection caught my eye.
He loosened his grip on me and I ordered him to put his hands down to his sides. He was afraid of exposing his little pink nubs, but I was going to show him I was trustworthy if he trusted me first.
Slowly his arms dropped to his side.
“Good. Now take off your clothes,” I said firmly, smiling broadly. His cock sprung free and I told him how pretty it was. I gripped it gently, like he’s shown me, and moved my hand along the bone.
“Wait,” he said repositioning my hand so my knuckles lined up with the top of the ridge. “Ok, go.”
I began to stroke again and his face split into an enormous grin. “Holy shit!! That feels like me!” His smile went on for miles as he played with the idea that another’s hand could feel somehow familiar. But my arm began to tire and my bicep cramp.
We reassembled. This time with me sitting up with him wedged between my legs. The blue fabric a modest contrast to his pink nakedness.
I tucked my arm under his and reached around, a first-person point of view, and peeked over his shoulder. The glistening aperture of his cock winked at me as I pulled its short little turtle neck up to its head.
TN leaned against me, his weight pinning me to the bars of my headboard. He leaned his head back on my shoulder and I kissed his neck. My free hand splayed through the carpet of his chest hair.
He wrapped his paw around the outside of my fist and moved me faster. I felt my pussy clench and my breath catch. The rough cotton of my tank top pressed against my breasts smashed against his back.
Then I let go and he took over.
I bit and nibbled his neck, let my breath spill out like fog on his skin. I dragged my fingertips across his taut belly and broad chest and clung to him with my thighs.
Every muscle in his body was flexed and pulsing in time with a long, slow thrust, though his hand was a Caucasian blur of pumping.
His balls bounced and flounced along like cans tied to the back of a wedding get-away car.
I closed my eyes and wished for him to cum. Not for me, but for him, for his heart. I whispered hotly in his ear, “You are so hot,” and nipped the lobe gently.
His voice began to catch and he crushed me into the headboard. His breath came out in choked bursts then as thick, milky semen spurted out onto his belly and lay like snow on a bush.
He panted and went limp as I kissed along his neck and shoulder and squeezed him from behind with my entire body. My cunt pulsed with what she’d witnessed.
“Good boy,” I said. “That was fucking hot.”
He smiled and said it was progress. My heart lurched a little.
I spread his cum around in little circles and he laughed at my ministrations. I told him how turned on I was. He suggested perhaps it was my turn, but I told him I was good. For once, this was just about him and not me.
We lay there with me holding him for a while before he said he had to leave. He redressed and came around and gave me two sweet, long kisses goodnight.
I am so proud of him. In the light of the night we are indeed making some kinds of progress.
His eyes filled with tears and what had felt like a calm and gentle silence turned into something heavy and frowning. A giant face of disappointment. I had hurt him. I had fucked up.
“Will you please untie me now?” he said quietly.
I sat up and quickly undid the Velcro cuff.
“Of course,” I whispered into his chest.
I clung to him, my naked body pressed against his, and listened to his heartbeat. Candlelight flickered around us as I felt the occasional disturbance of his freed hand wiping away his silent tears.
“I’m so sorry,” I said tearfully again, “so, so sorry…” I trailed off wishing I could rewind the previous 2 and a half minutes.
“It’s ok,” he answered, squeezing me with the arm I was nestled against. “I forgive you. I’m just worried you think the entire night is ruined.”
“No,” I sniffed, “but I feel horrible. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t, but you did and I didn’t know you could…” now he trailed off into a still, yet distant space away from me, beneath my tear-soaked cheek, but safely away from my Dominant clumsiness.
The night had been an intercourse-free one, but layered thick with sexiness and debauchery. I had him bucking and writhing below me as I lashed his buttocks with a heavy brown belt and clamped his tiny little nipples with my hair clips. He begged me to stop, to make the pain go away and my answer had been a firm, but resounding NO.
I wanted him to feel it, to breathe through it, to suffer under my watchful guidance. To break apart and let me put the pieces back together again.
He struggled and panted against his own desire to flee from me, but he was a good boy and remained. I stroked him gently and purred to him to “Just breathe.” He clenched his eyes shut and whimpered then finally begged and pleaded with a look in his eye that told me he’d turned the corner of submitting to me. He believed it, the agony and hope on his face told me. He finally believed it.
I removed the tiny claws and crooned to him and pet his pretty, scruffy face. I kissed his mouth and his eyes, told him what a good boy he was. He thanked me and thanked me and nibbled back on my lips.
I felt like I had finally done something right! That he had cracked for me, just a little, and we had gone somewhere together! It wasn’t just me rocketing off to the moon while he stood firmly planted on earth, this time he’d mingled with the stars beside me; his vice-like grip on himself had slipped just ever so much and a little of his light had come beaming out at us.
It was then that I tied his hands above his head and turned my attention to the giant erection between his legs. I sucked and squeezed and slurped, lavished attention on this magical appendage of his, then freed his right hand, his jerking-off hand.
I tied his right ankle to the footboard and, remembering his request of me from a few nights ago said, “Jerk off for me. I want to see you cum on that beautiful black ribbon you’re wearing.”
This was new territory for us both, me telling him to cum. I’ve asked for it multiple times, but had never in a dominating capacity told him to do it. Before his blessing, before his trust in me to make such a decree, I had avoided the power it implied, the scenario it resembled to trauma. I was afraid of hurting him.
But he had said it was ok, that he wanted me to do it, and so I did.
And with what I thought was great understanding of the power dynamic, the importance of consent, and an eye for a hopeful outcome, I loomed over him and laced the leather belt that had been dancing across his bottom around my own neck.
I lowered the free end to his face and told him to hold it between his teeth and pressed my Hitachi against my crotch then pulled gently away from him making the leather leash taught between us.
It was a sight to behold: his luminescence bound before me, his hand a fapping arc beating into his lap, the dark brown leather a physical representation of our bond. I told him to release me then and he obediently expelled the leather. I stood straight and tall, my leg hiked up on the bed, and gyrated into the buzzing head.
I listened to his gasps and closed my eyes as I orgasmed, hoping that my direction, my order, and my show would help him find his always elusive release.
It did not.
Finally, he asked if he could stop and I said that he could.
I lay down beside him and stroked him as any obedient fellow should be. Thoughts tumbled through my mind of dominance, submission, boundaries, and trauma. Had I pushed him too far? Was it too much stimulation?
As the bubble of our play began to wane I asked him as much. Was me ordering him to masturbate, to perform in front of me, too much?
The bubble shattered into a million different pieces and came clanking down around us.
“No,” he whispered, “but can you do me a favor?” I nodded into his chest. “Please don’t ever mention that to me while I’m in this position,” he pulled against his restraints. “Will you please untie me now??”
My tears, which had instantly sprung to my eyes when he froze, spilled over as I saw his own glisten in the candlelight and I watched, then felt, him wipe them away. He took long moments between speaking and I held my breath not wanting to make my upset a focus.
I explained to him that dominating him was not a gimmick to me, it wasn’t just something to spice up our sex life. It was an exploration of my own childhood trauma and a mechanism through which to rechannel it. My feelings of helplessness as a girl are retold as I am a benevolent, yet demanding Dominant plugged into her submissive, someone who is choosing helplessness beneath her hand and watch. It is a defiantly beautiful thing, a synchronous dance between two souls searching for release, balance, and love.
At least, that’s what I was going for.
But what had actually happened was that as he lay next to me, cracked open, vulnerable, and upset with himself for not being able to cum for me, I stumbled onto his most tender spot. A silly, stupid girl with no business to be playing this game.
I had crushed us both. The wound had been open to me and I could see it there pulsing before me, but I didn’t understand until it was too late that even to blow upon it would cause him harm. I just didn’t know…
My heart is heavy and I miss him. I want to go next door and cling to him and cry and beg him to forgive me, but I cannot. This is his hurt and his to handle in whatever way he sees fit. He said he wants to try this again tomorrow, but I am ashamed and afraid. Terrified of both my proximity to his heart and my power to injure. I have never felt so intimately close to someone as I do now pressed up to his pain. I see it now. It’s been long suspected, but never confirmed.
I peeked into his dark place, his private island. I am the worst kind of voyeur: I peeped and then I wasn’t careful with what I saw. Yet, I am confused. A part of my fear surrounded our complicit avoidance of his Dark Place. I didn’t want to push him to spill over with me to submission without first knowing the landscape. I’d felt blind, but now I feel blinded.
I am fucked, damned, lost. I am nothing.
He gathered himself slowly, gave me my usual “T minus so-many-minutes till I leave,” heads up, and tried to assure me he was recovered. I remained skeptical, obviously.
He said he appreciated my goal to understand his emotional boundaries, but that he was also surprised by his reaction to my probing. “I wonder why that happened?” he said.
“Well, you were cracked open,” I suggested referring to when he’d begged me make his physical pain stop. “You were open to feeling.”
He hmphed, thoughtful. “Yeah, maybe.”
He fell into silence again and I squeezed him over and over as though it were my last night with him ever. I ran my hand through his petal-soft chest hair and breathed him in. Just breathe, I told myself. I knew he would be leaving soon.
I whispered how sorry I was again and he kissed me and my tears. “It’s ok,” he said holding my gaze. “I’m ok.”
He rose and tucked me in and when he gave me a final kiss goodnight — so tenderly, so sweetly — my heart broke once more as my regret filled my unworthy, silly shell of a human body. Oh, if only I were truly celestial and beyond misakes!
I let my hand drag across his face as he stood up and disconnected. He smiled down at the bed, his light blue eyes soft and warm upon me when they could have been hard and cold.
I didn’t mean to hurt him. I only meant to cause him a little pain.
This is about three nights, not one. Three nights that held significant blows, sweet reparations, and hair pulling frustrations; bondage and spankings; cleaning and scrubbing; apologies from both; admissions I wished I’d never heard; strawberry fields forever.
He was my houseboy. He wore my gun-metal grey boy shorts — which I find hilariously and ironically sexy on his thick, muscular boy ass — and vacuumed meticulously around the apartment while I finished lighting candles and such. The air was relaxed, though hummed with tension. He’d been reprimanded in a way he hates: I’d denied him my audience.
But he dutifully vacuumed and then climbed into my bathtub and got to work scrubbing.
It wasn’t about humiliating him. My back is injured and therefore I cannot get down into the grime of the tub floor like it needs; I needed his strength. Though, as I pondered the entire scene I realized that in a D/s relationship, I didn’t need to legitimize anything. It’s my right to tell him to do whatever it is I like. And he didn’t complain. Not until after the deed was done and I’d told him it was a true sign of submission, loyalty, and kindness and the very fact that he hated it turned me on.
Then we slipped into the shower and I rinsed him off and shaved his beautifully hanging balls and he carefully shaved my legs. A first for us both. In a loving haze I asked when the last time he’d showered with someone was and he said, “You don’t want to know.”
But I insisted he admit to it. It was with 4 am girl. And I pushed him to admit it because it was already there hanging between us, mooning me. It’s shitty little asshole winking at my own naiveté. And then I made it worse because he shut down about it, but I wanted us to be open, goddamnit. And I pushed for more, Why didn’t he want to talk about it ever??
“Because, it still hurts that she rejected me,” he said testily.
My heart screeched still. After all this motherfucking time, is he still hung up on her?? What the ever-loving fuck?
“So, why don’t you see if she’s changed her mind? Call her up?” my voice was smooth as butter, not a quiver to be found.
“Nah, she’s a lesbian anyway,” he said softer, eluding to her alcoholism, persistent unhappiness, and her coming onto me that one horrible, drunken night almost a year ago.
And then we limped on with our night, toweling ourselves off from our not-so-special-already-done-this-recently-with-someone-else shower.
I restrained him and sucked him until he was raw; my finger was stroked and squeezed like a snake by his tight little asshole; I climbed up onto his warm, furry body and sunk down on his erection; I came five brilliant times; I bid him not to touch me while I writhed under my Hitachi; and I screamed out and sobbed soul cracking cries, my insides alight with the question of worth and of deserving this kind of humanly pleasure.
And then I lay there with tears streaking my cheeks, so alone. He wasn’t there with me. We were off all night long so this made sense. It seemed he moved with reluctance, but I couldn’t be sure. He’d untied his ankles as I’d sobbed then scooted closer. He didn’t ask for permission. He saw me fall apart and assumed the game was over. No, I told myself, he’s not actually far away, he was literally restrained, but I didn’t say he could untie himself…
He pulled me in closer and held me, but I needed to be held forever and ever and he wanted to watch Game of Thrones. My top dropping brain saw his actions in refracted light: it all seemed too short, too abrupt. It didn’t fucking flow. It hurt.
I managed to say, “No, not yet. Please. You know how I get after an orgasm like that.” I couldn’t admit it was top drop or how I felt like such a failure that he didn’t need repairing or how badly I felt about our shower repartee. All I could say was that I needed him.
“Ok, but just so you know, it’s 12:30.” He’d come over at 9. It’d been a long, intense night.
We lay in each other’s arms for a few more minutes and then turned on the computer. It was still too soon for me and I was asleep in minutes only to be awoken 45 minutes later to him gently slapping my cheek. “Time to wake up. I gotta go,” he said as he slid out from under my cheek.
I was disoriented, horrified, angry, sad. How dare he slap me to wake me up! I mumbled something about what a stupid, ridiculous way that was to wake me up and he kissed me a quick apology and left. I rolled over feeling bereft and lonely and slipped off to sleep. Every wonderful thing that had transpired between us that night temporarily forgotten.
I woke up confused, still dropping. Naked, wrapped in a towel he’d used to wipe the juices off between my legs since I’d been too incoherent to attend to it myself. I assured myself this feeling would pass — though it felt as though it was glued to my goddamned soul. Don’t text anything stupid was my morning mantra. It worked and the drop faded to a more organized pile of shit as the day warmed up.
I texted him that I needed a cuddle later that night because we’d had a “bad dismount” the night before. He asked “Will there be breasts?”
“Yep. They kinda always tag along.”
When he tucked himself into my bed that night, Faisal, a raging maniac of fur and the no-longer-elusive kitty farts, contented himself with attacking us and doing gravity defying acrobatics. I snuggled in and laughed at my little clown… and the cat.
“So,” I started, “Last night. I didn’t like how it ended. I felt rushed after I came and I really didn’t like you slapping me awake.”
His initial response was of “What! I didn’t hit you that hard!” and my comeback was simple:
“I don’t care. Don’t ever hit me. There are, literally, an infinite number of other ways to wake me up: stroke my face, kiss me, suck my breast, finger me, roll me over…”
He quickly understood and apologized, promised he’d never do it again.
“And you rushed me, which you know you can’t do. I need more time than that.”
“Awww,” he crooned and pulled me to him and his warm, fruity scent. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again, either.”
It was no wonder he’d rushed me, though. It could have been a subtle way to get back at me for that shower conversation or for making him scrub the tub. Most times I feel he’s only playing at being submissive since I can’t seem to figure out the key to get him to go there, to really open up. More failure, more frustration.
But we cuddled and talked and laughed on Day Two and I felt as good as I could. When he left I whispered to the darkened doorway, “I love you,” and waited to hear him at the door, but instead he popped his head back in and just looked at me.
I felt the blood rush to my face. Holy shit. Had he heard me call out into the night that I love him like some dramatic teenager??
He just stood there looking at me — I thought expectantly — it was hard to tell without my contacts. The silence dragged on, I was not going to make the first sound in this exchange.
He opened his mouth to speak. My heart crashed about like a seizing bird in my chest and the heat rose to my face and prickled my scalp. Moment. Of. Truth.
“Can I have some ice cream??” He smiled big and boyishly at me.
And the sail that had filled with wind sagged dramatically both with relief and sadness.
“Yes, of course you can,” I smiled back at him.
“Thanks!” he chirped and I heard the freezer door open and shut and then the front door.
I got butt hurt because he didn’t acknowledge me when he left our team after we met to get our new shirts for our next season of softball. He’d looked everyone else in the eye, shook hands, waved, whatever, but then quietly turned on his heel and left. I felt ridiculous from every angle. How low could I stoop in the coolness department, anyway?
Butt hurt, yet laughing at myself all the same, I texted him vague things which got us talking. I admitted to my idiocy and then also that I was on my period. He was the one who’d noticed a sad pattern of my behavior over the last 18 months that we mostly “fight” whenever I’m on my period. I don’t know what happens to me that week of the month; it’s like all rationale leaves me and don’t you fucking dare point that shit out to me or I may kill you while laughing and crying at how stupid I am. It’s tons of fun, lemme tell you.
He came over as soon as Peyton was tucked in and read to and I explained to him why my feelings had been hurt. Of course it was tempered with my dumbassery, but I believe I have a point nonetheless. I’ve discovered over these many months of us growing closer and being monogamous that so long as I give up the big things such as sharing him with my family and really going all the way as a couple, the little things are that much more important to me.
It looks like this: you don’t want to introduce me to your best friend or really commit to me? Ok, but you better fucking acknowledge me in front of a bunch of people I don’t give a shit about. I think it’s a fair trade off.
And trust me when I say, I’d much MUCH rather not feel this way at all, but I’m not perfect in this. I foible all over the place.
We cuddled and I ran my fingers through the strawberry-scented carpet on his chest and stroked his sleeping cock absent-mindedly. “Just so you know,” he gently warned, “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” A sweet, loving gesture that he adopted months ago when I complained that I hated how he’d leave mid-sentence (mine or his) most nights.
“Ok,” I said. “And just so you know, I don’t really want to do it, but I kinda do just because I know it’ll make me feel a lot better. But just, like, for only 5 minutes.”
We bantered about that for a long minute, his cock growing rigid beneath my rubbing. “Just five minutes, eh?” he challenged me. “We never do it for only 5 minutes.”
“That’s your fault, not mine. You know I’m always down for a quickie. What about the other day in your apartment?” I remembered being bent over his ottoman, sunshine spilling into his apartment, his cock ramming into me and being seized by an orgasm.
“Yeah, that’s true…” he admitted. “Ok, but only five minutes!”
I was surprised and laughed as he reared up and removed our underpants, licked his hand and pushed his hot head at my entrance. I pulled my thighs further apart delighting in the movement and he slid in.
“It’s 10:25,” I said. “I’ll watch the clock.”
He laughed and began to thrust and soon I was filled with heat and a rumbling, sparkly wave down to my fingertips. He hitched my ankles up on his shoulders and drove deep inside of me, my bed whined its bitchy, crackling tune, and I came again, blooming sweetly below him.
Those five minutes with him inside of me changed my chemistry and when it was over, at 10:30 on the dot, we both smiled at each other like kids looking at a birthday cake.
“Told you,” I said breathlessly, righting my clothing.
“Yeah, that was a good idea.”
He kissed me then, long and hard, and then left, locking the front door behind him.
He jumped up off the bed as he saw my anger rise. My voice was louder than I intended, my grip on my control slipping.
I stood up, too, not sure what he was doing, then he began to unbuckle his pants.
I rolled my eyes. I was not in the mood to play — not even remotely — I was close to the edge of no return.
He shook his head as if to shake me off. “I have something that will make you feel better.” He had done this to me, it was his fault for pushing, pushing, pushing me.
He pushed his jeans down past his hips, his underwear, too, and leaned on his elbows on the pile of clean laundry. “Go ahead. This will make you feel better. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
My breath caught as I looked at his bright white bottom, curved and muscular before me. I smacked him hard twice, but it hurt me more than it did him. I wondered aloud where my belt was, but he quickly removed his and handed it to me.
And as I thrashed his bottom I vented about the true object of my disdain and dislike. The Neighbor writhed and bucked, my voice a strange accompaniment to the sounds of leather on skin.
The red bloom was large and growing beneath my attentions. He was nearly trying to crawl away. So I stopped, said, “One more,” hit him harder than ever before and added to the male authority figure currently in my life, “And that’s for reminding me of my father.”
I drooped a little, confused. Both turned on, filled with love for him, and neatly exorcised.
TN had riled me up and offered his body as a vessel to demonstrate my anger to my demons both present and past.
I felt like one of those color-swirled marbles.
I caressed his rear end and pressed a cool Topo Chico bottle to the redness. He stood up and kissed me, gave me a big hug.
When he pulled away I saw his erection.
He shoved me roughly onto the pile of clothes, ripped my panties down and shoved himself inside. Peyton was watching TV on the other side of the locked bedroom door as I was getting pummeled from the inside, my anger wisping away like a blown out match.
Then it was done. My insides blooming, my chest heaving, my anger vanished.
The pile of laundry remained.
[Don’t forget today is the last day for Boobday submissions!]
My eyes were tightly shut, my breasts swung, my hand gripped his giant, hot erection, and my mouth enveloped his lollipop cock.
I worked it like it was salvation. Nothing else mattered. He tensed and relaxed again and again. I sneaked my free hand around to lodge tightly in the V of his spread legs to support my upper body and press devilishly against the cool, broad glass face of the butt plug wedged neatly into his body.
His body quivered and I stilled. He’d stopped talking minutes ago when he began to tense. This was him losing it: a quiet release of control which is only observed by his silent yearning.
He will never whimper like I do. Tears will never streak his face or sobs wrack his body. His subspace is a stoic place. He will giggle and shake his hands. His body will tremble and I will feel its pull like a bowed line to a great, fighting fish.
He pulled against the restraints and gasped.
“Is it too much?” I asked peering up at him.
“Nearly so,” he amswered.
“Good,” I smiled, “I told you you’d have to beg me to stop.”
I ducked back down and slobbered all over him. He pleaded with me to lighten my touch on the head and I gently adjusted, softening my tongue as I sucked and pulled wetly on him.
He began to quake again and his shaft bulged with heat, but then it slipped away and I knew instinctively he’d had enough, but I was waiting for his voice.
I continued to press against the butt plug and he surged again to an inhuman stiffness, but it slipped through his fingers again. I let him rest for another beat then lapped at him, popped the helmet into my mouth like a sweet and massaged it with my mouth.
He swelled again. I began to worry about him, Gow much more could a man handle?? And then he began to talk in a rush, “Ok, ok, ok. Please, stop…”
“Are you begging?”
“Yes! Yes! I’m begging. I can’t take any more, Ma’am.”
Softly, ever so softly like a butterfly kiss, I held him in my mouth and then let go. I slowly crawled up to his bound wrist, his jerking-off hand, and unbound it while my lips played on his. “Will you please put your hand on my cock?” he asked.
I pulled back and looked into his darkened eyes. “No,” I said simply. “You do that.” I had denied him so many things that night, no blindfold, no sex, no to every request he had. He was about to be rewarded.
He nodded obediently and I heard the telltale fapping as I reached for my Hitachi. I stood on the floor and put one foot on the bed frame and switched it on.
I nearly doubled over as the vibration quaked through me. His hand, a peach-colored blur in the candlelight before me, walked me to the edge and shoved me off, down into a dark and sparkling mass of orgasm below.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as I crawled to my nook. His arm wrapped around me and pulled me close.
We talked some then, whispers and deep tones, giggles and kisses.
He said he’d lost it. I told him I knew.
My top drop was flat and mellow as I felt the magic of the D/s play cool like a dessert rock at night.
I smiled into his strawberry skin and listened to him tell me how he lives in a fantasy: a hot, big-breasted, lusty, older woman who lives next door and who likes to dominate him.
I think he lives in a fantasy, too.
The storm outside boomed loudly and threatened rain. He took my hand and dragged me to the balcony. I draped blankets over our shoulders to keep away the spring chill and knelt before him. The skies parted and lit up our naked bodies; I devoured his huge and hot cock with my hungry little mouth.
He pulled me up and pushed me against the railing and not so gently rammed into me, his cock fat and wet. He grabbed the nape of my neck and held me there.
I moaned and panted, hoping desperately another neighbor was out to see Nature’s theater, but was also treated to hear the most ancient and natural of sounds: two bodies rutting.
Eventually, we tired and he slowly slipped out. He pressed his warm, furry body against mine and kissed my neck, my top drop completely forgotten, my belly warm and my heart full.
The night sky continued to light up just for us as we stood pressed together three stories high and on a dream. He walked me back to my bed and tucked me, blew out the candles and left.
I am bold and confident, believe my common sense will guide me through any uncertain circumstance, and feel that my instincts are correct 99% of the time. I consider myself luckier than most.
Therefore, it confounds me when I feel confused, lost, or otherwise discombobulated.
Discovering my dominant side and fanning its flames does just this. It discombobulates the fuck outta me.
Many years ago, in a faraway land called Dating, Marriage and [mostly] Vanilla Sex, I yearned to be dominated. I wanted to be cherished, worshiped, and taken care of. Pain wasn’t a part of my fantasy. It was about letting go and trusting my partner to think of everything. To my overwrought, SAHM (stay-at-home-mom), neglected brain the notion of being used and directed was heaven. Sweet and salty, not-a-care-in-the-world caramel heaven.
My journey to this side of myself has been accidental. I’ve been tying up my lovers for years, but it was just something I did, not a part of who I am. Long term boyfriends had the pleasure numerous times to be pinned down, dripped with wax, pinched with clothespins, tickled with feathers, pegged, blindfolded, and otherwise sensually tortured by me and I enjoyed myself. Immensely.
I went to a primal place within me; I was a sexual nerve. Forward thinking, empathetic, pushing, pushing, pushing. And then I would hit the wall of uncertainty: what to do next? My lovers and I never talked about D/s — what the fuck was that? We just liked things a little spicy. And so I delivered. To a point.
When I would come to the end of that teasing path I always handed back the reins. My bashfulness rose and my ignorance reigned supreme. Instead of keeping him beneath me I relinquished control and didn’t see the gift of his submission. I mistakenly believed that I could only receive pleasure from him if I was the receptacle. Soft, submissive, feminine. It was selfish, sexist, and completely silly of me.
The Neighbor and I stumbled onto my abilities much like I had come upon my kinky pleasures in the past: we had the gear and the imagination and shit just happened.
He’d been telling me for months that he’d had a lover in the past for 6 months — some honey he met off of FetLife –who dommed him, but I dismissed it. I didn’t let it stick, sink in, or otherwise digest into any part of my consciousness. It did not compute.
Men are bigger and stronger, I thought. I don’t want to be in charge. I’m tired and need relief.
Back then TN like to spank the fuck out of me. I walked away from our encounters with welts the size of his paw on my hip and flanks. He’d growl at me and toss me around and I reveled in what felt like his dominance, but it never went all the way. He didn’t domineer, direct, or control me. He inflicted his superior strength upon me. There’s a difference.
One is intellectual, the other is opportunistic.
Embracing my ability to control and hold the reins has called into question the decisions I made during my marriage. Could it have been saved if I had taken over in the bedroom?
In hindsight, I recall my sweet exhusband’s own wall present in most of our interactions. His own uncertainty and hesitations. I demanded that he break it down, but to no avail. We hovered in a place of love and longing and lots of miscommunication. It broke my heart like so many pieces of glass.
I’m trying not to think about it.
My dominance over TN excites me for my future and whatever lovers I may have. Seeing a man bend his will to mine, to curb his superior strength, and to give over to me his own sexual pleasure is a tender, wild gift. I must treat it with respect and delicate hands. Give it little puffs of love as I pant beneath it and moan about its beauty.
It is less about penetration than it is about obedience. I keep TN and I calibrated through our roles. When he behaves badly, he is punished. I am just and open. He tells me why he’s getting spanked even as the belt laps at his pale skin. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m sorry for not thinking you knew that. I’m sorry for being petulant. I’m sorry for being a dick,” and so on. Sweeter words never befell my ears.
Last week, I was desperate for a session. We had re-hashed the rules and boundaries of our relationship and fucked numerous times, but I was adrift and mildly angry at the world, perhaps at him, certainly at me.
When he arrived 3 minutes late he knew immediately he would be getting at least 3 lashes. He argued with me and I added 5. He huffed at me and I added another 5. He rolled his eyes and I added yet another 5.
My mind was lightening quick, my math smooth as butter, quick as my words. “That makes 18 and I haven’t even finished lighting all the candles. Want to go for more?”
He ducked his chin and looked at me remorsefully. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” I stood there in my grey cardigan and panties feeling 6 feet tall instead of 5′ 5″.
He walked over to the bedside table where I had pulled out our toys. Body markers, a pretty glass butt-plug, lube, blindfolds, straps, and a banana-yellow ruler. I wanted everything within reach, but didn’t have much of a plan.
As I watched him watch me and move against my moves I became more aroused. He was regarding me with eager eyes. He waited for my voice, my command.
I told him to lay on the bed and we talked and I played with his flaccid penis. I sketched an outline of it like a dead body and measured it. Four inches soft as a water balloon.
When the outline grew to 8″ I told him to flip over. His round, white ass high in the air bloomed red as I carefully painted him with his 18 lashes. Then another 5 simply because I could.
I kissed the bright red skin and pulled him up by the shoulder, leaned in and kissed him.
“Let’s go take a shower,” I said then. “I’m shaving your balls and you’re going to wash my pussy.”
A small universe away from that moment I lay with legs splayed and his dark head between my thighs. He made me soar, though I didn’t cum.
When his jaw began to hurt I laughed. “We need more practice, TN. Lots more!” He smiled gingerly rubbing his jaw and agreed, stood up and pulled my bottom closer to the edge of the bed and slipped in deep and long.
Later, in a four-point restraint he dangled in front of an orgasm for so long his body tingled and he writhed and panted and begged for me to stop. I took pity on him and untied him, curled up in his arms and let him stroke me.
He plunged his fingers deep inside of me and burst through my shell and I released a bucket of ejaculate onto my sheets. I saw stars and couldn’t speak.
Cuddled in his arms again he said he was hungry. I agreed. And as I entered the neighborhood diner, my breasts free behind a white t-shirt and my hair home to a little bird’s nest in the back, I felt tough and fine and I sincerely hoped everyone knew what we’d just been doing.
We drove back home under the stars and he gave me a long kiss goodnight at my doorstep. I staggered back to my room which was littered with the proof of our debauched night and flounced onto the bed with not a little drama. Faisal mewed and pounced on me and I put my arm around him and floated away with dreams of dominance and a new sense of my anchor deep down below me.
I have gone to a new side of Hyacinth and staked my flag high and bright. I’m a little nervous and still somewhat shaken, but I much prefer the view from here as opposed to over there. It’s a lot nicer on the Domme side.