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.