He masturbated while I watched.

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This is what you get the morning after you jizz on your own chest in front of me.

I was open with him.  “I don’t mean to make you feel badly or self-conscious, but I would very much like it if I knew you were getting as much pleasure as me, if you had the occasional orgasm in my presence — I feel guilty, greedy.  It’s always about me and my pleasure, never yours.”  I paused, thinking about what to say next as he looked at me softly with his icy blue eyes.

“And you’re not getting the pleasure of giving,” he finished for me.

“Yes,” I breathed with relief.  He got it.

His “apathy,” as he calls it, is what he struggles with the most.  He appears to be completely unflappable when it comes to social intricacies, connecting, receiving, and giving.  He has built himself an iron island and no one may ever let him down.  It’s emotionally impossible after 29 years of fortitude.

He doesn’t care about things.   What those things are, I couldn’t say, I haven’t poked around too much for fear of hearing I am one of them, but he is working on cracking open enough to the vulnerability that is inherent in caring about something, maybe someone.

Almost as if on cue, I began to feel unwell the days following that conversation.  Sex was off the table.  So we cuddled and talked and let our words probe each other rather than our body parts, but aching/hungry/ass belly aside, I was still set to drooling last night when my absentminded cock-stroking awoke the beast.

We giggled as it rose stiffly against the elastic of his shorts and I gripped it happily and squeezed.

“I’ve thought about what you said the other day,” he said huskily, close to my ear, “And I’m not going to jerk off until Saturday night.”

“Really??” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, really.  When you come to La Maison du Voisin, then I’ll cum all over your face, in your mouth, and maybe in your pussy.”

“That’s a lot of cumming!” I said impressed.

I was touched by this grand gesture.  La Maison du Voisin night marks the very first time he’s offered to cook for me, hang with me, and tuck me in next door.

It’s not as romantic as you think, however.  It was originally a gesture of contrition and remorse.  Saturday he let a drunk girl pass out face down in his lap and, panicked and drunk, he stroked her arm and shoulder in a creepy, intimate way while our knees bounced against each other in the back of a bouncing pick up truck.  My warning looks served only to heighten his discomfort and feelings of helplessness and rendered me anxiety-ridden and miserable.

That night, he offered me La Maison du Voisin.

The next day he woke me up to say he feels bad that he continues to cross boundaries with other women he considers in distress.  It was at that moment I realized he’d tossed me bones: Wanna come over to my house Saturday??  Would you like for me to make you dinner?  You can stay the night, too.

“Did you offer all that La Maison du Vosin stuff because you felt bad about the drunk girl?”

He admitted it was true, but that he still really wanted me to come over and do those things for me.  So, ok.  I’m gonna take it however it may come.

I squeezed the cock hot and thick in my hand and it pulsed a little.  I told him I wished I was up for fucking.  He hugged me and said it was ok.  I wasn’t sure if I should try, but I decided to grab my Hitachi.  His eyes lit up.

I put the buzzing head on top of my plaid, pink pj shorts and rode the vibrations to a quick and powerful crescendo.  I panted, whimpered, and arched my back, and through fluttering lashes I watched his hand move to his cock and begin to blur.

His hand was fast and fapping and I watched his massive thighs flex and relax again and again.

“Do it again,” he said.

My stomach felt ok, so I decided to oblige him.

Again I flipped the switch and rose swift and high, like a rocket, and his hand continued to be a blur as I watched entranced, his muscles flexing and releasing like a wild animal on the run.

I came hard for a second time and lay limply beside him, his hand idling on his stiff cock.  “Could you have cum?” I asked, assuming we were done.

“I’m trying to cum!” he said with a smile.

“But I thought you weren’t cumming till Saturday…” I said confused.

“Yes, but I figured jerking off next to you was totally allowed.”  He smiled broadly at me.  I agreed it was absolutely allowed.  “Cum a third time,” he whispered.  I knew he was telling me he needed to watch me for a little longer, that he was close.

I flicked the switch back on and gasped the second it hit my clit.  The rise was fast, but I was spent.  I knew this was for him.  I turned my head to the side, let the little row-boat of my orgasm bump against the dock, and watched his hand become an arc of Caucasian skin.

His eyes were tightly closed, his chest knots of muscles.  He grunted and gasped and began to buck into his hand even as it slammed down into his lap.  His stomach clenched and he crunched up a little, his hand slowed and spurts of milky white choked out of the abused head.  A little glob landed on the silky nest of his chest hair.

He laid back down with a sigh and squeezed out more semen, slowly milking himself.

“Fuck, that was hot,” I said, the vibrator forgotten and turned off.

He leaned over and kissed me and I kept my eyes on the glistening tip of his cock.

He rose then and walked around to the other side of the bed, my side, and his still rock hard cock bobbed by my face.  He leaned towards my face and I opened my mouth and gently drew him in.  He tasted salty and clean.

Then he pulled away and smiled.  “I just wanted you to taste it.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “It tastes delicious.”

He came back around and we cuddled some more until my lids were heavy and my smile left an imprint in his chest hair.  He rolled out from under me and pulled up my covers, leaned over and kissed me goodnight with soft, long strokes.

I’m looking forward to Saturday and lots more of this cum-flavored contrition.

Pussy trumps cock or I can’t make him cum.

To get The Neighbor to cum I have to do an elaborate dance of tension, pressure, sensuality, and stamina. It is not for the faint of heart. My neck hurts, my arms, my mouth will feel drawn and tight. But I persevere because I love him and I love his cock.

The man may be blessed to have a large cock, but he is blocked. His vice-like grip on himself and his emotions also extends to orgasm when a woman is upon him; neither her mouth or her pussy are always the key. They’re occasional keys.

He laments his troubles, but finds great pleasure in what he gives to me and what I do for him. It’s like an almost-perfect birthday gift. Much like millions of men around the world whose women never orgasm beneath them, I trust him when he says he doesn’t need to cum to enjoy himself. I was that woman for years. I get it.

Not only is giving TN a blowjob a performance, I also have to be in the right mindset to make him cum. The sun and moon and stars are involved every time. And lately, they have been misaligned. I’ve been tired, mildly suffocated, agitated, frustrated, and most recently sad and mourning.

Our relationship is good, but it’s not great. We hover in this purgatory of “everything but…” I have everything but hand-holding in a movie theater. Everything but sweet kisses for no reason. Everything but outings with my baby and my man. Everything but having him be a part of my family.

It’s been weighing on me these past few months and I’ve struggled to stay grateful for the moment and all the “everythings.” But with that comes a fatigue which robs me of my ability to perform. I still slurp and love on him — all the time — but I hold back and don’t slip into that place where I know I can make him cum.

In addition, I become frustrated with him for jerking off before he comes over to see me — typically, his third of the day — so I let that domino topple into the rest and therefore I don’t bother, either. He wants to empty his body of seed? Ok, then I won’t try to draw something out that isn’t there to be had.

The sex continues to be hot as fuck, my love for him is stable, possibly growing, and everything is generally kosher (dare I say boring), I just haven’t felt open enough to go there lately. Until the other night.

He came into my room still warm from his shower and smelling of hibiscus this time. I pulled him down to the mattress and splayed my fingers through his chest hair and purred, hitched my leg up over his and pressed my entire body against him. I found myself in a loving and timeless place. I wanted to try this time. He gives so much to me all the time it hurt to think about how little he’s willing to take from me.

My “I Heart Dave” shirt pulled on my breasts as I crawled down between his legs and spread his knees with my body. His erection bobbed hot and heavy, his sac languished below like a bulbous root.

I cupped him gently and tugged then squeezed his shaft with my free hand. He stretched a little beneath me.

I planted my right hand next to his left hip, gripped him with my left, and gently sucked him into my mouth. Soft. Slow. Long. Deep as I could go.

He sighed and pressed into my face.

I closed my eyes then and moved into my dance. I became him as best as I could, listened to every twitch, moan, and movement he shared. His breath caught once, twice, three times. I stopped after each, caught my breath, focused on ignoring my discomfort after minutes on end of continued loving.

He was fighting himself, I knew. I could feel it swarm around me, this battle to just. let. go.

And I was losing.

I paused then and slithered up to his mouth, kissed the corner of it and offered him a breast, popped out over my neckline. He moaned and suckled and twisted my free breast with his hand and stuffed his face with my other breast.

He switched back and forth between my right and my left, mewling and grunting. I repositioned myself so I straddled him; I felt his cock push at the crotch of my black lace panties.

“No,” I said. “Cock trumps boobs.” I wanted to get back to him, to his beautiful, sad penis. I wanted to win.

He sat up suddenly then pushing me off of him and flipping me over. My knees splayed open around him.

He was resplendent in the candlelight, his naked body light and furry, all bulging muscles.

“No,” he countered. “Pussy trumps cock.” And in one smooth motion he pulled off my panties and rammed himself inside of me.

I sighed as I gave up and let him stroke me slowly, his icy blue eyes locked on my face. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t know where to look. But he knows me well.

He knows that within seconds I don’t have to worry about where I’ll be looking anymore because my eyes will be closed, my head thrown back, my face flushed and my moans uncontainable.

He smirked at me as he witnessed my passion grow beyond my control and I tossed my head from side to side, clutched at his hips, pushed against the creaky metal bed frame.

“Please,” I gasped. “Please, please, please…” I trailed off into a whimper.

“Please, what?” he grinned devilishly, his hips moved slowly. Painfully, exquisitely.

“Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Now.”

And it was as if my words were like a starter gun. He burst out of the gate and slammed into me, his hooves pounding, flying, my body the turf and I blossomed into orgasm again and again.

My own journey to self-discovery — and opening up the the possibility of being orgasmic — was the key to unlocking my box. His cock and my brain are an unstoppable duo, but I had to be present, there.

And as I lay beneath him being jostled by his pounding into my pussy I thought wistfully that I wished I could give him this, too. This hover-over-your-body sensual, ethereal luxury.

He pinned my wrists on either side of my head and jack-hammered into me. My pussy gushed and I felt my juices trickle down between my bottom cheeks. I hung on like a rag doll jockey and hoped beyond all hope that he would cum. But my hopes were for naught.

Exhausted, he slumped over me and rested. He was done.

We lay entwined and breathed heavily next to one another. We cuddled and I played with his diminishing erection. I asked him if he was ok not cumming. He said of course he was. I don’t ask every time he doesn’t cum, but every so often I do. I suppose I should stop, but I just want him to know I care. I don’t want him to think I’m selfish or indifferent to his pleasure.

I take some comfort in knowing he’s cum more with me than he has with any other woman. I’m also the first woman to ever make him cum from a blowjob (his old Domme swung through town a few weeks after he and I met and she was able to make him cum that night — I can’t help but take credit for it, though. I broke the seal.). He also never came with 4 am girl — or even came close. I take comfort in that, too.

It’s strange to be the one who cums, but I’ll take it. And I’ll keep working on cracking his code. His goddamned riddle wrapped in an enigma inside a conundrum. I want him to feel half as good as he makes me feel and I often tell him as much. If he got even a glimpse of what I feel he’d want to return to that place time and time again. I want his key.