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.