Sexualism:

Not Another Fuck

jeveuxtevoir:

It was not a big cock, but that was hardly what my mind lingered on when he shoved my head down and forced it deeper in my mouth. Gasping, against the back of my throat so that it felt so much more, he moaned and told me I was so good. As my eyes brimmed with tears and I struggled not to gag, this unexpected gush of hot liquid, sticky and half sweet, half salty shot into the roof of my mouth. I swallowed, surprised, mostly, and surprised that I did, and it didn’t feel wrong or dirty but utterly natural that I would.

The TV was on all night but in the morning, in our echoed touches and gestures of shifting awake, hands massaging skin, fingers brushing through curls of hair, he turned off its insistent reminder of reality, the room, ourselves. I thought of days ago, not long after we first met, hands that traced up my thigh, playfully choked my neck, offhand strokes of skin that sent silent thrills nonstop fluttering inside.

I had been so afraid it was simply going to be another awkward first date. But instead, at this bar with its low light and the plaster of its namesake animal everywhere, on stools too low for the high bar, I was desperate for more of his touch, partially wrapped on his lap as our lips brushed at each other, tongues swirled in a painful tease. He jerked my hair and with another hand jerked up my shirt, revealing a naked back in this bar. I was painfully aware of the scene it must have made, as he bit down hard on my tongue, and the shot of acidic pain mirrored the pleasure when he let it away.

Not long after we got out of there, a walk toward the subway seemingly an impossible destination as every other step intercepted with a delicious kiss, a hand gripping at my hips, my waist. Now and then he threw me against the rattling metal of a closed storefront, pushed me into its hard texture and a kiss that wasn’t so much a kiss as a demand for more. The train station would never come, and then it came, and on the cool objective blue seats I was so aware of the few others straggling home at this hour of the night.

Not enough to stop him when his hands gripped anywhere, not enough to stop myself when I slipped my tongue and mouth around a finger, coating it in hot saliva and sucking it, worshipping it like the cock that’d be a while yet before I could have. I wondered if the man sitting across from us enjoyed the show. Half hearted whispers for him to “be good” encouraged only the opposite.

Until we fell asleep, or simply a lust that throbbed inside me while he kept true to his promise of no sex unless it meant something (oh, how I love a challenge!)

But in the morning, the second morning we woke up together, with the blessed silence and darkness from the TV screen, he suggested a shower I couldn’t refuse. All business and turns under the hot water, splashing against naked flesh until memories and desires hit me and I pressed against him, lips hungry, starved, for attention, for a proper ravaging. No sex, I remembered, but it didn’t mean anything else was off limits.

It didn’t take long for him to push me out of the shower and on top of the toilet, pulling my legs apart so he could reciprocate the night before, his hot tongue dancing between those other lips. I didn’t think I deserved it.

Then we were on the floor, soft towels hardly protection against the cold tiles, pressed against a door that slipped open, or the side of the bathtub, minds and lips racing until he suggested his toy. I was not in the mind to say no, and when he came back with it, I slipped a greased finger up his ass, surprised at how easy it was, how natural it felt to feel him wrap around me. His moans, the ecstasy of hearing them was a delight of its own.

Then his toy, hardly a dildo, a finger toy went in and he pulled at my hair, bit at my perked nipples. Hard. He wanted it in, deeper, harder, and I pressed against it, hard, and bit at his neck. Oh, boys who never felt what it was like to be properly fucked, to have something inside them, suddenly I felt their pain. This boy wasn’t a stranger to the sensation though, soon, panting, he watched me watch him and began to stroke himself. And then asked me to make him come, but in the new found femmedom mindset that this had suddenly switched in me, I refused him.

Instead I toyed with him longer, and with the toy inside him he was happy as before to hurt me, to snap my head back and slap me, hard. I let out reserved moans, pulled him closer, needing more. But no sex, he had said, and even now he kept to his promise. Taunting me with his naked body and immediate presence, his vicious lips and teeth that knew how to torture me, he promised self control and delivered just that.

The anticipation might kill me. But I’m savoring its forbidden cruel call, something that I’d always so easily gotten dangled at a distance so I can only dream and quiver at its thought. It and all the promises of my hands tied behind my back, his hands gripping my throat, his cock fucking me, hard.

I guess this might actually be worth waiting for.