At the door to his apartment, Dean kissed me firmly. I panted as he mashed his mouth against mine – it was hot and I’d just climbed five flights of stairs.
Since I’d last seen him the cuts on his face has healed somewhat. He was unshaven, and I was astonished at how good he looked—usually I prefer my men clean shaven. But disheveled and bruised was a look I found appealing on Dean. Perhaps because it mitigated his otherwise hardcore preppiness?
For the first time I got a good look at Dean’s apartment – on our first date I’d been too drunk, not to mention distracted by the sight of the blood pouring off his face, to notice. But now I looked around. We were standing on a lovely oak floor. Next to me was a kitchen, about eight feet wide and five feet deep, tucked into the wall. It held a small stove, a half fridge and a marble countertop. The foyer and kitchen were divided from the living room by a low rail and few steps. The living room had a fireplace – a gas one or something, since the chimney was blocked. Boxes were piled up everywhere.
“When did you move in?” I asked.
“February.”
“Ah.” I followed Dean up the lovely oak staircase to his bedroom. The room was dominated by an unmade bed pushed to the center of one wall, and against the far wall was a row of closets lined with mirrors. The wall opposite the bed was a glass door, leading out onto his deck.
“I’m just going to send an email,” Dean said. “Go on up, and I’ll be there in a minute.” I opened the sliding glass door and stood on his deck, looking at the roofs of the buildings opposite. Then I climbed up a flight of wooden stairs to the roof, which had a number of potted plants and the hammock we’d gotten comfy in the other night. I maneuvered myself into the hammock and read a little Harry Potter, enjoying the warm, mild evening. After a few minutes Dean joined me, and we arranged ourselves with him on his back with an arm around me; me on my right side curled up against his chest.
We had tentative plans to join some friends of his who were watching a movie, but really what I wanted was a replay of the other night (though without the brain trauma): a long, boozy meal and lots of fooling around.
We were debating our options and I mentioned something about my apartment when Dean asked me how much I paid in rent.
I told him, though I couldn’t quite believe he’d asked. “That’s a bit less than I pay on my mortgage,” he said, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
And suddenly it occurred to me that Dean was rich. I mean, richer than I’d guessed, and I’d guessed he was pretty rich already. Some of the things he’d said on our first date made it clear that both of his parents, at least, had an awful lot of money, but I hadn’t thought much about it. I mean, my parents have some money, but it doesn’t affect me – it’s the result of forty years of two incomes and rising home prices in New York City and is earmarked for their threatened retirement to Florida, where they plan to spend their days power walking at the Aventura Mall and watching every film released in Broward County.
So I hadn’t paid that much attention. I assumed that Dean had some money socked away from his days as a television writer or perhaps a parent had loaned or given him some cash for a down payment. But as I stared at the dimming sky it hit me that no bank I knew of would loan money to an aspiring poker player. Not for this apartment, anyway.
I didn’t say anything. Because while I had no qualms about my poverty, I felt really, really funny about saying to him: “Dean, are you rich? Like, really rich?” for fear it would reveal me as a shallow gold digger. Rather than a shallow sex fiend. Oh, so that was why he’d dismissed my offer of a contribution to dinner the other night with a casual “No, I have way too much money.” He had just been being truthful. Ah.
We were running late, but when we went back inside Dean sat on the edge of his bed and tugged me close to him. We were eye to eye. We kissed. “I want to spank you,” he said.
I caught my breath. I was in the apartment of a man I’d known for a total of three days, and no one knew where I was, and he was seven years older than me and…
His bed frame had built-in drawers, and he opened one now, and took out a thong of suede-like fabric. Dean indicated the sand-colored, cushioned wall inlay behind the bed: “This is from when I had that done,” he explained.
“Chamois,” I choked.
“Chamois,” he agreed. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me: “Now you’ve got an older man who knows how to discipline you,” he said mildly.
Oh, my God. I was so excited I forgot to be scared.
He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them with the chamois. I stared at him, wide-eyed, docile, and then he pulled me across his knee, so I was facing down.
I stared at his sheets: “Um, maybe you want to move your socks. And possibly The New York Times.” How was I going to get into the right frame of mind when I was distracted by tube socks and other evidence of Dean’s normal, non-threatening guy-ness?
“Oh, right, yeah, that might help.” He swept some of the junk off the bed. If I have men over, I at least make my bed. Jeez. He must have had months’ worth of Sunday magazines here.
At last the stage was set, and Dean smacked my ass – still clothed – with a quick, brisk hand.
“Start really soft,” I said, and was dismayed to notice that I was hardly being submissive here, what with the giving of orders and stuff. But he obliged. He hit me, and I started getting really excited, but we were supposed to meet his friends so it was brief.
We stopped by to see his friends but ended up going to dinner by ourselves. By the time we made it to an Italian restaurant the sky was dark. It was warm and we sat at a table on the sidewalk, our knees touching under the table. Dean rubbed his hand along my leg and squeezed my ankle.
We split a bottle of wine and ate bread and olive oil and I struggled over the menu, trying to decide on an entree. When the waiter came I was still debating. “We’ll share the steak salad for an appetizer.”
“How do you like the steak?”
“Medium rare?” I was leaning toward the homemade pasta and not really paying attention. “Sweetie?” said Dean. “Is medium rare OK?”
“What? Oh, That’s fine.”
We had a nice boozy meal, as I’d hoped, and it occurred to me that this would be a nice way to spend my life, eating at the sidewalk tables of Italian restaurants on summer nights, drinking Pinot Grigio with a cute guy who called me sweetie.
Afterwards we walked back to his place, and in his room he tied my hands behind my back with the chamois again, and put me over his knee, as I’d known he would. It was dark in his bedroom, and I whispered, “Tell me why you’re hitting me,” and there was a note of longing and thrilled anticipation in my voice.
Dean slapped my ass: “This is for making me get an AIDS test,” he announced, and then he hit me again. I breathed rapidly. “And for not calling me ‘Sir,’” he added thoughtfully, bringing his hand down on my ass. I swallowed. “Because you’re a whore and a cum slut and you need to be disciplined,” he went on. His words washed over me, a flood of all the dirty things I whisper to myself when I masturbate, and I was gasping and he was hitting me while I squirmed against his hand in the dark. His hand was nowhere near my clit, but I was amazed to discover I was totally wet. I rubbed myself against his jean-clad thigh, shuddering and moaning.
After a while his hand subsided and he wrapped his arm around my back. I lay with my face buried in his chest. I felt very, very strange, sort of hollowed out and almost ashamed and what we’d done, or of how I’d enjoyed it.
“If you get tired, you should stay over,” Dean offered.
“OK,” I said.
After a minute I rolled away onto my back. My hands were still tied together, but the lack of movement didn’t bother me. Dean slid on top of me and kissed me. “I want you to stay over,” he said.
I wrapped my bound wrists over his head and around his neck. I kissed him back. “OK,” I said again.
He put the movie Secretary on, perhaps so I could get an idea of what was in store for me, but we didn’t pay much attention since he had his hand on my clit and we were kissing and rolling around. I was surprised at how funny the movie was, though; I’d never watched it before.
When it was over we lay in the dark. “You know what I want?”
“Hmm?” I nuzzled his neck.
“Ah, Lily, I want to wrap myself in latex and slip inside you,” he whispered.
I considered this: “No, I’ve made such a fuss about it.” Best to start as you mean to go on. “I’ve got to see it through. We’ll do it on Monday, when we’ve both been tested.” That was my plan: after we'd both been tested (on the following Monday, provisionally), we'd make a beeline for his place and get naked. This is my idea of playing hard to get.
“Listen, you’re going to stay over three nights a week.” I didn’t respond; I didn’t know what to say, though the idea appealed. And I thought: Dean lied to me: he is interested in a serious relationship. Maybe not with me, that wasn’t entirely clear to me — perhaps it was just that I was in the line of fire, and all his good manners and affection and boredom were spilling onto the first available girl. But he’d been so attentive, and asked me to do social, non-sex stuff -- did I want to meet his friends? Should we see a movie? – it was clear that he wanted someone to socialize with. But. He was so nice and smart and funny and kept seeking my company so I thought: Don’t be surprised if he disappears in two weeks. Dean came on strong, and my recent experience with men who showed this much interest in me (like Evan, for instance) hadn't proved very positive. Perhaps Dean was a hit-and-run kind of guy: I had no idea.
But I wasn’t going anywhere tonight. When Dean turned off the light he snuggled up against me. I wasn't expecting that, I wouldn't have taken him for a cuddler. I’m a restless sleeper and couldn’t have his limbs on top of mine. But whenever I tossed and turned he would tug me back to his chest, and I fell asleep with the sensation of his arm clutching me close.
Showing posts with label dominance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dominance. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
I Submit. Sort Of.
Jed and I went to see Hounded, which was part of the Brooklyn Film Festival and playing at the Cobble Hill Cinema on Court Street. Jed had sent me a link which had brief blurbs about the films playing that evening, and Hounded sounded sexy, so I chose that over the story of a special friendship that develops between two boys, blah, blah, blah.
Hounded is about a burnt out probation officer who gets involved in a sadomasochistic relationship with one of her parolees, a sulky and rather sexy boy of about 16. It was pretty kinky. For much of the film, the boy, Jan, is trying to please this woman, romance her. Jan’s clearly this vulnerable kid and Elsa’s an in-charge adult with a longtime partner and teenage daughter. But Jan is not just pursuing her but daring her, trying to seduce her into using and abusing him, which, eventually, she starts to do. He gets her to beat him with a ruler, chain him up at her partner’s empty garage, etc. He wants it, and she loves doing it.
I really liked the film's exploration of the power dynamic, and it made me think about the conversation Jefferson and I once had about submission and dominance. The power structure is thus: even though Elsa is the responsible adult whose job it is to keep Jan in line, the fact is that Jan is in charge, because Elsa has so much to lose if the affair goes wrong (as it must). And once Elsa gives into the temptation of an erotic and violent relationship with a susceptible teenager, she has put herself at risk, not only because of the heady power of the kinky stuff, but also because her relationship with this boy threatens the well being of her family and her own emotional stability. There’s a power in Jan’s youth and beauty; he can afford to be vulnerable in a way Elsa cannot.
Anyway. Jed and I sat in the theatre and nudged one another at various sexy and disturbing moments, and when the lights came up we agreed: It was hot (hot being Jed’s favored term of approval). There is an element of dominance and submission in the way Jed and I fuck. I thought about that, and about the appropriateness of this choice of film, and I got all shivery.
We took the train to Jed’s neighborhood, where Jed lives in a bona fide loft in a converted factory, along with lots of other arty white twentysomethings. It reminded me of a dorm. In his loft, two windowless rooms had been carved out of the raw space with the judicious use of particleboard walls and whatnot. There was a real kitchen and bathroom, however, and I thought it was kind of cool.
Jed introduced me to his roommate, and then opened a bottle of wine and fried up some dumplings, burning his hand in the process. I hadn’t had dinner, so soon I was buzzed and feeling very mellow, sitting in Jed’s kitchen watching him fence with the grease-spitting pan, using the lid like a shield as he tried to sear the wonton skins without burning himself.
If I were his age, I would have a massive, brain-numbing crush on Jed. As it is, I find him pretty thrilling.
We ate our dumplings and broccoli, and by the end of the meal I was feeling just sodden with horniness and affection. We sat on stool at the kitchen counter, my thigh sandwiched between his. We kissed, and I tugged my fingers through his heat-damp curls.
Eventually we retired to his bedroom, which was one of the carved out rooms in the middle of the loft. It was dim and crammed with stuff, and Jed had a loft bed. The ladder wasn’t angled: it was flush against the bed without real steps, just wide planks a foot or so apart. Jed had to hoist me up, and when I reached the top I struggled cause I couldn’t get a purchase. When I landed on his mattress I stretched out. It was very attic-like and cozy (or possibly claustrophobic), with the ceiling low over us.
We started to kiss, and Jed pressed himself against me. “These need to come off,” he said, and tugged off my underwear. He was wearing white boy short underwear, which he took off.
I slid up against him, wanting him inside me. We kissed, and after a few moments I said, “Are you going to fuck me?”
Jed pulled his torso away from me. “Maybe I will,” he said, “And maybe I won’t.”
I eyed him: “Do you want me to beg?” As always, with Jed my voice becomes this breathless demand. I sound all whispery and achy, and at the same time sort of careless: “’Cause I will if you want me to.” As long as you fuck me. “Do you want me to beg?”
He said nothing. I pushed myself up against him, and finally he reached over to what would have been a bedside table if this had been the floor. This is what he kept next to his bed: a pack of cigarettes, condoms, the aforementioned super slick BabeLube, and a tub of antiseptic hand wipes. No books or anything. He tore open a condom. He had barely touched me and I was afraid I wasn’t wet enough, but it didn’t matter: I was. “Ahh,” I sighed as he entered me.
“God,” he said as he pumped against me, “I love your hot little body.”
“Uh,” I said, not very eloquently, and pushed up closer against him.
“You’re really a slut, aren’t you?” he went on. “I just want to stuff you full of my cock and use your body, huh.”
“I’m a selective slut,” I breathed, a little distractedly. But yes: I wanted to be stuffed full of his cock and be used by him. Yup, absolutely…. Ahhh.
When Jed paused for a bit I said “Hit me,” and turned over.
I was sort of thinking about the movie, but I was also remembering the last time we fucked: how Jed told me to turn over and then very slowly and rather tenderly proceeded to slap my ass, softly at first, and then with a firm, practiced hand.
Jed obliged. What I liked was being able to see him out of the corner of my eye, how he lifted his hand high and then brought it down as if he were going to thrash me, but only swept his hand lightly across my bare ass. I liked the choreographed grace of it, the way Jed looked so absorbed. It is hard to actually see the person bent over your ass without a mirror, but I turned my head and did my best.
I think I could have gone on like this for some time, but he only did it for a bit. “Let me get on top of you,” I said then, and after not having him inside me for a few minutes, the relief of his dick sliding into me was great.
I rocked against him. “You’re a real little slut,” Jed muttered admiringly as I thrust myself against his cock. “A slut for me.”
I was sweating, and smiling, and working hard. I shoved my breasts at him, “Like my tits?” I asked, like I didn’t know the answer. “Suck my nipples.”
Jed slid his mouth along my nipples, swirling his tongue against my skin, and I felt my orgasm start to build. “I’m really close,” I whispered to Jed, as I swung myself back and forth on top of him. “Hold my hips, OK? Yeah, like that.”
He kept up a stream of words while I relaxed into the rhythm of it, and when I came I slumped against his neck, panting with exhaustion and grateful for the long lean length of him beneath me. Jed held his arms around me while I waited for my heart rate to subside.
Then it was his turn. “Get on all fours,” Jed said. I obeyed. He manipulated his dick into me and started to pump away at my pussy. I tried to encourage him by jiggling my ass, pumping back at him. “Can I play with your ass?” He said.
“Uh huh.” And he slid a finger inside me. My anus opened up to his finger without difficulty, his finger felt smooth and slippery. It didn’t hurt, it just didn’t feel particularly good. After a bit he stopped fucking and fingering me and I turned over on my back. “Remember what you said the other week?” Jed prompted.
I knew exactly what he meant: he’d asked if he could fuck my ass and I’d breathed “Next time, OK?” He probably remembered that as a promise, not as me putting him off. Gah! “Yes, I know exactly what you’re referring to,” I said ruefully.
“Listen,” he said, “I have introduced, like, four women to anal sex and they’ve all loved it, I promise…”
“No, that’s not it,” I protested. I mean, I thought it might hurt, but that wasn’t the problem: it was more like it didn’t turn me on. The only time I had been excited was when Jeremy played with my ass, and I couldn’t call him up and say, “Hey, Jeremy! It’s Lily … yeah, that girl you unceremoniously dumped a few months ago…. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. … Listen: remember how you put your finger up my ass? You do? Well, can you tell me exactly how you did it? … Right, right…”
“It won’t hurt,” Jed promised. “This lube—” he gestured to the much-vaunted BabeLube – is really great, it’s not too thin, but it’s really slick…”
“I’m just kind of teen Christian about my ass,” I said weakly. It’s true. I guess I’m saving my ass virginity for something (or someone?). I suspect Jefferson feels he has first dibs, but huh. I mean, yes, I’m kind of scared of the pain, but it’s more like I’m not that into it. I want to want it. And I think there’s a good chance that I will. Eventually. So I’m prepared to wait until I do.
But what the hell, if Jed wanted it that much, was I really compromising my sexual autonomy by indulging him? My considered answer: Nah. Also, Jed wasn’t a bad bet, safety wise: he hadn’t slept with nearly as many people as Jefferson, for instance. I shrugged: “OK.”
We started to fuck again, with Jed’s finger slipping up inside my ass again. But then, instead of the prelude to ass sex which includes (I would hope) more lube and a bit of crooning dirty talk, Jed pulled off the condom: “Suck my dick,” he said.
I climbed onto him and leaned over, dangling my tits over his cock. I licked the length of him, and sucked his balls, and then finally wrapped my mouth around him, in all his uncircumcised, and quite lengthy, glory. “Ahhhh,” Jed groaned. “That feels really good.”
I smiled down at his dick, which was properly stiff and engorged. Then I went back to sucking him off. His dick felt really slick and slippery in my mouth, and it was a pleasure to work it over. “Yeah,” muttered Jed, “You’re good at that…”
And a after a minute or so he said, “I’m gonna come,” and my mouth was filled with his warm, wet come. I kept sucking away, drawing it all out. I swallowed a bit, but mostly I let it drip out of my mouth and onto his stomach. It didn’t taste foul by any means, but I avoid swallowing.
I hauled myself off Jed and collapsed next to him, smiling at the ceiling. Jed shook the pack of cigarettes and, on discovering that it was empty, said, “I’m going to get a pack of cigarettes – want to take a quick walk?”
“OK.” But Jed didn’t get up. Instead he reached over again, and this time pulled over one of two acoustic guitars sitting behind all the lube and wipes. “I don’t really know any songs,” he explained, “Just my own.” He was going to play his songs for me.
Christ, the college girls must have lined up to fuck him. I bet this sensitive rocker poet stuff, especially when combined with that long body and those blond curls, must have been a pretty incendiary mix. Of course, as I am not only older and wiser but immune to these arty boys and their acoustic charms, I merely find this amusing and sweet.
Yeah right. If I’ve been dismissive of Jed due to his occasionally pseudo-deep conversation, not to mention his flakiness or the fact that tonight he’d actually worn a black bandanna around his neck, cowhand style (really! I can’t believe he gets away with stuff like that, but when you’re really tall and cute and sure of yourself, all things are possible, I expect) but I take it all back: his song was great.
It was about Kit, whom I’d met at the first orgy I attended, back in February. I had spoken to her briefly, and now I tried to picture her: pretty, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett Johansson, with pronounced curves and creamy pale skin.
I lay there, openmouthed: it was a good song. More than that, it was romantic, and sexy, and the lyrics were smart. Jim wrote you a poem, I reminded myself.
When he finished his song I shook my head, dumbfounded, “Jed,” I said, “That was great. You are really talented.”
He smiled at me. He knew that already.
Then we got up and went for a walk, with me wearing his maroon leather jacket ’cause it wasn’t as warm outside as it should have been. Jed carried his guitar: he was going to play me another song. At the corner store he bought a pack of cigarettes entirely with coins drawn from a handkerchief pouch (“Like a hobo!” I observed) and then we sat on what appeared to be the front seat of a Ford Taurus resting on the sidewalk in front of his building. There Jed arranged himself and sang me another song. People walking by looked at us as Jed performed, which made me smile, embarrassed at the attention. But Jed was shameless. This song was really good too. I was humbled.
At last we returned to his apartment and got ready for bed. He lay next to me on the mattress and turned, fetal position, to face me. I was surprised – he is not much as a cuddler. I mirrored him, and then he started to kiss me.
Oh, I thought, as we wrestled, we’re going to have sex again! Gosh, I liked his energy, and the tiredness I’d felt earlier was gone.
He fucked me from behind, pushing against me while I stretched up against him, like a cat. We went fast: after a minute he said, “Can I come?”
I nodded: “Uh huh.”
He came with me on my knees, his breath a steady rhythm in my ear.
**
“Which side do you like?” I asked. Meaning, what side of the bed.
“This is my side,” he said. He lay at the edge, and I next to the wall.
“OK.” Jed had rigged up his fan so that we wouldn’t melt from the heat. I lay marooned under his white duvet, enjoying the cool air on my face. Jed flopped onto his side and I lay on my stomach. “Goodnight,” I said.
I leaned over to kiss him and then I buried my face in his pillow and waited to fall asleep.
Hounded is about a burnt out probation officer who gets involved in a sadomasochistic relationship with one of her parolees, a sulky and rather sexy boy of about 16. It was pretty kinky. For much of the film, the boy, Jan, is trying to please this woman, romance her. Jan’s clearly this vulnerable kid and Elsa’s an in-charge adult with a longtime partner and teenage daughter. But Jan is not just pursuing her but daring her, trying to seduce her into using and abusing him, which, eventually, she starts to do. He gets her to beat him with a ruler, chain him up at her partner’s empty garage, etc. He wants it, and she loves doing it.
I really liked the film's exploration of the power dynamic, and it made me think about the conversation Jefferson and I once had about submission and dominance. The power structure is thus: even though Elsa is the responsible adult whose job it is to keep Jan in line, the fact is that Jan is in charge, because Elsa has so much to lose if the affair goes wrong (as it must). And once Elsa gives into the temptation of an erotic and violent relationship with a susceptible teenager, she has put herself at risk, not only because of the heady power of the kinky stuff, but also because her relationship with this boy threatens the well being of her family and her own emotional stability. There’s a power in Jan’s youth and beauty; he can afford to be vulnerable in a way Elsa cannot.
Anyway. Jed and I sat in the theatre and nudged one another at various sexy and disturbing moments, and when the lights came up we agreed: It was hot (hot being Jed’s favored term of approval). There is an element of dominance and submission in the way Jed and I fuck. I thought about that, and about the appropriateness of this choice of film, and I got all shivery.
We took the train to Jed’s neighborhood, where Jed lives in a bona fide loft in a converted factory, along with lots of other arty white twentysomethings. It reminded me of a dorm. In his loft, two windowless rooms had been carved out of the raw space with the judicious use of particleboard walls and whatnot. There was a real kitchen and bathroom, however, and I thought it was kind of cool.
Jed introduced me to his roommate, and then opened a bottle of wine and fried up some dumplings, burning his hand in the process. I hadn’t had dinner, so soon I was buzzed and feeling very mellow, sitting in Jed’s kitchen watching him fence with the grease-spitting pan, using the lid like a shield as he tried to sear the wonton skins without burning himself.
If I were his age, I would have a massive, brain-numbing crush on Jed. As it is, I find him pretty thrilling.
We ate our dumplings and broccoli, and by the end of the meal I was feeling just sodden with horniness and affection. We sat on stool at the kitchen counter, my thigh sandwiched between his. We kissed, and I tugged my fingers through his heat-damp curls.
Eventually we retired to his bedroom, which was one of the carved out rooms in the middle of the loft. It was dim and crammed with stuff, and Jed had a loft bed. The ladder wasn’t angled: it was flush against the bed without real steps, just wide planks a foot or so apart. Jed had to hoist me up, and when I reached the top I struggled cause I couldn’t get a purchase. When I landed on his mattress I stretched out. It was very attic-like and cozy (or possibly claustrophobic), with the ceiling low over us.
We started to kiss, and Jed pressed himself against me. “These need to come off,” he said, and tugged off my underwear. He was wearing white boy short underwear, which he took off.
I slid up against him, wanting him inside me. We kissed, and after a few moments I said, “Are you going to fuck me?”
Jed pulled his torso away from me. “Maybe I will,” he said, “And maybe I won’t.”
I eyed him: “Do you want me to beg?” As always, with Jed my voice becomes this breathless demand. I sound all whispery and achy, and at the same time sort of careless: “’Cause I will if you want me to.” As long as you fuck me. “Do you want me to beg?”
He said nothing. I pushed myself up against him, and finally he reached over to what would have been a bedside table if this had been the floor. This is what he kept next to his bed: a pack of cigarettes, condoms, the aforementioned super slick BabeLube, and a tub of antiseptic hand wipes. No books or anything. He tore open a condom. He had barely touched me and I was afraid I wasn’t wet enough, but it didn’t matter: I was. “Ahh,” I sighed as he entered me.
“God,” he said as he pumped against me, “I love your hot little body.”
“Uh,” I said, not very eloquently, and pushed up closer against him.
“You’re really a slut, aren’t you?” he went on. “I just want to stuff you full of my cock and use your body, huh.”
“I’m a selective slut,” I breathed, a little distractedly. But yes: I wanted to be stuffed full of his cock and be used by him. Yup, absolutely…. Ahhh.
When Jed paused for a bit I said “Hit me,” and turned over.
I was sort of thinking about the movie, but I was also remembering the last time we fucked: how Jed told me to turn over and then very slowly and rather tenderly proceeded to slap my ass, softly at first, and then with a firm, practiced hand.
Jed obliged. What I liked was being able to see him out of the corner of my eye, how he lifted his hand high and then brought it down as if he were going to thrash me, but only swept his hand lightly across my bare ass. I liked the choreographed grace of it, the way Jed looked so absorbed. It is hard to actually see the person bent over your ass without a mirror, but I turned my head and did my best.
I think I could have gone on like this for some time, but he only did it for a bit. “Let me get on top of you,” I said then, and after not having him inside me for a few minutes, the relief of his dick sliding into me was great.
I rocked against him. “You’re a real little slut,” Jed muttered admiringly as I thrust myself against his cock. “A slut for me.”
I was sweating, and smiling, and working hard. I shoved my breasts at him, “Like my tits?” I asked, like I didn’t know the answer. “Suck my nipples.”
Jed slid his mouth along my nipples, swirling his tongue against my skin, and I felt my orgasm start to build. “I’m really close,” I whispered to Jed, as I swung myself back and forth on top of him. “Hold my hips, OK? Yeah, like that.”
He kept up a stream of words while I relaxed into the rhythm of it, and when I came I slumped against his neck, panting with exhaustion and grateful for the long lean length of him beneath me. Jed held his arms around me while I waited for my heart rate to subside.
Then it was his turn. “Get on all fours,” Jed said. I obeyed. He manipulated his dick into me and started to pump away at my pussy. I tried to encourage him by jiggling my ass, pumping back at him. “Can I play with your ass?” He said.
“Uh huh.” And he slid a finger inside me. My anus opened up to his finger without difficulty, his finger felt smooth and slippery. It didn’t hurt, it just didn’t feel particularly good. After a bit he stopped fucking and fingering me and I turned over on my back. “Remember what you said the other week?” Jed prompted.
I knew exactly what he meant: he’d asked if he could fuck my ass and I’d breathed “Next time, OK?” He probably remembered that as a promise, not as me putting him off. Gah! “Yes, I know exactly what you’re referring to,” I said ruefully.
“Listen,” he said, “I have introduced, like, four women to anal sex and they’ve all loved it, I promise…”
“No, that’s not it,” I protested. I mean, I thought it might hurt, but that wasn’t the problem: it was more like it didn’t turn me on. The only time I had been excited was when Jeremy played with my ass, and I couldn’t call him up and say, “Hey, Jeremy! It’s Lily … yeah, that girl you unceremoniously dumped a few months ago…. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. … Listen: remember how you put your finger up my ass? You do? Well, can you tell me exactly how you did it? … Right, right…”
“It won’t hurt,” Jed promised. “This lube—” he gestured to the much-vaunted BabeLube – is really great, it’s not too thin, but it’s really slick…”
“I’m just kind of teen Christian about my ass,” I said weakly. It’s true. I guess I’m saving my ass virginity for something (or someone?). I suspect Jefferson feels he has first dibs, but huh. I mean, yes, I’m kind of scared of the pain, but it’s more like I’m not that into it. I want to want it. And I think there’s a good chance that I will. Eventually. So I’m prepared to wait until I do.
But what the hell, if Jed wanted it that much, was I really compromising my sexual autonomy by indulging him? My considered answer: Nah. Also, Jed wasn’t a bad bet, safety wise: he hadn’t slept with nearly as many people as Jefferson, for instance. I shrugged: “OK.”
We started to fuck again, with Jed’s finger slipping up inside my ass again. But then, instead of the prelude to ass sex which includes (I would hope) more lube and a bit of crooning dirty talk, Jed pulled off the condom: “Suck my dick,” he said.
I climbed onto him and leaned over, dangling my tits over his cock. I licked the length of him, and sucked his balls, and then finally wrapped my mouth around him, in all his uncircumcised, and quite lengthy, glory. “Ahhhh,” Jed groaned. “That feels really good.”
I smiled down at his dick, which was properly stiff and engorged. Then I went back to sucking him off. His dick felt really slick and slippery in my mouth, and it was a pleasure to work it over. “Yeah,” muttered Jed, “You’re good at that…”
And a after a minute or so he said, “I’m gonna come,” and my mouth was filled with his warm, wet come. I kept sucking away, drawing it all out. I swallowed a bit, but mostly I let it drip out of my mouth and onto his stomach. It didn’t taste foul by any means, but I avoid swallowing.
I hauled myself off Jed and collapsed next to him, smiling at the ceiling. Jed shook the pack of cigarettes and, on discovering that it was empty, said, “I’m going to get a pack of cigarettes – want to take a quick walk?”
“OK.” But Jed didn’t get up. Instead he reached over again, and this time pulled over one of two acoustic guitars sitting behind all the lube and wipes. “I don’t really know any songs,” he explained, “Just my own.” He was going to play his songs for me.
Christ, the college girls must have lined up to fuck him. I bet this sensitive rocker poet stuff, especially when combined with that long body and those blond curls, must have been a pretty incendiary mix. Of course, as I am not only older and wiser but immune to these arty boys and their acoustic charms, I merely find this amusing and sweet.
Yeah right. If I’ve been dismissive of Jed due to his occasionally pseudo-deep conversation, not to mention his flakiness or the fact that tonight he’d actually worn a black bandanna around his neck, cowhand style (really! I can’t believe he gets away with stuff like that, but when you’re really tall and cute and sure of yourself, all things are possible, I expect) but I take it all back: his song was great.
It was about Kit, whom I’d met at the first orgy I attended, back in February. I had spoken to her briefly, and now I tried to picture her: pretty, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett Johansson, with pronounced curves and creamy pale skin.
I lay there, openmouthed: it was a good song. More than that, it was romantic, and sexy, and the lyrics were smart. Jim wrote you a poem, I reminded myself.
When he finished his song I shook my head, dumbfounded, “Jed,” I said, “That was great. You are really talented.”
He smiled at me. He knew that already.
Then we got up and went for a walk, with me wearing his maroon leather jacket ’cause it wasn’t as warm outside as it should have been. Jed carried his guitar: he was going to play me another song. At the corner store he bought a pack of cigarettes entirely with coins drawn from a handkerchief pouch (“Like a hobo!” I observed) and then we sat on what appeared to be the front seat of a Ford Taurus resting on the sidewalk in front of his building. There Jed arranged himself and sang me another song. People walking by looked at us as Jed performed, which made me smile, embarrassed at the attention. But Jed was shameless. This song was really good too. I was humbled.
At last we returned to his apartment and got ready for bed. He lay next to me on the mattress and turned, fetal position, to face me. I was surprised – he is not much as a cuddler. I mirrored him, and then he started to kiss me.
Oh, I thought, as we wrestled, we’re going to have sex again! Gosh, I liked his energy, and the tiredness I’d felt earlier was gone.
He fucked me from behind, pushing against me while I stretched up against him, like a cat. We went fast: after a minute he said, “Can I come?”
I nodded: “Uh huh.”
He came with me on my knees, his breath a steady rhythm in my ear.
**
“Which side do you like?” I asked. Meaning, what side of the bed.
“This is my side,” he said. He lay at the edge, and I next to the wall.
“OK.” Jed had rigged up his fan so that we wouldn’t melt from the heat. I lay marooned under his white duvet, enjoying the cool air on my face. Jed flopped onto his side and I lay on my stomach. “Goodnight,” I said.
I leaned over to kiss him and then I buried my face in his pillow and waited to fall asleep.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
An Embarrassment of Riches
I walked down the corridor that had become familiar to me and opened the door: the living room was empty. I took off my shoes, hung up my coat, and followed the distant voices down the hall.
In Jefferson’s room, a crowd was watching the television screen. “Some of our guests have been making their own porno!” my host greeted me. I squinted. Sure enough, on screen, there was Adam, naked. And there was Emma, on a bed. Lying next to her was Gina, her long hair loose.
I turned and looked at Adam, who was examining his video with an artist’s satisfaction. I smiled at him. “Wow,” I said politely. “It’s got a soundtrack and everything.” It did: a real porn-movie soundtrack! I wondered if that came with iMovie or whatever.
“Emma did that,” said Adam proudly, gesturing at his fiancée, who smiled at me absently. “That’s love: having your girlfriend create the soundtrack to your homemade porno.”
**
Standing next to me in the bedroom were Jessica and Sean, I noticed. I smiled at them.
I’d met them a few weeks previously, when they’d come to meet Jefferson to see if they wanted to attend his orgies. I’d spent the night with Jefferson, and hadn’t managed to get out of his apartment before they turned up.
I’d liked them both and, in my capacity as orgy veteran, could encourage them to come in the warmest terms. I was pleased to see them both here, and said hello.
Oh, OK: I had my eye on Sean. He was really cute.
But there wasn’t much going on in the bedroom at the moment, so I went back into the living room. Soon most of the crowd had migrated there, and I ended up perched on Jefferson’s lap.
Jacob wandered by, looking cute as ever with his shaggy hair. A bemused smile played on his little boy’s face. “Hey!” I said, smiling up at him.
He peered at me: “Hi, I’m Jacob.”
I gazed up at him in disbelief: “I know that. Jacob, you’ve been emailing me.”
True: Jefferson had been singing Jacob’s praises for some time now, and we’d exchanged a few emails with the goal of getting together. It appeared that my witty emails hadn’t made much of an impression, though.
Jefferson chuckled.
“Sorry,” said Jacob. “I’m kind of drunk,” he added.
Just then a woman in a pink bustier and matching underwear clapped for attention: “Who wants to get tied up?” she demanded.
“Oh, look!” Jefferson interjected. “Mmmark’s here – now people will start having sex.” Jefferson makes this announcement at every single orgy. I guess he’s right, though: soon after Mmmark’s arrival people did start to drift off towards the bedrooms.
But I ended up on the couch with Jacob, who claimed he remembered me very well, after all. He put his arm around my shoulder and I stroked his arm. I recognized this as a prelude to fooling around and was pleased, but also distracted: Jed had just arrived!
I waved at him and he smiled back at me, looking, as usual, tousled and pretty fucking hot in his jeans and white button down shirt.
Someone suggested we retire to the next room, where apparently the pink bustier-ed woman had found a volunteer. One of the guests – possibly the blond in the pink bustier herself – had rigged up a whole system of ropes and pulleys on Jefferson’s bed. Very impressive, given that Jefferson doesn’t even have a headboard.
Jefferson’s bedroom was well lit for once and most of the guests were leaning against the dressers watching as the woman in a pink bustier and matching underwear applied multiple clothespins to Gina’s pussy.
Ouch! I flinched in sympathetic agony. Gina lay there placidly, breathing carefully. Jacob looked intrigued but I was not turned on, so we went back into the living room.
Jacob wandered over to the balcony to have a cigarette, and I started talking to Brooklyn Rake, who is so nice and friendly. It is very relaxing to be around someone who appears to be enjoying himself as much as he was. Brooklyn Rake revealed that he had not posted in several weeks, and wondered how I maintained the impetus to keep writing.
“Well,” I said, “I think I’m kind of afraid that if I stop writing, I’ll stop having sex.” I had only just realized that, but I think it’s true! I’m afraid that if I don’t put the words down, all my adventures will stop. Of course, the truth of the matter is, if I don’t write down (or at least take notes) very soon after the event, then I won’t remember what happened and thus won’t be able to post about it, which is not really the same thing.
“Also, I have some really responsive and nice readers,” (Hi, Waveman!) “And that makes me want to post, too.”
In the midst of this literary discussion Jed came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulder. He is much taller than me, I only came up to his chest. Jed ran his hands along my arms, and I leaned against him. Ah, that was nice.
I turned around to face him and our eyes met. “Hey,” I said stupidly. He just knocks me out. I could have stared at him all night. He was wearing a cloth cap, like London newsboys in the historical dramas you sometimes come across on TV.
He grinned: “Hey.”
Soon enough Jed and I were back on the sofa I had recently vacated. We settled down next to each other but then Jed pushed me back against the cushions and sat himself on the coffee table: “I just have the urge to get really rough with you,” he mused in a low voice.
I felt a rush all through me and I thought I might collapse. “You knew that would turn me on,” I whispered hoarsely. “Didn’t you?”
We kissed for a minute. Then he leaned forward: “Suck me off,” he said. He unfolded his long legs and, stooping above me, undid his ornate silver belt. He took his newsboy’s cap off and tucked it on top of my head, and I obediently leaned forward. “Look at this,” he said to Sean and Jessica, sitting next to us on the sofa.
I looked up at Jed: “They’re busy,” I said, turning to look at our neighbors, who weren’t paying attention. “Maybe we shouldn’t disturb them.”
Jed waved away my concerns as I leaned forward again to wrap my mouth around his dick. “Isn’t she cute?” he asked. The others on the couch looked up politely. “And look how she can take all that cock,” he noted proudly as I obediently swallowed him.
There was an appreciative silence while I sucked his dick, punctuated only by Jed’s hips jerking towards me. Having him tell me what to do was such a turn on, I didn’t even think twice. I considered the strangeness of this as I tried to take him all the way down my throat.
Suddenly I stopped and wrested myself from Jed’s dick: “Gag reflex,” I explained to my seatmates as I coughed and wiped the tears from my eyes.
**
I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back, Jed had taken my place on the sofa and was making out with Jessica. Jessica’s boyfriend was stroking her bra and playing with her tits. I sat on the coffee table, and watched them. Jessica leaned her head against the wall as Jed and Sean slid their hands and mouths across her skin.
Thomas was sitting next to me. We looked at one another. “Hey,” I said.
We hadn’t spoken before, really, except to say hello. His top was off. Thomas is not tall, with a compact body and a clever, curious expression. Without thinking, I leaned forward and we kissed.
But I wanted more action with Jed, and soon I was back on the couch with Jed’s body close up against mine. “Listen,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I’m going to have to go soon.” I was staying at Marc’s and had told him I’d be there by 11:30.
“Do you want to--?”
“Yeah! That’s what I’m saying!” I said, not at all clearly, I expect. “Now’s the time to make your move!”
Grinning at one another, we traipsed down the hall to Jefferson’s bedroom, which was surprisingly empty. Cautiously I felt the mattress: it was not noticeably damp, thank goodness. I climbed onto the bed, and Jed joined me.
But we weren’t along for long: after a minute some other people, who I couldn’t quite distinguish, joined us. I shifted into the center of the bed. Jed straddled me, his arms caging me.
Somewhere nearby, a woman moaned. I reached up and tugged his face closer to me, dragging my fingers through his matted curls. He kissed me with those juicy, overripe lips.
The only time I’d fucked in front of anyone was when Jefferson watched me and Daniel have sex, months ago now. But without much discussion Jed slid inside me. I looked up at him: “You know just saying you wanted to get rough with me would turn me on, right?” My voice was hoarse. It was somehow very important for me to explain this to him.
“I don’t know that I want you to get rough,” I continued in a whisper as Jed cracked his palm against my collarbone. When Jefferson had held his hand against my neck it had hurt, but Jed’s hand felt exciting and soothing at the same time. “It’s just hearing you say it…” my voice trailed off into a gasp as I tried to get closer, deeper, more of him. I rolled on top and rode him, his sweaty limbs sticking us together. I was so wet that he kept slipping out, though, and soon he got back on top.
“You want me to come?” Jed whispered.
“Uh huh!”
“You didn’t come, did you?”
I shook my head as he pounded me with a steady thud. “Next time,” I gasped. “I’m not used to having sex with other people in the room.” I looked around at the shadows I couldn’t quite decipher.
Jed nodded, and then he came, and we lay sunk in Jefferson’s mattress while people moved all around us.
In Jefferson’s room, a crowd was watching the television screen. “Some of our guests have been making their own porno!” my host greeted me. I squinted. Sure enough, on screen, there was Adam, naked. And there was Emma, on a bed. Lying next to her was Gina, her long hair loose.
I turned and looked at Adam, who was examining his video with an artist’s satisfaction. I smiled at him. “Wow,” I said politely. “It’s got a soundtrack and everything.” It did: a real porn-movie soundtrack! I wondered if that came with iMovie or whatever.
“Emma did that,” said Adam proudly, gesturing at his fiancée, who smiled at me absently. “That’s love: having your girlfriend create the soundtrack to your homemade porno.”
**
Standing next to me in the bedroom were Jessica and Sean, I noticed. I smiled at them.
I’d met them a few weeks previously, when they’d come to meet Jefferson to see if they wanted to attend his orgies. I’d spent the night with Jefferson, and hadn’t managed to get out of his apartment before they turned up.
I’d liked them both and, in my capacity as orgy veteran, could encourage them to come in the warmest terms. I was pleased to see them both here, and said hello.
Oh, OK: I had my eye on Sean. He was really cute.
But there wasn’t much going on in the bedroom at the moment, so I went back into the living room. Soon most of the crowd had migrated there, and I ended up perched on Jefferson’s lap.
Jacob wandered by, looking cute as ever with his shaggy hair. A bemused smile played on his little boy’s face. “Hey!” I said, smiling up at him.
He peered at me: “Hi, I’m Jacob.”
I gazed up at him in disbelief: “I know that. Jacob, you’ve been emailing me.”
True: Jefferson had been singing Jacob’s praises for some time now, and we’d exchanged a few emails with the goal of getting together. It appeared that my witty emails hadn’t made much of an impression, though.
Jefferson chuckled.
“Sorry,” said Jacob. “I’m kind of drunk,” he added.
Just then a woman in a pink bustier and matching underwear clapped for attention: “Who wants to get tied up?” she demanded.
“Oh, look!” Jefferson interjected. “Mmmark’s here – now people will start having sex.” Jefferson makes this announcement at every single orgy. I guess he’s right, though: soon after Mmmark’s arrival people did start to drift off towards the bedrooms.
But I ended up on the couch with Jacob, who claimed he remembered me very well, after all. He put his arm around my shoulder and I stroked his arm. I recognized this as a prelude to fooling around and was pleased, but also distracted: Jed had just arrived!
I waved at him and he smiled back at me, looking, as usual, tousled and pretty fucking hot in his jeans and white button down shirt.
Someone suggested we retire to the next room, where apparently the pink bustier-ed woman had found a volunteer. One of the guests – possibly the blond in the pink bustier herself – had rigged up a whole system of ropes and pulleys on Jefferson’s bed. Very impressive, given that Jefferson doesn’t even have a headboard.
Jefferson’s bedroom was well lit for once and most of the guests were leaning against the dressers watching as the woman in a pink bustier and matching underwear applied multiple clothespins to Gina’s pussy.
Ouch! I flinched in sympathetic agony. Gina lay there placidly, breathing carefully. Jacob looked intrigued but I was not turned on, so we went back into the living room.
Jacob wandered over to the balcony to have a cigarette, and I started talking to Brooklyn Rake, who is so nice and friendly. It is very relaxing to be around someone who appears to be enjoying himself as much as he was. Brooklyn Rake revealed that he had not posted in several weeks, and wondered how I maintained the impetus to keep writing.
“Well,” I said, “I think I’m kind of afraid that if I stop writing, I’ll stop having sex.” I had only just realized that, but I think it’s true! I’m afraid that if I don’t put the words down, all my adventures will stop. Of course, the truth of the matter is, if I don’t write down (or at least take notes) very soon after the event, then I won’t remember what happened and thus won’t be able to post about it, which is not really the same thing.
“Also, I have some really responsive and nice readers,” (Hi, Waveman!) “And that makes me want to post, too.”
In the midst of this literary discussion Jed came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulder. He is much taller than me, I only came up to his chest. Jed ran his hands along my arms, and I leaned against him. Ah, that was nice.
I turned around to face him and our eyes met. “Hey,” I said stupidly. He just knocks me out. I could have stared at him all night. He was wearing a cloth cap, like London newsboys in the historical dramas you sometimes come across on TV.
He grinned: “Hey.”
Soon enough Jed and I were back on the sofa I had recently vacated. We settled down next to each other but then Jed pushed me back against the cushions and sat himself on the coffee table: “I just have the urge to get really rough with you,” he mused in a low voice.
I felt a rush all through me and I thought I might collapse. “You knew that would turn me on,” I whispered hoarsely. “Didn’t you?”
We kissed for a minute. Then he leaned forward: “Suck me off,” he said. He unfolded his long legs and, stooping above me, undid his ornate silver belt. He took his newsboy’s cap off and tucked it on top of my head, and I obediently leaned forward. “Look at this,” he said to Sean and Jessica, sitting next to us on the sofa.
I looked up at Jed: “They’re busy,” I said, turning to look at our neighbors, who weren’t paying attention. “Maybe we shouldn’t disturb them.”
Jed waved away my concerns as I leaned forward again to wrap my mouth around his dick. “Isn’t she cute?” he asked. The others on the couch looked up politely. “And look how she can take all that cock,” he noted proudly as I obediently swallowed him.
There was an appreciative silence while I sucked his dick, punctuated only by Jed’s hips jerking towards me. Having him tell me what to do was such a turn on, I didn’t even think twice. I considered the strangeness of this as I tried to take him all the way down my throat.
Suddenly I stopped and wrested myself from Jed’s dick: “Gag reflex,” I explained to my seatmates as I coughed and wiped the tears from my eyes.
**
I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back, Jed had taken my place on the sofa and was making out with Jessica. Jessica’s boyfriend was stroking her bra and playing with her tits. I sat on the coffee table, and watched them. Jessica leaned her head against the wall as Jed and Sean slid their hands and mouths across her skin.
Thomas was sitting next to me. We looked at one another. “Hey,” I said.
We hadn’t spoken before, really, except to say hello. His top was off. Thomas is not tall, with a compact body and a clever, curious expression. Without thinking, I leaned forward and we kissed.
But I wanted more action with Jed, and soon I was back on the couch with Jed’s body close up against mine. “Listen,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I’m going to have to go soon.” I was staying at Marc’s and had told him I’d be there by 11:30.
“Do you want to--?”
“Yeah! That’s what I’m saying!” I said, not at all clearly, I expect. “Now’s the time to make your move!”
Grinning at one another, we traipsed down the hall to Jefferson’s bedroom, which was surprisingly empty. Cautiously I felt the mattress: it was not noticeably damp, thank goodness. I climbed onto the bed, and Jed joined me.
But we weren’t along for long: after a minute some other people, who I couldn’t quite distinguish, joined us. I shifted into the center of the bed. Jed straddled me, his arms caging me.
Somewhere nearby, a woman moaned. I reached up and tugged his face closer to me, dragging my fingers through his matted curls. He kissed me with those juicy, overripe lips.
The only time I’d fucked in front of anyone was when Jefferson watched me and Daniel have sex, months ago now. But without much discussion Jed slid inside me. I looked up at him: “You know just saying you wanted to get rough with me would turn me on, right?” My voice was hoarse. It was somehow very important for me to explain this to him.
“I don’t know that I want you to get rough,” I continued in a whisper as Jed cracked his palm against my collarbone. When Jefferson had held his hand against my neck it had hurt, but Jed’s hand felt exciting and soothing at the same time. “It’s just hearing you say it…” my voice trailed off into a gasp as I tried to get closer, deeper, more of him. I rolled on top and rode him, his sweaty limbs sticking us together. I was so wet that he kept slipping out, though, and soon he got back on top.
“You want me to come?” Jed whispered.
“Uh huh!”
“You didn’t come, did you?”
I shook my head as he pounded me with a steady thud. “Next time,” I gasped. “I’m not used to having sex with other people in the room.” I looked around at the shadows I couldn’t quite decipher.
Jed nodded, and then he came, and we lay sunk in Jefferson’s mattress while people moved all around us.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
In Which I am (Almost) Speechless
Sorry for the delay, Waveman!
“I saw a word that reminds me of you,” said Jed.
“What word?” I asked. Presumably it wasn’t koala.
“Ah… I’ll have to look it up.” Jed settled himself at my computer and searched through his email until he found it: callipygian.
“It means of or pertaining to having shapely buttocks,” Jed announced at last. He eyed my ass approvingly. I blushed.
That last part is an exaggeration: I didn’t blush. My skin isn’t built for it. This is a shame, because I love blushing, that bloom of heat. It is authentically demure, yet hot. But I blushed internally. Jed does that to me.
It’s funny because Jed is 23 years old and a bit full of himself. I like him, but don’t have a crush on him. But I was right about him: sexually, he does it for me.
Jed took off the newsboy’s cap he was wearing and unbuckled his belt, kneeling on the bed. His long body towered over my short one, and I leaned towards his denim-clad legs and went right for his dick.
He took off his jeans and boxers and I took as much of him in my mouth as I could, deep throating him, gagging – at one point I thought I was going to throw up the wine we’d drank—but forcing my mouth as far as I could down the shaft of his lovely dick. “Ah,” he moaned, “Ah, ah….”
Speaking of callipygian, Jed has a beautiful ass. God, he’s gorgeous. He pushed me down onto my mattress and my arms wound around him, resting on his callipygianous bod.
“You like it rough, don’t you?” he murmured.
I nodded. Something comes over me with Jed. I find myself turning into this different kind of slut, all doe-eyed and aching and shy. I pushed him to be rough, by gazing him out at him from under my lashes, by parting my lips, by daring him. It was like my face was begging, Don’t hurt me, I’m innocent and vulnerable. And meanwhile the rest of me was screaming, Don’t you want to hurt me? I’m all innocent and vulnerable. I didn’t know I had this in me, but I do. Jefferson doesn’t bring it out of me, Daniel didn’t, even Dominant Jordan didn’t make me want to obey, to take it, whatever it is. But Jed does.
Jed tugged the hair band I wear off my wrist and wrapped it around my hair. That bossiness turned me on. He turned me over on my back, and, crouching over my ass, lifted his palm: he was going to hit me.
I flinched in anticipation but he brought his palm down gently, just stroking me. I relaxed. He did it again, and I began to anticipate the sting of his hand against my skin. Finally he hit me, and I whimpered. Then he started all over again, his hand threatening me, only to come down with a caress and then slowly working his way up to a smack. And suddenly I noticed my hips were swiveling against his hand, and I was completely wet. This was a turn up for the books! I was so turned on.
Jed turned me over and I nodded. Jed put on a condom and then he slammed into me: “Ah!” I cried. He fucked me hard and quite fast, grunting in my ear as his cock plunged into me.
I never thought I could get this excited without words, but there we were, crunched together like, well, like animals, and I couldn’t get enough of him. His blond curls, his lanky body, his skin: “Yes, yes,” I muttered, arching my hips against his in a sort of desperation.
My face was against his hair. We weren’t looking at one another, but Jed pressed his palms to the side of my throat. The pressure felt good, I felt so totally compressed and fucked. After a few moments he whispered, “Do you want me to come?”
“No, let me come first.” I motioned for him to roll over so I could get on top, and he slid off me and lay there, waiting for me.
I sighed with relief as I slipped him back inside me and immediately starting rocking back and forth on his dick, desperate to come. “Can I play with your ass?” he asked.
“’Course you can.” And Jed slid a finger up my ass, working it up and down, just as I worked up and down on his cock. The pressure in my ass was intense and distracting. I still am not a great fan of ass play, I am sorry to say. The only time I really liked it is when Jeremy did it, and I heard these moans coming from my mouth. This time I felt like it was just getting in the way of my orgasm.
“You want me to fuck your ass?” Jed asked.
“Next time, OK?” I said breathlessly, squeezing his finger out of my ass; I wasn’t going to come with it there.
“Sure.”
Oh, God: had I just agreed to let an eight inch cock up my ass?! Ow! But never mind that now, I had to come.
It was dark outside, and it felt like the room had shrunk to this little place between my face and his, where I was panting and sweating and there was this green space where I was about to come to.
I came with a sigh and shuddered to a halt, grinning at Jed and burying my face in his shoulder.
Once more he flipped me onto my back and plunged into me. “Come for me,” I mumbled as his cock raked through me and I stretched myself against him, longing to feel the his orgasm shake through him. “Come, Jed.”
It was sort of a blur when he came, but I remember the overheated, smug aftermath and my own disbelief: what does he do to me? I stared at Jed, his juicy red lips, his curls limp with sweat, his golden skin, and … just thinking about it I want him again.
“I saw a word that reminds me of you,” said Jed.
“What word?” I asked. Presumably it wasn’t koala.
“Ah… I’ll have to look it up.” Jed settled himself at my computer and searched through his email until he found it: callipygian.
“It means of or pertaining to having shapely buttocks,” Jed announced at last. He eyed my ass approvingly. I blushed.
That last part is an exaggeration: I didn’t blush. My skin isn’t built for it. This is a shame, because I love blushing, that bloom of heat. It is authentically demure, yet hot. But I blushed internally. Jed does that to me.
It’s funny because Jed is 23 years old and a bit full of himself. I like him, but don’t have a crush on him. But I was right about him: sexually, he does it for me.
Jed took off the newsboy’s cap he was wearing and unbuckled his belt, kneeling on the bed. His long body towered over my short one, and I leaned towards his denim-clad legs and went right for his dick.
He took off his jeans and boxers and I took as much of him in my mouth as I could, deep throating him, gagging – at one point I thought I was going to throw up the wine we’d drank—but forcing my mouth as far as I could down the shaft of his lovely dick. “Ah,” he moaned, “Ah, ah….”
Speaking of callipygian, Jed has a beautiful ass. God, he’s gorgeous. He pushed me down onto my mattress and my arms wound around him, resting on his callipygianous bod.
“You like it rough, don’t you?” he murmured.
I nodded. Something comes over me with Jed. I find myself turning into this different kind of slut, all doe-eyed and aching and shy. I pushed him to be rough, by gazing him out at him from under my lashes, by parting my lips, by daring him. It was like my face was begging, Don’t hurt me, I’m innocent and vulnerable. And meanwhile the rest of me was screaming, Don’t you want to hurt me? I’m all innocent and vulnerable. I didn’t know I had this in me, but I do. Jefferson doesn’t bring it out of me, Daniel didn’t, even Dominant Jordan didn’t make me want to obey, to take it, whatever it is. But Jed does.
Jed tugged the hair band I wear off my wrist and wrapped it around my hair. That bossiness turned me on. He turned me over on my back, and, crouching over my ass, lifted his palm: he was going to hit me.
I flinched in anticipation but he brought his palm down gently, just stroking me. I relaxed. He did it again, and I began to anticipate the sting of his hand against my skin. Finally he hit me, and I whimpered. Then he started all over again, his hand threatening me, only to come down with a caress and then slowly working his way up to a smack. And suddenly I noticed my hips were swiveling against his hand, and I was completely wet. This was a turn up for the books! I was so turned on.
Jed turned me over and I nodded. Jed put on a condom and then he slammed into me: “Ah!” I cried. He fucked me hard and quite fast, grunting in my ear as his cock plunged into me.
I never thought I could get this excited without words, but there we were, crunched together like, well, like animals, and I couldn’t get enough of him. His blond curls, his lanky body, his skin: “Yes, yes,” I muttered, arching my hips against his in a sort of desperation.
My face was against his hair. We weren’t looking at one another, but Jed pressed his palms to the side of my throat. The pressure felt good, I felt so totally compressed and fucked. After a few moments he whispered, “Do you want me to come?”
“No, let me come first.” I motioned for him to roll over so I could get on top, and he slid off me and lay there, waiting for me.
I sighed with relief as I slipped him back inside me and immediately starting rocking back and forth on his dick, desperate to come. “Can I play with your ass?” he asked.
“’Course you can.” And Jed slid a finger up my ass, working it up and down, just as I worked up and down on his cock. The pressure in my ass was intense and distracting. I still am not a great fan of ass play, I am sorry to say. The only time I really liked it is when Jeremy did it, and I heard these moans coming from my mouth. This time I felt like it was just getting in the way of my orgasm.
“You want me to fuck your ass?” Jed asked.
“Next time, OK?” I said breathlessly, squeezing his finger out of my ass; I wasn’t going to come with it there.
“Sure.”
Oh, God: had I just agreed to let an eight inch cock up my ass?! Ow! But never mind that now, I had to come.
It was dark outside, and it felt like the room had shrunk to this little place between my face and his, where I was panting and sweating and there was this green space where I was about to come to.
I came with a sigh and shuddered to a halt, grinning at Jed and burying my face in his shoulder.
Once more he flipped me onto my back and plunged into me. “Come for me,” I mumbled as his cock raked through me and I stretched myself against him, longing to feel the his orgasm shake through him. “Come, Jed.”
It was sort of a blur when he came, but I remember the overheated, smug aftermath and my own disbelief: what does he do to me? I stared at Jed, his juicy red lips, his curls limp with sweat, his golden skin, and … just thinking about it I want him again.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Jed Turns Up Trumps!
I was at home, doing nothing, when the phone rang.
It was Jed!
Ha! So I’m thinking, “Not free tomorrow night, pal... you’ve got to contact me more than 18 hours in advance if you want to fu—” when he said,
“So, I have an early call tomorrow, but do you want to get together?”
“What, tonight?”
“Yeah. Come on, you’re not doing anything more exciting.”
Well, he had a point. I told him to come on over. As soon as we hung up I felt like I should have said no, since I don’t approve of saying yes at the last minute, but by then it was too late.
Then it hit me: this was a booty call! Despite my year’s experience as a slut, I’d never before had a genuine booty call. I’d had sex dates, but those had all been planned well in advance.
About an hour later he turned up in tight jeans that skimmed his ankles (Jed must be about 6’3”) and cowboy boots – such a cliché rock ‘n’ roll look, especially with his blonde curls, but it was kind of hot. Oh, all right: it was very hot. Usually I go for the art school nerd look—black framed glasses and ironic polyester short sleeve shirts, and Jed’s style has less humor in it but it certainly suited him. That self conscious rocker look and with a set of keys dangling from his skinny hips…and especially those tight jeans… Mmm.
“Here,” Jed handed me a bottle of wine and I was immensely grateful to him for thinking of it; I don’t know why the idea of a little alcohol hadn’t occurred to me. It might have made my last hour a bit less stressful. Unfortunately I did not have a corkscrew – I was between roommates and my kitchen supplies were on the Spartan side. So I went across the street, where my old roommate Jenny now lives, and borrowed hers. “I won’t be needing it for a while,” she said when I promised to return it the next day. Jenny is pregnant and has given up alcohol for the duration.
When I got back to my room, corkscrew in hand, Jed was examining my CD collection, which is not large. I think the height of my music cool was probably around 1990, and my CDs reflect that. I own Big Star but not the Artic Monkeys or Kaiser Chiefs or even bands that were hip in the more recent past, like 2002. Jed, I calculated, was probably at the height of his music cool now.
I put some music on and settled in his lap. Jed works in film and when I asked him what movie (if any) made him interested in film he said, “Well, The Matrix came out when I was fourteen, and I really liked that…”
“Fourteen…!” I knew he was only 23 but this detail made it much more real.
He looked a little self conscious: “Yeah.” I shook my head and smiled: fourteen! When The Matrix came out I was out of college, and all the years had started to blend into a long stretch of mistakes and movies that weren’t marketed at me.
After a glass or so of wine we were sprawled comfortably on my bed and had started to kiss. We got our clothes off but then I remembered my questions. I affected an air of serious purpose and gazed at him serenely:
“Do you have any diseases?”
He laughed, not a happy laugh: “Nothing that’s contagious.”
I wondered what that meant.
“How many people have you slept with?”
Jed frowned. “That’s totally irrelevant,” he snapped. I just waited. I didn’t think it was irrelevant at all. “About seventeen,” he said at last.
“Me too!” I said. We had something in common.
I wondered if he hadn’t wanted to tell me because he thought it was too high or, alternatively, too low a number. Compared to the men I’d bedded of late (ahem, Jefferson, Mmmark), Jed’s bedpost was comparatively notch-free. Then I realized that as he was 23, 17 was a fair-sized number.
Anyway, Jed had not injected any drugs nor fucked any men and soon he had my clothes off. I lay on my bed, naked, and Jed gazed at me: “I have been wanting to do this for quite some time,” he said.
Oh yeah? burst out that inconvenient part of my brain. Then why didn’t you call sooner? But luckily I kept my mouth shut and just gave him a half smile.
Naked, he was long and lean and golden. Oh, and uncircumcised, which I had only noticed when I’d gone down on him the other night at Jefferson’s. I hadn’t come across any uncircumcised American dicks before.
Jed leaned over me and I realized that he was ripe. Not very strong or off putting but noticeable, like he hadn’t taken a shower that morning. It was distracting, he didn’t have that delicious neck smell that Daniel (for instance) has. I find that neck smell pretty hot, so this was a shame.
I went down on Jed for a bit, which elicited a few groans from him. As I bent over him he thrust his hips forward, pushing his cock far into my mouth. I swallowed obediently, then gagged and paused.
“You don’t have to,” he began.
I looked up at him from under my lashes. “I know,” I said. “I don’t do anything I’m not comfortable with.” I had no problem with Jed’s sexual aggressiveness, I found it a total turn on. And part of the excitement was knowing full well that I was right: I would never dream of doing anything I didn’t want to with Jed. When he held my head, when he pushed his hips at me, I went for his cock eagerly. But when Jefferson got aggressive with me I shied away. I wonder if this is because deep down, I know that Jed, despite his awesome sexiness, has no real power over me? Because he’s younger, and I’ve always felt at ease with younger men and wary of older ones?
Then Jed slid on top of me and reached to the floor for his bag. He took out a tiny tooled leather pouch and, from it, a condom. Then he brought out a pump bottle of lube. Like a 20 ounce bottle.
I mean, I have lube.
When we were all slicked up Jed put on a condom and pushed himself inside me. I sighed. Nice, nice.
The thing is, I was sure that physically we were going to fit – chemistry wise, he did all sorts of things to me, and I had just assumed that this would be the easiest, least stressful sex ever. But instead we were looking at one another, and I was waiting for that fierce abandon I had anticipated. “How’s that?” Jed asked.
“Good…” I breathed slowly as he started pumping me. If only he had that delicious neck smell. Huh. “Can I get on top?” I panted.
He squirted yet more lube on the condom – OK, it was superior lube, this BabeLube – the bottle declared the content to be hypoallergenic, water-based, etc. and yes, this lube was so great it was probably biodegradable and registered voters in its spare time.
I climbed on top of Jed and slid onto his cock. Then I said what I always say: “You like that?”
“Yeah.”
And then the chemistry I’d been so sure we had kicked in, because he started talking like I wanted him to talk: “You like that?” he grunted. “You like being stuffed with my cock?”
I did, oh I did. I bounced up and down on his dick, pushing myself against him, the walls of my cunt tensing as I got myself all worked up. I pushed my breasts against his face, swinging them across his lips. In no time at all I was very close to coming.
“You want that cock?”
I came to a slow, slippery halt.
“Did you come?”
I nodded, the flush of orgasm all through me: “It was the words,” I explained.
Jed smiled up at me: “I should have known.”
I lay on my back and this time Jed slipped inside me, wrapping my legs around his neck. “Does that hurt?” Face to face, I saw that his hairline was receding a bit.
“No, it’s OK.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded and his cock raked through me, long and deep. Then he flipped me over onto all fours and I moaned while he chanted: “Do you want to get stuffed with my eight inch cock?”
Eight inches! “Yeah.” I mumbled. “Yeah. Give it to me,” I sighed: “Oh, God.” Jed’s legs pressed against the backs of my thighs in a constant rhythm. It hurt. It was a nice, tight muscle pain, the sort of pain you don’t quite want to stop.
Jed was nowhere near close to coming, so we took a break for a bit. “Hey,” I said. “Were you mad when I asked you how many women you’d slept with?”
“No,” said Jed.
“You seemed a bit put out,” I persevered.
“No, I wasn’t.”
He had been, though.
Then Jed asked me: “Have you ever had anal sex?”
“Uh uh. It’s my last virginity.” Well, one of them, anyway.
“You just have to go real slow, and use lots of lube,” said Jed, who sounded like he was repeating a speech he’d given before. As was perhaps the case. I got the impression that Jed was used to being the experienced one, the one who explained things to girls. And even though he probably is more experienced than me, despite my late blooming sexual free-for-all, I just couldn’t look to him like a great source of wisdom. He is eleven years my junior, after all.
When we’d first met, Jed had said he was amazed when he realized how old I was; he’d guessed I was his age. And then earlier tonight he’d said that even though he knew I was older, I still seemed young to him. It’s my demeanor, and I know that I cultivate that with the shy look from under my lids, the goofy awkwardness … and it doesn’t hurt that I am short and have a round face. I play young, I guess. On the other hand, I know I seem very mature to Jim who is in some (well, most) ways so inexperienced. But Jim doesn’t have Jed’s affectations, which, if I myself were 23, I would probably mistake for wisdom. But Jed’s air of worldly wisdom should be taken care of by the ensuing years.
“The hottest thing,” said Jed, “Is knowing that a girl wants it, wants me to fuck her ass.”
So is the best moment the fucking or the anticipation of the fuck – that heavy lidded look, the silent begging and thrust out ass? I considered this for a minute.
Then we started to fuck again and, after the application of a bit more lube, Jed came at last. We collapsed in a sweaty heap, breathing in rhythm.
“I should probably go soon,” said Jed.
“OK,” I said. The other night, Jim and I had had a big fight about just this: we had had sex and then, after a bit of cuddling, he’d announced that he was going home.
“You are?” I said, and had not bothered to keep the outraged dignity out of my voice.
“Yeah, well, I have to get up early in the morning…” he saw the look on my face. “I guess...”
“This isn’t something you could have told me before?” I asked. I was very annoyed: “You just come over and fuck me and now you’re going?” I sat up on the end of my bed, and turned away from him. I thought his behavior incredibly rude.
“Lily! No… it’s not that… I’m sorry, look I’ll stay.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to stay now.” I wasn’t trying to be difficult. “I mean, I don’t want you to stay, knowing that you’re staying against your will.”
“No! I want to stay. Look, just let me brush my teeth and…”
“I think you should go, OK?” And then Jim had started to cry. I had ended up comforting him and telling him it was OK, I didn’t hate him, but I’d sent him home anyway. Because there was no way that I wanted him in my bed against his will.
The following morning I’d opened a long and self loathing email from him, begging my forgiveness.
I mean, there wasn’t a great deal to forgive. I gather Jim has some OCD tendencies that involve lots of bedtime and morning rituals that sleeping at my place would have interrupted. He had only had to tell me that beforehand.
But Jed was a different kettle of fish -- look at how long it had taken for me to get him into my bed! While I thought it would be polite for him to stay, or at least to express a desire to stay, I hadn't expected him to and couldn’t be upset at his plans to leave.
Then Jed said: “Have you ever wanted anyone out of your bed after sex?”
“No,” I said. “Cause I don’t have sex with anyone who I wouldn’t want to stay overnight.” This is not quite true. When I slept with Dominant Jordan I had wanted him out immediately, which I guess is the reason I no longer see him. Anyway, in general this is the case: I like the men I sleep with. And I kind of enjoy the disjointed sleep you get when you’re conscious of a strange body beside you. At any rate, I don’t have a problem with that kind of intimacy.
“Well, it’s kind of late… can I stay?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes: “Of course you can.” Frankly I think it’s only polite. I was glad, even though his scent wasn’t doing much for me and he didn’t strike me as a cuddler.
We went outside so that Jed could have a smoke, and we sat on the stoop sharing an additive free cigarette. I told him about my novel and he told me about his screenplay, and I think we both felt pretty arty and cool. Then we went back inside and, as we’d fucked for a long time and it was a school night, went to sleep.
It was Jed!
Ha! So I’m thinking, “Not free tomorrow night, pal... you’ve got to contact me more than 18 hours in advance if you want to fu—” when he said,
“So, I have an early call tomorrow, but do you want to get together?”
“What, tonight?”
“Yeah. Come on, you’re not doing anything more exciting.”
Well, he had a point. I told him to come on over. As soon as we hung up I felt like I should have said no, since I don’t approve of saying yes at the last minute, but by then it was too late.
Then it hit me: this was a booty call! Despite my year’s experience as a slut, I’d never before had a genuine booty call. I’d had sex dates, but those had all been planned well in advance.
About an hour later he turned up in tight jeans that skimmed his ankles (Jed must be about 6’3”) and cowboy boots – such a cliché rock ‘n’ roll look, especially with his blonde curls, but it was kind of hot. Oh, all right: it was very hot. Usually I go for the art school nerd look—black framed glasses and ironic polyester short sleeve shirts, and Jed’s style has less humor in it but it certainly suited him. That self conscious rocker look and with a set of keys dangling from his skinny hips…and especially those tight jeans… Mmm.
“Here,” Jed handed me a bottle of wine and I was immensely grateful to him for thinking of it; I don’t know why the idea of a little alcohol hadn’t occurred to me. It might have made my last hour a bit less stressful. Unfortunately I did not have a corkscrew – I was between roommates and my kitchen supplies were on the Spartan side. So I went across the street, where my old roommate Jenny now lives, and borrowed hers. “I won’t be needing it for a while,” she said when I promised to return it the next day. Jenny is pregnant and has given up alcohol for the duration.
When I got back to my room, corkscrew in hand, Jed was examining my CD collection, which is not large. I think the height of my music cool was probably around 1990, and my CDs reflect that. I own Big Star but not the Artic Monkeys or Kaiser Chiefs or even bands that were hip in the more recent past, like 2002. Jed, I calculated, was probably at the height of his music cool now.
I put some music on and settled in his lap. Jed works in film and when I asked him what movie (if any) made him interested in film he said, “Well, The Matrix came out when I was fourteen, and I really liked that…”
“Fourteen…!” I knew he was only 23 but this detail made it much more real.
He looked a little self conscious: “Yeah.” I shook my head and smiled: fourteen! When The Matrix came out I was out of college, and all the years had started to blend into a long stretch of mistakes and movies that weren’t marketed at me.
After a glass or so of wine we were sprawled comfortably on my bed and had started to kiss. We got our clothes off but then I remembered my questions. I affected an air of serious purpose and gazed at him serenely:
“Do you have any diseases?”
He laughed, not a happy laugh: “Nothing that’s contagious.”
I wondered what that meant.
“How many people have you slept with?”
Jed frowned. “That’s totally irrelevant,” he snapped. I just waited. I didn’t think it was irrelevant at all. “About seventeen,” he said at last.
“Me too!” I said. We had something in common.
I wondered if he hadn’t wanted to tell me because he thought it was too high or, alternatively, too low a number. Compared to the men I’d bedded of late (ahem, Jefferson, Mmmark), Jed’s bedpost was comparatively notch-free. Then I realized that as he was 23, 17 was a fair-sized number.
Anyway, Jed had not injected any drugs nor fucked any men and soon he had my clothes off. I lay on my bed, naked, and Jed gazed at me: “I have been wanting to do this for quite some time,” he said.
Oh yeah? burst out that inconvenient part of my brain. Then why didn’t you call sooner? But luckily I kept my mouth shut and just gave him a half smile.
Naked, he was long and lean and golden. Oh, and uncircumcised, which I had only noticed when I’d gone down on him the other night at Jefferson’s. I hadn’t come across any uncircumcised American dicks before.
Jed leaned over me and I realized that he was ripe. Not very strong or off putting but noticeable, like he hadn’t taken a shower that morning. It was distracting, he didn’t have that delicious neck smell that Daniel (for instance) has. I find that neck smell pretty hot, so this was a shame.
I went down on Jed for a bit, which elicited a few groans from him. As I bent over him he thrust his hips forward, pushing his cock far into my mouth. I swallowed obediently, then gagged and paused.
“You don’t have to,” he began.
I looked up at him from under my lashes. “I know,” I said. “I don’t do anything I’m not comfortable with.” I had no problem with Jed’s sexual aggressiveness, I found it a total turn on. And part of the excitement was knowing full well that I was right: I would never dream of doing anything I didn’t want to with Jed. When he held my head, when he pushed his hips at me, I went for his cock eagerly. But when Jefferson got aggressive with me I shied away. I wonder if this is because deep down, I know that Jed, despite his awesome sexiness, has no real power over me? Because he’s younger, and I’ve always felt at ease with younger men and wary of older ones?
Then Jed slid on top of me and reached to the floor for his bag. He took out a tiny tooled leather pouch and, from it, a condom. Then he brought out a pump bottle of lube. Like a 20 ounce bottle.
I mean, I have lube.
When we were all slicked up Jed put on a condom and pushed himself inside me. I sighed. Nice, nice.
The thing is, I was sure that physically we were going to fit – chemistry wise, he did all sorts of things to me, and I had just assumed that this would be the easiest, least stressful sex ever. But instead we were looking at one another, and I was waiting for that fierce abandon I had anticipated. “How’s that?” Jed asked.
“Good…” I breathed slowly as he started pumping me. If only he had that delicious neck smell. Huh. “Can I get on top?” I panted.
He squirted yet more lube on the condom – OK, it was superior lube, this BabeLube – the bottle declared the content to be hypoallergenic, water-based, etc. and yes, this lube was so great it was probably biodegradable and registered voters in its spare time.
I climbed on top of Jed and slid onto his cock. Then I said what I always say: “You like that?”
“Yeah.”
And then the chemistry I’d been so sure we had kicked in, because he started talking like I wanted him to talk: “You like that?” he grunted. “You like being stuffed with my cock?”
I did, oh I did. I bounced up and down on his dick, pushing myself against him, the walls of my cunt tensing as I got myself all worked up. I pushed my breasts against his face, swinging them across his lips. In no time at all I was very close to coming.
“You want that cock?”
I came to a slow, slippery halt.
“Did you come?”
I nodded, the flush of orgasm all through me: “It was the words,” I explained.
Jed smiled up at me: “I should have known.”
I lay on my back and this time Jed slipped inside me, wrapping my legs around his neck. “Does that hurt?” Face to face, I saw that his hairline was receding a bit.
“No, it’s OK.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded and his cock raked through me, long and deep. Then he flipped me over onto all fours and I moaned while he chanted: “Do you want to get stuffed with my eight inch cock?”
Eight inches! “Yeah.” I mumbled. “Yeah. Give it to me,” I sighed: “Oh, God.” Jed’s legs pressed against the backs of my thighs in a constant rhythm. It hurt. It was a nice, tight muscle pain, the sort of pain you don’t quite want to stop.
Jed was nowhere near close to coming, so we took a break for a bit. “Hey,” I said. “Were you mad when I asked you how many women you’d slept with?”
“No,” said Jed.
“You seemed a bit put out,” I persevered.
“No, I wasn’t.”
He had been, though.
Then Jed asked me: “Have you ever had anal sex?”
“Uh uh. It’s my last virginity.” Well, one of them, anyway.
“You just have to go real slow, and use lots of lube,” said Jed, who sounded like he was repeating a speech he’d given before. As was perhaps the case. I got the impression that Jed was used to being the experienced one, the one who explained things to girls. And even though he probably is more experienced than me, despite my late blooming sexual free-for-all, I just couldn’t look to him like a great source of wisdom. He is eleven years my junior, after all.
When we’d first met, Jed had said he was amazed when he realized how old I was; he’d guessed I was his age. And then earlier tonight he’d said that even though he knew I was older, I still seemed young to him. It’s my demeanor, and I know that I cultivate that with the shy look from under my lids, the goofy awkwardness … and it doesn’t hurt that I am short and have a round face. I play young, I guess. On the other hand, I know I seem very mature to Jim who is in some (well, most) ways so inexperienced. But Jim doesn’t have Jed’s affectations, which, if I myself were 23, I would probably mistake for wisdom. But Jed’s air of worldly wisdom should be taken care of by the ensuing years.
“The hottest thing,” said Jed, “Is knowing that a girl wants it, wants me to fuck her ass.”
So is the best moment the fucking or the anticipation of the fuck – that heavy lidded look, the silent begging and thrust out ass? I considered this for a minute.
Then we started to fuck again and, after the application of a bit more lube, Jed came at last. We collapsed in a sweaty heap, breathing in rhythm.
“I should probably go soon,” said Jed.
“OK,” I said. The other night, Jim and I had had a big fight about just this: we had had sex and then, after a bit of cuddling, he’d announced that he was going home.
“You are?” I said, and had not bothered to keep the outraged dignity out of my voice.
“Yeah, well, I have to get up early in the morning…” he saw the look on my face. “I guess...”
“This isn’t something you could have told me before?” I asked. I was very annoyed: “You just come over and fuck me and now you’re going?” I sat up on the end of my bed, and turned away from him. I thought his behavior incredibly rude.
“Lily! No… it’s not that… I’m sorry, look I’ll stay.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to stay now.” I wasn’t trying to be difficult. “I mean, I don’t want you to stay, knowing that you’re staying against your will.”
“No! I want to stay. Look, just let me brush my teeth and…”
“I think you should go, OK?” And then Jim had started to cry. I had ended up comforting him and telling him it was OK, I didn’t hate him, but I’d sent him home anyway. Because there was no way that I wanted him in my bed against his will.
The following morning I’d opened a long and self loathing email from him, begging my forgiveness.
I mean, there wasn’t a great deal to forgive. I gather Jim has some OCD tendencies that involve lots of bedtime and morning rituals that sleeping at my place would have interrupted. He had only had to tell me that beforehand.
But Jed was a different kettle of fish -- look at how long it had taken for me to get him into my bed! While I thought it would be polite for him to stay, or at least to express a desire to stay, I hadn't expected him to and couldn’t be upset at his plans to leave.
Then Jed said: “Have you ever wanted anyone out of your bed after sex?”
“No,” I said. “Cause I don’t have sex with anyone who I wouldn’t want to stay overnight.” This is not quite true. When I slept with Dominant Jordan I had wanted him out immediately, which I guess is the reason I no longer see him. Anyway, in general this is the case: I like the men I sleep with. And I kind of enjoy the disjointed sleep you get when you’re conscious of a strange body beside you. At any rate, I don’t have a problem with that kind of intimacy.
“Well, it’s kind of late… can I stay?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes: “Of course you can.” Frankly I think it’s only polite. I was glad, even though his scent wasn’t doing much for me and he didn’t strike me as a cuddler.
We went outside so that Jed could have a smoke, and we sat on the stoop sharing an additive free cigarette. I told him about my novel and he told me about his screenplay, and I think we both felt pretty arty and cool. Then we went back inside and, as we’d fucked for a long time and it was a school night, went to sleep.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
In Which More Stuff Comes to Pass (Part II of II)
Later we lolled around, discussing whether we should watch a movie. “Do you want to stay over?” Jefferson asked.
I had thought that was the plan, anyway. “Yeah,” I said.
We kissed and rolled around, while the Todd Rundgren album played in the other room. “I feel like I’m making out in someone’s basement,” I said dreamily.
“Teenage sex,” agreed Jefferson.
After a while I said, shyly, “You could hit me, of you want.”
“Yeah?”
I shrugged. I was ambivalent, but surely this time would be better. "Just..." I swallowed. "You hit my face,” I reminded him. I was still smarting (geddit? Smarting!) over that.
“It’s OK, I’ve got a better idea now,” Jefferson said.
I saw him bend over and drag a box out from under his bed. I caught a quick peek of a pair of handcuffs.
He laid me on my stomach, across his bed. “Do you trust me?”
“Yep.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t worry; I won’t be rough.”
“Hmmph,” I said.
He laughed.
I felt something drag lightly across my ass – a tasseled leather tool of some kind. Lightly, quickly, he slapped my ass. OK. I breathed.
He hit me again, and again; now harder. When it grew very painful I said, “You have to stop; please,” and he did. Then he took out another tasseled leather thing, much like the previous instrument, but bigger. He slid it through my legs, just brushing my pussy and, I couldn’t help it, I thought – does he clean this thing? Stop thinking! I ordered my brain. But when I wasn’t thinking, I was in danger of being in pain.
He hit me across my ass, and then against my back. Actually, when it wasn’t too hard I rather liked that – it felt like a firm massage. But again, it got painful, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore I pleaded for him to stop, which he did.
Then Jefferson gently pushed me back onto the mattress and covered my head with a pillow, so I couldn’t see. I heard a crack, like a whip cutting the skin of the air in the room. Good lord.
“I’m going to do this very lightly,” Jefferson promised. I felt a thwack against the backs of my calves. It was a cane. Hey! It didn’t hurt, or rather, it wasn’t so bad. Then he lifted the stick from my legs and the sting was unbearable.
“Jesus Christ!” I said.
“I know,” said Jefferson. “It doesn’t really hurt while you’re being hit, it hurts afterwards.”
Was that some kind of Zen thing? Jefferson hit me again, across my back, then across my ass, and again, eventually, I begged him to stop. Then I sat up. “Jesus Christ!” I said again. “That’s unbelievable!” I meant how the cane hurts when it’s over, not during the actual caning.
“I know.” Jefferson held up the stick for my inspection.
“Is that wood?”
“Bamboo.”
I shook my head. “This is what Victorian schoolboys got punished with?” He nodded. “Those headmasters must have been complete pervs. OK,” I said at last. “So what else did you hit me with?”
“Well,” he brandished a long braided black leather switch. “This is a cat of nine tails.”
I knew that, thanks to a long-ago production of The H.M.S. Pinafore. Again, Victorians: total pervs! Just in case you don’t know, a cat o’nine tails is a leather whip, which has nine braided leathers “tails” attached to the body of the whip. “I didn’t even hit you with the braided part,” said Jefferson, “Just the ends.”
“Oh,” I said. Apparently I hadn’t been able to manage the braided part. Sigh. “And what’s this?” I pointed to the first thing he had hit me with, which looked like a cat, only smaller.
“That’s a flogger,” he said dismissively. It looked like an oversized chenille pillow tassel.
“Oh.” Well. I hadn’t gotten very far, and I didn’t feel like this had been much fun for him, what with me making him stop every minute or so. Nonetheless.
Then he pulled out his box from under the bed and brought out a little cord, attached to two lipstick-shaped tubes. “A bullet vibrator,” he explained. “Have you used one?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never used a vibrator.”
“What? Never?”
It was like a replay of my conversation with Daniel. “No, never.”
“How do you masturbate?”
“With my hand,” I sighed. “And I wear my underwear, cause I like the friction. Most of my underwear is worn through by the crotch.”
“I bet that’s hot.” Jefferson smiled. “I’d like to see that.”
I was embarrassed: “There’s nothing much to see, really. I just lie on my stomach.”
“Oh, I could tell you were the type who lay on her stomach to masturbate!” Jefferson sounded pleased at the idea. “Do you use a pillow?”
“Uh, no.”
“Really?” He sounded disappointed.
“No, no pillow.”
He slipped a condom on one of the bullets, and slid it inside me. Then he placed the other bullet over my clit, and turned the vibrator on, handing me the lever to turn it off. “You never use a pillow?”
“No, sorry.”
“I’ll be back,” Jefferson said, and disappeared.
So there I was, with a vibrating piece of plastic inside me like a tampon, and another device thrust against my groin. Hmmm. Nothing much going on. At last I realized that I could adjust the pressure on the vibrator: aha! I turned it up. Still not much of a reaction… a little more. For an instant, I felt a shudder through me, but my body adjusted quickly. I turned it up a bit more, and again, a restless twitch shook me before I grew used to the humming. I looked at the switch; it was almost on the highest speed. I turned it all the way up.
Gah! Ow. I flicked it down a bit, and lay there. It occurred to me that Jefferson had introduced this vibrator to many people’s orifices. He’d put a condom over the bit inside me, but what about the part currently snuggling up against my clit? Did that part also go into various anuses and cunts and whatnot? Oh, God, what a thought.
Eventually Jefferson returned. “I didn’t realize I could turn it all the way up,” I explained, turning the vibrator off and yanking the bullet out. “Um, does this part always go here?” I meant, does this particular bullet always go inside? Which part gets covered by a condom, etc?
They can go anywhere,” Jefferson lectured, “This can go in your clit, or your ass, or…”
“I know, I mean, do you put condoms on the other parts? I mean, this part,” – I pointed to the bullet that had been rubbing my clit, “Could go into someone’s ass, you know? I mean--”
“Well, that would be a problem if I didn’t clean my things,” Jefferson twinkled.
“Ah.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Do you have Diet Coke?"
“Yes, but it’s been up someone’s ASS!” Jefferson hooted with laughter, and collapsed on top of me. I smirked, relieved he wasn’t offended that I’d worried about his sex hygiene.
He pushed me against the mattress and lay on top of me, shoving his body against me. “You know I’m going to fuck your ass,” he crooned in my ear, “And you’re going to say, ‘Oh, Jefferson, don’t stop!’” Here he switched into falsetto, presumably imitating my voice. “And I’ll say [and here Jefferson lowered his voice to a bass rumble,] ‘Yeah, take it!’”
I snorted against the pillow. “That’s very sexy.”
Jefferson continued in this vein for a while, acting out a dialogue in which I moaned with delight and he grunted macho platitudes. It was like I had been transported to Planet of the 14-Year Old Boy. It was pretty ridiculous. “Do you do this with everyone you sleep with?” I gulped with laughter. “Cause I can see it must be a huge turn on.”
Eventually we fell asleep. I am a light sleeper, and a restless one. At one point Jefferson woke me up: “Suck my cock,” he said. His voice was thick and dark with sleep.
I slid right down and took his cock in my mouth. First the lesson, now the practical! I was strangely nervous.
He shoved his dick into my mouth, all the way in. I could hear the saliva slap against his dick. I kept gagging and choking, it was sloppy and loud and I went at it eagerly.
Eventually Jefferson pulled his cock out of my mouth and groaned. He came, and came and came, with a series of sighs and jerks, a long spume of liquid. It was everywhere. I was leaning over him, watching his face as he came, and his come was all over my stomach. It got into the ends of my hair, my face, even my right nostril. I blew my nose.
It got light and we lay close together. I stroked his thinning hair, which stood up around his head like a crown. “I love your hair,” I smiled
Thursday, December 07, 2006
In Which I Learn Something New (Part I of II)
Once again I turned up at Jefferson’s with alcohol. Since he hadn’t had a chance to get tested, we weren’t having sex, but still, I was nervous. Maybe more nervous that we weren’t having sex. Cause that left more time for … stuff.
As usual, we nattered away for an hour or so, sitting on his sofa. At one point Jefferson observed that we hadn’t kissed or anything – was it his responsibility to make a move? I had kind of expected him to. In part because, you know, part of what we’re doing is dominance/submission, but also, I don’t know, I was just waiting for him to take the lead cause it’s easier that way. Easier for me. If I don’t make the first move, then I can’t be rejected. I said as much. But then I launched myself at him eagerly, and we made out on his couch, listening to Todd Rundgren.
In his bedroom he sat in the armchair while I undressed. I was wearing tights, which seem to demand a teasing, stripper-like unveiling, but, I don’t know, it seemed so calculated. So instead I just dragged them off. Jefferson observed that my disrobing technique seemed a little perfunctory.
“I know,” I complained. “It just seems coy to strip off like that.” What’s my deal with coyness? I’d like to be sexy, but I hate the thought of being sort of … well, the only way I can think of it is Jessica Simpson-like. The combination of total obliviousness and salaciousness. I’d like to be sexy because I’m straightforward, not sexy because I’m too dumb to realize I’m being a tease. But really, I have to work on this. There ought to be a happy medium between taking off my clothes and pretending I’m Carmen Electra performing strip aerobics. Perhaps I should undress slowly – but not too slowly-- while maintaining eye contact and not smiling. Not frowning, but not smirking, either. Hmmm.
“I like you in skirts,” Jefferson said, eyeing me. “That’s a good look on you.”
I like wearing skirts cause I hate the way my legs look in jeans.
“Thanks.” Naked, I edged into his lap. “I’m insecure about my looks,” I explained. I don’t know why I felt compelled to reveal that, but as he’s read much of this blog I guess it’s not a surprise. I squinted at Jefferson thoughtfully. “I bet you tell all the smart girls they’re pretty and all the pretty girls they’re smart,” I realized.
“I don’t think--”
“No, you’re not calculating,” I said. I looked at him. “I like that.”
“Why don’t you undress me?” Jefferson suggested at last. I lifted his pullover and t-shirt over his head, and then tugged at his pajama bottoms. He was pale, and freckled. “Wow,” I said. I liked the way he looked, especially his paleness. I commented on this.
My mouth traveled down along his belly and towards the crop of fair, curly hair that covered his groin and lower abdomen. I buried my face in his groin and sniffed. He smelled sort of sweet. “You smell like maple syrup!” I said. “Or maybe a granola bar…” I sniffed again. “An Oat and Honey one?” I considered.
He laughed.
My mouth moved around to his cock and I breathed him in, and licked at him, like a cat. He stood up and I repositioned myself, on my knees, so I could suck him off.
“Here,” he said after a moment. “The underside, here, is the most sensitive. You don’t have to pay much attention to the tip.”
I felt chastened. I have always felt proud of my blowjobs, but perhaps they are given with more enthusiasm than skill.
“OK.” I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, and started sucking away. He pushed his cock further into my mouth, and started to gag when I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.
“Relax,” said Jefferson. OK, OK. I took a deep breath, and took him in again. “Don’t give me a blowjob now, just concentrate on taking it in,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. When his cock reached the back of my throat I thought for a minute I couldn’t breathe, but of course I could. It’s like when you swallow but keep the back of your throat closed. It was just pressure in a place I wasn’t used to. I held up one finger to signal, Wait. I got a bit more comfortable with his cock sitting against my throat. Then I moved a bit, and Jefferson pushed his cock forward, and I felt it slip into my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes; I gagged.
“You took a lot in!” Jefferson said encouragingly.
I sat on my haunches, bemused. “I always thought deep throat was a metaphor,” I gasped. “I didn’t realize you could actually swallow a dick.” I felt like the world’s biggest ignoramus. What had I thought deep throating someone meant? I guess that if you gagged, you had done it. Jesus Christ! How come I hadn’t realized that, logically, after it hits the back of the throat, the cock can go further? Down? I rubbed my eyes.
This is what it means to have your mouth fucked, I thought. Never mind blow jobs, this is having your mouth fucked. I took him again, and as I struggled past the tension and pressure Jefferson said, “I’m all the way in.” I looked down and saw no part of his dick whatsoever, it was all in me, hard and full. I was thrilled. He pushed his dick a little farther into my throat, the farthest it had been. I felt my throat widen a bit. Then I gagged, and gasped.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” I repeated. How did I get to be 33 without realizing this?
***
He went down on me. That is generally a source of anxiety for me, since I rarely get off. My mind always wanders, and I feel guilty that I haven’t come. He flicked his tongue over my clit with professional skill. “How’s that?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“It’s good,” I gasped. Only every time I thought I might come the mechanism in me sort of broke, and I was left on the edge. “I keep reaching this plateau,” I said. “Um… a little higher…”
We sat on his floor with my legs wrapped around him.
“Wanna get married? Let’s get married,” said Jefferson.
“I want six kids,” I warned him.
He started to laugh: “I’m halfway there.”
I started thinking about myself, and Jefferson, and Jordan and Daniel. And I thought, maybe I’m submissive because that way I only have to obey; and if I obey, I can’t be bad at it. That is, if I’m no good, it’s not my fault. (Is having things not be my fault my driving motivation? Sometimes I wonder). Perhaps my submissiveness is an aspect of sexual insecurity. Funny. Although I didn’t start regularly having sex until I was about 24, I’ve never thought of myself as sexually insecure. I guess it’s because I come pretty easily. As though that makes me savvy, rather than just lucky. Anyway. I wanted to tell all Jefferson this.
“I just have the urge to keep yattering at you,” I said.
“Well, we can talk,” he pointed out. We clambered up onto his bed. “Do you want another drink?”
I looked over at the bedside table, where a quarter inch of whisky sat in a glass tumbler. “I think I’d like to sip yours,” I said at last. “Maybe a very small whisky, please.”
See, when I come across insights like the one above, I don’t generally share them with anyone but my therapist Caroline, and sometimes Marc. I mean, I express my anger and happiness and whatnot, but I don’t like to emote about my thoughts. I just think that most emotional revelations are interesting primarily to the people they happen to. It’s so easy to talk about oneself (ahem!) and while I can do that for hours, I do not want to bore the guy I’m fucking. Oh, and I might as well admit it, I think my instinct to not always talk preserves a little mystery. There. All right. I said it.
SIDEBAR I don’t deliberately withhold information, it’s just that stuff like this – the idea that my instinct for submission might have its roots in my fear of being bad in bed – well, like I said, this isn’t fascinating to anyone but me, I should imagine. Plus, I am wary of revealing just how insecure I am, about my sexual prowess, and my attractiveness to men. There’s no value in that kind of vulnerability, I think. It’s just a roundabout way of asking to have one’s ego stroked with statements like “No, you’re totally hot, you’re the best ever!” And those statements, under these circumstances, mean nothing except that the person asking for them (i.e. me) has self-esteem issues. Self esteem issues are never attractive, and I always want to be attractive to the man I’m sleeping with. Anyway, it’s not Jefferson’s, or anyone else’s, job to convince me that I’m pretty. (That job belongs—or belonged, as that ship sailed some time ago-- to my mother, who missed that part. But we’ll leave my grievances against my mother for the time being, since they’re not nearly as good copy as my sex life). It’s only his job to believe that I’m pretty. Cause I do think any man I sleep with should believe I’m good looking, and that he’s lucky to sleep with me. I would hate to go to bed with someone who didn’t think I was attractive. God willing, I will never, ever do that. I do think a responsible and respectful lover tells his/her partner s/he’s gorgeous. That’s just polite and aids the shedding of inhibitions. Anyway. SIDEBAR ENDS
Jefferson brought me a drink and lay on the bed, and I straddled him. “It’s just,” I started. “I don’t want to fail you. I want you to enjoy yourself here.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have to like you?” said Jefferson.
“No!” I was horrified. Like I said, I have self-esteem issues, but I should hope my sense of self would demand a little more than a man merely tolerating me. “No, you have to like me,” I said sternly, though it’s hard to be stern when you’re naked and sitting on top of someone. “Otherwise there would be no point. No, that’s not what I’m getting at.”
I thought for a minute. “You know,” I said, “With Daniel, it’s like I’m in charge, cause I’m older, and I can’t do anything wrong. We have a great time together,” I hastened to add. “And with Jordan, I can’t do anything wrong with him, either, because he’s in charge. I can fail, but it’s his responsibility. He can direct me. With you, there’s a little more to it. It’s not just me being submissive, and it’s more demanding than what I do with Daniel. And I want this to be fun for you, and not just about you giving me lessons.” At least, that’s the gist of what I said. I was feeling muzzy and rambling. What I think I meant was: with Jefferson, I feel the responsibility not (just) to please him, but for him to have a good time. I know Daniel has a good time. Jordan… I dunno, it’s not about that, exactly; we’re not friends.
“It’s not like there’s only one way for you to be with me,” Jefferson observed. He said some other insightful and nice things, too, only I can’t remember what they were. But he said, “I want to do lots of things with you, have sex with you and watch movies and beat up on you…” That last part was perhaps not the most traditional declaration of intent, but I got the idea.
As usual, we nattered away for an hour or so, sitting on his sofa. At one point Jefferson observed that we hadn’t kissed or anything – was it his responsibility to make a move? I had kind of expected him to. In part because, you know, part of what we’re doing is dominance/submission, but also, I don’t know, I was just waiting for him to take the lead cause it’s easier that way. Easier for me. If I don’t make the first move, then I can’t be rejected. I said as much. But then I launched myself at him eagerly, and we made out on his couch, listening to Todd Rundgren.
In his bedroom he sat in the armchair while I undressed. I was wearing tights, which seem to demand a teasing, stripper-like unveiling, but, I don’t know, it seemed so calculated. So instead I just dragged them off. Jefferson observed that my disrobing technique seemed a little perfunctory.
“I know,” I complained. “It just seems coy to strip off like that.” What’s my deal with coyness? I’d like to be sexy, but I hate the thought of being sort of … well, the only way I can think of it is Jessica Simpson-like. The combination of total obliviousness and salaciousness. I’d like to be sexy because I’m straightforward, not sexy because I’m too dumb to realize I’m being a tease. But really, I have to work on this. There ought to be a happy medium between taking off my clothes and pretending I’m Carmen Electra performing strip aerobics. Perhaps I should undress slowly – but not too slowly-- while maintaining eye contact and not smiling. Not frowning, but not smirking, either. Hmmm.
“I like you in skirts,” Jefferson said, eyeing me. “That’s a good look on you.”
I like wearing skirts cause I hate the way my legs look in jeans.
“Thanks.” Naked, I edged into his lap. “I’m insecure about my looks,” I explained. I don’t know why I felt compelled to reveal that, but as he’s read much of this blog I guess it’s not a surprise. I squinted at Jefferson thoughtfully. “I bet you tell all the smart girls they’re pretty and all the pretty girls they’re smart,” I realized.
“I don’t think--”
“No, you’re not calculating,” I said. I looked at him. “I like that.”
“Why don’t you undress me?” Jefferson suggested at last. I lifted his pullover and t-shirt over his head, and then tugged at his pajama bottoms. He was pale, and freckled. “Wow,” I said. I liked the way he looked, especially his paleness. I commented on this.
My mouth traveled down along his belly and towards the crop of fair, curly hair that covered his groin and lower abdomen. I buried my face in his groin and sniffed. He smelled sort of sweet. “You smell like maple syrup!” I said. “Or maybe a granola bar…” I sniffed again. “An Oat and Honey one?” I considered.
He laughed.
My mouth moved around to his cock and I breathed him in, and licked at him, like a cat. He stood up and I repositioned myself, on my knees, so I could suck him off.
“Here,” he said after a moment. “The underside, here, is the most sensitive. You don’t have to pay much attention to the tip.”
I felt chastened. I have always felt proud of my blowjobs, but perhaps they are given with more enthusiasm than skill.
“OK.” I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, and started sucking away. He pushed his cock further into my mouth, and started to gag when I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.
“Relax,” said Jefferson. OK, OK. I took a deep breath, and took him in again. “Don’t give me a blowjob now, just concentrate on taking it in,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. When his cock reached the back of my throat I thought for a minute I couldn’t breathe, but of course I could. It’s like when you swallow but keep the back of your throat closed. It was just pressure in a place I wasn’t used to. I held up one finger to signal, Wait. I got a bit more comfortable with his cock sitting against my throat. Then I moved a bit, and Jefferson pushed his cock forward, and I felt it slip into my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes; I gagged.
“You took a lot in!” Jefferson said encouragingly.
I sat on my haunches, bemused. “I always thought deep throat was a metaphor,” I gasped. “I didn’t realize you could actually swallow a dick.” I felt like the world’s biggest ignoramus. What had I thought deep throating someone meant? I guess that if you gagged, you had done it. Jesus Christ! How come I hadn’t realized that, logically, after it hits the back of the throat, the cock can go further? Down? I rubbed my eyes.
This is what it means to have your mouth fucked, I thought. Never mind blow jobs, this is having your mouth fucked. I took him again, and as I struggled past the tension and pressure Jefferson said, “I’m all the way in.” I looked down and saw no part of his dick whatsoever, it was all in me, hard and full. I was thrilled. He pushed his dick a little farther into my throat, the farthest it had been. I felt my throat widen a bit. Then I gagged, and gasped.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” I repeated. How did I get to be 33 without realizing this?
***
He went down on me. That is generally a source of anxiety for me, since I rarely get off. My mind always wanders, and I feel guilty that I haven’t come. He flicked his tongue over my clit with professional skill. “How’s that?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“It’s good,” I gasped. Only every time I thought I might come the mechanism in me sort of broke, and I was left on the edge. “I keep reaching this plateau,” I said. “Um… a little higher…”
We sat on his floor with my legs wrapped around him.
“Wanna get married? Let’s get married,” said Jefferson.
“I want six kids,” I warned him.
He started to laugh: “I’m halfway there.”
I started thinking about myself, and Jefferson, and Jordan and Daniel. And I thought, maybe I’m submissive because that way I only have to obey; and if I obey, I can’t be bad at it. That is, if I’m no good, it’s not my fault. (Is having things not be my fault my driving motivation? Sometimes I wonder). Perhaps my submissiveness is an aspect of sexual insecurity. Funny. Although I didn’t start regularly having sex until I was about 24, I’ve never thought of myself as sexually insecure. I guess it’s because I come pretty easily. As though that makes me savvy, rather than just lucky. Anyway. I wanted to tell all Jefferson this.
“I just have the urge to keep yattering at you,” I said.
“Well, we can talk,” he pointed out. We clambered up onto his bed. “Do you want another drink?”
I looked over at the bedside table, where a quarter inch of whisky sat in a glass tumbler. “I think I’d like to sip yours,” I said at last. “Maybe a very small whisky, please.”
See, when I come across insights like the one above, I don’t generally share them with anyone but my therapist Caroline, and sometimes Marc. I mean, I express my anger and happiness and whatnot, but I don’t like to emote about my thoughts. I just think that most emotional revelations are interesting primarily to the people they happen to. It’s so easy to talk about oneself (ahem!) and while I can do that for hours, I do not want to bore the guy I’m fucking. Oh, and I might as well admit it, I think my instinct to not always talk preserves a little mystery. There. All right. I said it.
SIDEBAR I don’t deliberately withhold information, it’s just that stuff like this – the idea that my instinct for submission might have its roots in my fear of being bad in bed – well, like I said, this isn’t fascinating to anyone but me, I should imagine. Plus, I am wary of revealing just how insecure I am, about my sexual prowess, and my attractiveness to men. There’s no value in that kind of vulnerability, I think. It’s just a roundabout way of asking to have one’s ego stroked with statements like “No, you’re totally hot, you’re the best ever!” And those statements, under these circumstances, mean nothing except that the person asking for them (i.e. me) has self-esteem issues. Self esteem issues are never attractive, and I always want to be attractive to the man I’m sleeping with. Anyway, it’s not Jefferson’s, or anyone else’s, job to convince me that I’m pretty. (That job belongs—or belonged, as that ship sailed some time ago-- to my mother, who missed that part. But we’ll leave my grievances against my mother for the time being, since they’re not nearly as good copy as my sex life). It’s only his job to believe that I’m pretty. Cause I do think any man I sleep with should believe I’m good looking, and that he’s lucky to sleep with me. I would hate to go to bed with someone who didn’t think I was attractive. God willing, I will never, ever do that. I do think a responsible and respectful lover tells his/her partner s/he’s gorgeous. That’s just polite and aids the shedding of inhibitions. Anyway. SIDEBAR ENDS
Jefferson brought me a drink and lay on the bed, and I straddled him. “It’s just,” I started. “I don’t want to fail you. I want you to enjoy yourself here.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have to like you?” said Jefferson.
“No!” I was horrified. Like I said, I have self-esteem issues, but I should hope my sense of self would demand a little more than a man merely tolerating me. “No, you have to like me,” I said sternly, though it’s hard to be stern when you’re naked and sitting on top of someone. “Otherwise there would be no point. No, that’s not what I’m getting at.”
I thought for a minute. “You know,” I said, “With Daniel, it’s like I’m in charge, cause I’m older, and I can’t do anything wrong. We have a great time together,” I hastened to add. “And with Jordan, I can’t do anything wrong with him, either, because he’s in charge. I can fail, but it’s his responsibility. He can direct me. With you, there’s a little more to it. It’s not just me being submissive, and it’s more demanding than what I do with Daniel. And I want this to be fun for you, and not just about you giving me lessons.” At least, that’s the gist of what I said. I was feeling muzzy and rambling. What I think I meant was: with Jefferson, I feel the responsibility not (just) to please him, but for him to have a good time. I know Daniel has a good time. Jordan… I dunno, it’s not about that, exactly; we’re not friends.
“It’s not like there’s only one way for you to be with me,” Jefferson observed. He said some other insightful and nice things, too, only I can’t remember what they were. But he said, “I want to do lots of things with you, have sex with you and watch movies and beat up on you…” That last part was perhaps not the most traditional declaration of intent, but I got the idea.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Jefferson, Part Three
So, anyway, the date. NB: This took place before the entry titled I'll Call You Sometime: The Sequel. Excuse the lack of proper chronology.
Jefferson had warned me that he was out of liquor, so I bought some whisky. I am not yet blasé enough about going to a man’s apartment for the first time (especially to an apartment that sees regular orgies), or about submission, for that matter, to turn up without reinforcements in the form of mood-altering substances. I wanted Dutch courage. Of course, this involved some angst at the liquor store. I really didn’t want to spend much on alcohol (quantity, not quality is ever my motto), but could I really bring myself to show up at Jefferson’s door with a bottom shelf bottle of blended scotch whisky? I’m pretty vain – I didn’t want to be thought of as cheap. If I did buy El Cheapo brand, I would feel compelled to apologize for it. At which point Jefferson, being a well-mannered Southerner, would probably demur that it was fine. This dilemma took me a few minutes. Finally vanity won over frugality. As it so often does in my life.
Jefferson greeted me at the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I handed him the bag. “Maker’s Mark!” he said, sounding pleased.
“I read your blog,” I reminded him. I glanced around his living room. Lots of books, artwork by his kids: so, you know, not intimidating. I’m not quite sure how a few square feet could be considered intimidating, but apparently the possibility had occurred to me.
We settled down on the sofa with our whiskies and listened to Neil Young and then Emmylou Harris. I’d been thinking about music on the way over. I’d been playing T. Rex’s “Hot Love” again and again on my iPod. This seemed like an appropriate soundtrack to get me in the mood. As did, oddly enough, Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit.” Obviously not the lyrics, but the sinister air of melancholy, and the soft minor key melody seemed fitting as I contemplated being slapped, possibly quite hard, by a man I barely knew.
We talked and talked. Alcohol makes me quite chatty, and because, of course, it’s alcohol, I am a little fuzzy about the subject of our discussion. I think Emmylou Harris, the idea of being an artist and of the importance of loving one’s work were bandied about. I knocked back my whisky pretty quick.
When he brought me a second drink he sat a bit closer. “See, I’m sitting incrementally closer to you now,” he announced.
“Oh, right!” I said, and squeezed just a bit closer, myself.
“You’re getting better at maintaining eye contact,” he observed. He has very blue eyes.
“That’s the alcohol,” I said, giving credit where it was due. This became clearer when we started talking about his writing. “When I’m writing erotica, the sentences get shorter,” he explained. “It’s not ‘My penis did this…,’ it’s ‘My cock. My cock. And there’s no vagina, that’s what you take to the doctor.’”
“Yes!” I cried. “Cause, you know, a penis is flaccid, but a cock is hard. And you know what else?” I went on, inspired, “I think cunt is a perfectly acceptable word, but pussy is really dirty.”
“What do you mean by dirty?” Jefferson asked. I realized that using ‘dirty’ as a pejorative term might put a damper on our evening, which was supposed to be very dirty, indeed.
“I just think euphemisms are dirty.” The alcohol was making me more voluble, but, unfortunately, also less articulate. I tried to remedy that: “With cunt, I think it’s the hard ‘k’ sound, and the dentalization at the end that makes it sound clean. I mean, I like the dirtiness of pussy,” I added, not wanting him to think I was a prude or anything. “I mean, just now I got this kind of shiver down the backs of my thighs.”
“Really?”
“That’s also the alcohol talking,” I said, insightfully. “I wouldn’t otherwise be talking about why I think pussy is a dirty word.” I finished my second whisky. “I’m just going to use your bathroom.”
“It’s at the end of the hall.”
When I returned to the sofa he pulled me towards him and kissed me, sliding his hands all over me. I sighed. He slipped his hands up under my shirt. “This is the part I have trouble with,” he said, struggling with my bra. Like me putting on condoms.
But he soon got rid of the rest of my clothes, slipping my tights off my legs and, briefly, onto his left arm. Then he settled me next to him on the couch, and I curled up against him. He was still dressed, or rather, still in his pajama bottoms and tee.
We kissed. “I just want to smell you,” I announced. I was definitely drunk at this point. I sniffed the crook of his elbow. Nice. We kissed again. “And I’m going to stroke you,” I added, sliding my hand across his groin.
It was already after 8:00; he’d been making me comfortable for two hours at this point, and I was due to leave at 9:00. “OK,” he said at last. “Take your drink into the bedroom.”
So I did. Hey! I thought. This is where the orgies (parts of them, anyway) happen! I looked at the bookshelves, then sat on the bed.
When he came in he joined me on the bed, pushing me back against his pillows and reaching into the drawer of his bedside table. He slipped a mask over my head, where it snagged in my hair. It was the real deal, not one of those wimpy Virgin Atlantic sleep masks. I couldn’t see a thing, not even an impression of light. I sighed. He lay on top of me.
After a minute I felt his dick on my face. He rubbed it across my mouth, and I licked it desperately. I tried and tried to get my mouth around the head, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please?” I said. “Won’t you let me suck you?” He slapped my face. I gasped: “Ow!” I hadn’t expected it at all. I had thought the slapping would be limited to my ass. It hurt. I wasn’t wet. I might have been excited, but I could barely even think. It really hurt.
Then he turned me over and slid me to the edge of the mattress, and spanked me hard. Several times. It was really painful, and I heard my voice whimpering. But it went on.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Not very long, I don’t think. Afterwards, Jefferson lay me on my back and covered me up with his body. He took off the mask.
“Well,” he said. “So we tried that, and it’s not for you. That’s OK.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said. Lying, I think.
“That’s a lot of double negatives,” he pointed out.
“It’s that I let you do that to me,” I was nearly in tears. “I let you. I didn’t even stop you.”
He kissed my face, and was quite soothing. I’m not surprised he has such an active social life. Even though he hit me really hard, and his promiscuity makes me nervous, I think he’s lovely, and I’m going to see him again, no question about it.
He found a cigarette, an unfiltered Gauloise! (How French!) and we split it, with me slouched in his armchair, and him lounging on the bed. It was after 9:00.
“Sometimes I don’t think I’m actually submissive,” I said, returning to our conversation. “I think I like the idea of refusing to do what I’m told,” I said.
“Oh, so you’re a brat,” Jefferson laughed.
I wondered if this was an official term for this particular perversity or if I’m just completely weird. Do I just want to annoy my partners to orgasm?
It was getting late. “Don’t you have another date?” I asked.
“I’m actually headed out,” he said. “I wish we’d planned for you to stay over,” he said. I smiled.
We started to dress. It was at this point I realized I was very, very drunk. The term legless suddenly made sense.
We walked to the subway station. “Are you OK?” he said. I was not too steady on my pins.
“I think I’m going to get a cab,” I said. “I just need a cash machine.”
“I’m going to come with you,” he said. Thank God for that, I was in a real state. He saw me to a nearby ATM and then into a cab. I don’t remember getting home, and I can’t imagine how I managed to give the driver directions. I struggled out of my clothes and collapsed in bed, not even washing my face. I woke up at 4:00 am with a splitting headache, having dreamt about HIV tests given by cheery people who kept mixing up the results and giving them out in public. My subconscious isn’t all that subtle, it seems.
Walking to the subway station this morning, I checked my voice mail. The phone had rung while I was at Jefferson’s, but I’d assumed it was Marc, since I’d asked him to check in. But aha! It was Daniel. He’d called to see if I was free tonight. Since I was playing it cool, I called him back immediately and said I’d love to get together. I believe this is called self-sabotage. I’ll call you sometime, eh? Call me Tuesday night, pal!
Jefferson had threatened – or promised – to give me bruises that would last nearly a week. I hadn’t had the courage to ask him not to (how could this take courage? It’s my ass! What the hell is up with me?). I don’t want bruises because I’m seeing Jordan on Friday night and am not sure of proper sub etiquette regarding multiple partners leaving welts on one’s ass. I can’t see my ass, but I don’t think it’s bruised. I thought it would hurt to sit down. I was kind of excited about being constantly, physically reminded of my night. Which is strange, considering how ambivalent I was about being hit that hard. But anyway, while it stings, I can’t tell if it’s a response to the spanking or just the latent effects of lycra-heavy tights clinging to by skin three days running. If there’s any visible bruising presumably Daniel will tell me. Wow, I am a slut.
When I got to work there was a nice email from Jefferson. He’s lovely.
Jefferson had warned me that he was out of liquor, so I bought some whisky. I am not yet blasé enough about going to a man’s apartment for the first time (especially to an apartment that sees regular orgies), or about submission, for that matter, to turn up without reinforcements in the form of mood-altering substances. I wanted Dutch courage. Of course, this involved some angst at the liquor store. I really didn’t want to spend much on alcohol (quantity, not quality is ever my motto), but could I really bring myself to show up at Jefferson’s door with a bottom shelf bottle of blended scotch whisky? I’m pretty vain – I didn’t want to be thought of as cheap. If I did buy El Cheapo brand, I would feel compelled to apologize for it. At which point Jefferson, being a well-mannered Southerner, would probably demur that it was fine. This dilemma took me a few minutes. Finally vanity won over frugality. As it so often does in my life.
Jefferson greeted me at the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I handed him the bag. “Maker’s Mark!” he said, sounding pleased.
“I read your blog,” I reminded him. I glanced around his living room. Lots of books, artwork by his kids: so, you know, not intimidating. I’m not quite sure how a few square feet could be considered intimidating, but apparently the possibility had occurred to me.
We settled down on the sofa with our whiskies and listened to Neil Young and then Emmylou Harris. I’d been thinking about music on the way over. I’d been playing T. Rex’s “Hot Love” again and again on my iPod. This seemed like an appropriate soundtrack to get me in the mood. As did, oddly enough, Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit.” Obviously not the lyrics, but the sinister air of melancholy, and the soft minor key melody seemed fitting as I contemplated being slapped, possibly quite hard, by a man I barely knew.
We talked and talked. Alcohol makes me quite chatty, and because, of course, it’s alcohol, I am a little fuzzy about the subject of our discussion. I think Emmylou Harris, the idea of being an artist and of the importance of loving one’s work were bandied about. I knocked back my whisky pretty quick.
When he brought me a second drink he sat a bit closer. “See, I’m sitting incrementally closer to you now,” he announced.
“Oh, right!” I said, and squeezed just a bit closer, myself.
“You’re getting better at maintaining eye contact,” he observed. He has very blue eyes.
“That’s the alcohol,” I said, giving credit where it was due. This became clearer when we started talking about his writing. “When I’m writing erotica, the sentences get shorter,” he explained. “It’s not ‘My penis did this…,’ it’s ‘My cock. My cock. And there’s no vagina, that’s what you take to the doctor.’”
“Yes!” I cried. “Cause, you know, a penis is flaccid, but a cock is hard. And you know what else?” I went on, inspired, “I think cunt is a perfectly acceptable word, but pussy is really dirty.”
“What do you mean by dirty?” Jefferson asked. I realized that using ‘dirty’ as a pejorative term might put a damper on our evening, which was supposed to be very dirty, indeed.
“I just think euphemisms are dirty.” The alcohol was making me more voluble, but, unfortunately, also less articulate. I tried to remedy that: “With cunt, I think it’s the hard ‘k’ sound, and the dentalization at the end that makes it sound clean. I mean, I like the dirtiness of pussy,” I added, not wanting him to think I was a prude or anything. “I mean, just now I got this kind of shiver down the backs of my thighs.”
“Really?”
“That’s also the alcohol talking,” I said, insightfully. “I wouldn’t otherwise be talking about why I think pussy is a dirty word.” I finished my second whisky. “I’m just going to use your bathroom.”
“It’s at the end of the hall.”
When I returned to the sofa he pulled me towards him and kissed me, sliding his hands all over me. I sighed. He slipped his hands up under my shirt. “This is the part I have trouble with,” he said, struggling with my bra. Like me putting on condoms.
But he soon got rid of the rest of my clothes, slipping my tights off my legs and, briefly, onto his left arm. Then he settled me next to him on the couch, and I curled up against him. He was still dressed, or rather, still in his pajama bottoms and tee.
We kissed. “I just want to smell you,” I announced. I was definitely drunk at this point. I sniffed the crook of his elbow. Nice. We kissed again. “And I’m going to stroke you,” I added, sliding my hand across his groin.
It was already after 8:00; he’d been making me comfortable for two hours at this point, and I was due to leave at 9:00. “OK,” he said at last. “Take your drink into the bedroom.”
So I did. Hey! I thought. This is where the orgies (parts of them, anyway) happen! I looked at the bookshelves, then sat on the bed.
When he came in he joined me on the bed, pushing me back against his pillows and reaching into the drawer of his bedside table. He slipped a mask over my head, where it snagged in my hair. It was the real deal, not one of those wimpy Virgin Atlantic sleep masks. I couldn’t see a thing, not even an impression of light. I sighed. He lay on top of me.
After a minute I felt his dick on my face. He rubbed it across my mouth, and I licked it desperately. I tried and tried to get my mouth around the head, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please?” I said. “Won’t you let me suck you?” He slapped my face. I gasped: “Ow!” I hadn’t expected it at all. I had thought the slapping would be limited to my ass. It hurt. I wasn’t wet. I might have been excited, but I could barely even think. It really hurt.
Then he turned me over and slid me to the edge of the mattress, and spanked me hard. Several times. It was really painful, and I heard my voice whimpering. But it went on.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Not very long, I don’t think. Afterwards, Jefferson lay me on my back and covered me up with his body. He took off the mask.
“Well,” he said. “So we tried that, and it’s not for you. That’s OK.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said. Lying, I think.
“That’s a lot of double negatives,” he pointed out.
“It’s that I let you do that to me,” I was nearly in tears. “I let you. I didn’t even stop you.”
He kissed my face, and was quite soothing. I’m not surprised he has such an active social life. Even though he hit me really hard, and his promiscuity makes me nervous, I think he’s lovely, and I’m going to see him again, no question about it.
He found a cigarette, an unfiltered Gauloise! (How French!) and we split it, with me slouched in his armchair, and him lounging on the bed. It was after 9:00.
“Sometimes I don’t think I’m actually submissive,” I said, returning to our conversation. “I think I like the idea of refusing to do what I’m told,” I said.
“Oh, so you’re a brat,” Jefferson laughed.
I wondered if this was an official term for this particular perversity or if I’m just completely weird. Do I just want to annoy my partners to orgasm?
It was getting late. “Don’t you have another date?” I asked.
“I’m actually headed out,” he said. “I wish we’d planned for you to stay over,” he said. I smiled.
We started to dress. It was at this point I realized I was very, very drunk. The term legless suddenly made sense.
We walked to the subway station. “Are you OK?” he said. I was not too steady on my pins.
“I think I’m going to get a cab,” I said. “I just need a cash machine.”
“I’m going to come with you,” he said. Thank God for that, I was in a real state. He saw me to a nearby ATM and then into a cab. I don’t remember getting home, and I can’t imagine how I managed to give the driver directions. I struggled out of my clothes and collapsed in bed, not even washing my face. I woke up at 4:00 am with a splitting headache, having dreamt about HIV tests given by cheery people who kept mixing up the results and giving them out in public. My subconscious isn’t all that subtle, it seems.
Walking to the subway station this morning, I checked my voice mail. The phone had rung while I was at Jefferson’s, but I’d assumed it was Marc, since I’d asked him to check in. But aha! It was Daniel. He’d called to see if I was free tonight. Since I was playing it cool, I called him back immediately and said I’d love to get together. I believe this is called self-sabotage. I’ll call you sometime, eh? Call me Tuesday night, pal!
Jefferson had threatened – or promised – to give me bruises that would last nearly a week. I hadn’t had the courage to ask him not to (how could this take courage? It’s my ass! What the hell is up with me?). I don’t want bruises because I’m seeing Jordan on Friday night and am not sure of proper sub etiquette regarding multiple partners leaving welts on one’s ass. I can’t see my ass, but I don’t think it’s bruised. I thought it would hurt to sit down. I was kind of excited about being constantly, physically reminded of my night. Which is strange, considering how ambivalent I was about being hit that hard. But anyway, while it stings, I can’t tell if it’s a response to the spanking or just the latent effects of lycra-heavy tights clinging to by skin three days running. If there’s any visible bruising presumably Daniel will tell me. Wow, I am a slut.
When I got to work there was a nice email from Jefferson. He’s lovely.
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