It's all happened so quickly, I've hardly had time to sit down and think. My own house looks a little strange to me since I've been spending most of my time at yours. It had been years since I'd been downtown after dark, but when you invited me over I wasn't going to say no. Besides, I had the bottle of wine to fight off any would-be muggers as I walked from my car to the old factory building where your loft is.
I remember coughing and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand when you dropped that comment. It came out of left field, especially since we had been talking about your paintings. But then I should have realized you weren't really thinking about your art, what with your bare foot running up and down my leg and all. I tried to keep my cool, so I didn't respond directly, just asked, "And what else?" We had both drunk two more glasses of wine before you finished telling me.
It turned out you had a thing about being controlled. And I had a thing about doing the controlling. The problem was, you had a lot of real-life experience in this sort of thing, whereas mine was more in the life of the mind. It was embarrassing to admit, but you just smiled, took my hand, and put it against your ass. "Wouldn't you like to spank this?" you asked, and I had to agree that I did.
You've been a patient teacher, and I've spent a lot time wondering just who is really the top here. But I guess you've figured out that I'm a quick learner, such as on the night I took the chair and crooked my finger at you. You walked gracefully over, even with your wrists tied behind you, hips dancing just a bit, and I pulled you closer so that you were straddling me. I slid my hand up the inside of your thigh and tickled you and fingered you, just enough to get you squirming. And then I reached for the lube. I got my cock nice and slick, and then reached between your legs and up and under, and as always was amazed at how quickly your ass opened for my finger, but then it's had a lot of practice.
Your grin was adorable while you looked down at me and waited, your hair falling down over one eye. I took one of your nipples and pulled you down into position, and you slid onto me so easily, a long and low sound coming from your throat as I filled you. It was hard not to cum when I felt you clench around me, but I pride myself on my self-control, so I put my hands on your hips and began to work you. I didn't know what I wanted to look at more, your nipples, which were turning deep red while I tugged and twisted them, or your face, your eyes closed, your lips pressed together in concentration while you felt everything, my hands and cock and your helplessness against your rising orgasm.
While I'm not one of those mask-and-manacle Doms, I do have one rule, and that's that you have to beg me to cum, which is easy for you, self-expression not being one of your weaknesses (tickling is, though: I didn't realize you weren't kidding that time when you said if I didn't stop you were going to pee. It was a good excuse to spank you, but then, as I've learned, just about anything is, especially your asking directly for it, which you did on our second date, my not having taken the hint on our first). You leaned in, pressed against me, your mouth against my neck, so I felt rather than heard the magic words: "Please let me cum..."
I didn't answer. I never do. But I gave you the signal, which was my finger snaking through your pubic hair and finding your clit, which was swollen and soaked (and I had a strange image of a hummingbird gently stabbing it with his beak, drawing the juice from it--don't ask me where that came from), and that's when your spasms began, which set off a chain reaction, and then I don't remember much else until you said, your breath hot in my ear, that you couldn't light a cigarette for us with your hands still tied behind you.
All of which was wonderful. But I like mornings the best. We wake up in your nest of a bed and lie together and talk, and sometimes you take my cock in your mouth before getting up to make coffee. I love watching you walk to the kitchen. You never put anything on; you're so comfortable, so unself-conscious about your nudity. I'm not there yet myself; I still have to put on my shorts, but then, men just aren't as interesting to look at as women are. Besides, it's fun getting them off again. And again. Dropping them beside your nest of a bed, with the snarled, cum-stained sheets, the old neckties and magazines that have to be pushed off to the floor, the cigarette ash and the smell of us, and the one pillow you never sleep on because you bought it only to support your ass for whatever dark uses we decide upon.
So, no, I haven't been home much lately. But I have to go now, water the plants and shower. You're expecting me at seven, and I don't like to keep you waiting.
I remember coughing and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand when you dropped that comment. It came out of left field, especially since we had been talking about your paintings. But then I should have realized you weren't really thinking about your art, what with your bare foot running up and down my leg and all. I tried to keep my cool, so I didn't respond directly, just asked, "And what else?" We had both drunk two more glasses of wine before you finished telling me.
It turned out you had a thing about being controlled. And I had a thing about doing the controlling. The problem was, you had a lot of real-life experience in this sort of thing, whereas mine was more in the life of the mind. It was embarrassing to admit, but you just smiled, took my hand, and put it against your ass. "Wouldn't you like to spank this?" you asked, and I had to agree that I did.
You've been a patient teacher, and I've spent a lot time wondering just who is really the top here. But I guess you've figured out that I'm a quick learner, such as on the night I took the chair and crooked my finger at you. You walked gracefully over, even with your wrists tied behind you, hips dancing just a bit, and I pulled you closer so that you were straddling me. I slid my hand up the inside of your thigh and tickled you and fingered you, just enough to get you squirming. And then I reached for the lube. I got my cock nice and slick, and then reached between your legs and up and under, and as always was amazed at how quickly your ass opened for my finger, but then it's had a lot of practice.
Your grin was adorable while you looked down at me and waited, your hair falling down over one eye. I took one of your nipples and pulled you down into position, and you slid onto me so easily, a long and low sound coming from your throat as I filled you. It was hard not to cum when I felt you clench around me, but I pride myself on my self-control, so I put my hands on your hips and began to work you. I didn't know what I wanted to look at more, your nipples, which were turning deep red while I tugged and twisted them, or your face, your eyes closed, your lips pressed together in concentration while you felt everything, my hands and cock and your helplessness against your rising orgasm.
While I'm not one of those mask-and-manacle Doms, I do have one rule, and that's that you have to beg me to cum, which is easy for you, self-expression not being one of your weaknesses (tickling is, though: I didn't realize you weren't kidding that time when you said if I didn't stop you were going to pee. It was a good excuse to spank you, but then, as I've learned, just about anything is, especially your asking directly for it, which you did on our second date, my not having taken the hint on our first). You leaned in, pressed against me, your mouth against my neck, so I felt rather than heard the magic words: "Please let me cum..."
I didn't answer. I never do. But I gave you the signal, which was my finger snaking through your pubic hair and finding your clit, which was swollen and soaked (and I had a strange image of a hummingbird gently stabbing it with his beak, drawing the juice from it--don't ask me where that came from), and that's when your spasms began, which set off a chain reaction, and then I don't remember much else until you said, your breath hot in my ear, that you couldn't light a cigarette for us with your hands still tied behind you.
All of which was wonderful. But I like mornings the best. We wake up in your nest of a bed and lie together and talk, and sometimes you take my cock in your mouth before getting up to make coffee. I love watching you walk to the kitchen. You never put anything on; you're so comfortable, so unself-conscious about your nudity. I'm not there yet myself; I still have to put on my shorts, but then, men just aren't as interesting to look at as women are. Besides, it's fun getting them off again. And again. Dropping them beside your nest of a bed, with the snarled, cum-stained sheets, the old neckties and magazines that have to be pushed off to the floor, the cigarette ash and the smell of us, and the one pillow you never sleep on because you bought it only to support your ass for whatever dark uses we decide upon.
So, no, I haven't been home much lately. But I have to go now, water the plants and shower. You're expecting me at seven, and I don't like to keep you waiting.
