Teasing Wildcard- Femdom Sex and Lovelife Updates

I want him to want me. It’s a powerful ache, indistinguishable from the sort of desire people would think of as “horny”, a straight trip into wet and throbbing, with a scenic view of my ego, made on a road paved with my vulnerabilities.

Usually, it’s easy to make myself happy without another person- anyone with a decent supply of pornography or at least an active imagination and the capacity to orgasm can take the basic pressure off. Desire for desire and power games are why I bother with other people, rather than just fucking myself. Well, that and falling in love, but the body urge that sustains it takes its power out of the first two things.

So I seek and touch and look for cues that my effect is working. I adore grinding up against a man, him feeling the unmistakable roundness of my ass with all those stimulating places on me pressed to his groin, letting the muscles of my thighs work, up-down, pushing against him until I can feel that familiar lurch as his weight starts to shift onto you as he weakens with lust, and the way he reacts when you pull away.

I often dress to please myself by pleasing the eye of person I want to tease. I got lucky with bodies, or at least I think I am blessed, breasts and hips that do as they are bid and few overwhelming hangups- enough of a little of everything like tools in a kit: sharp collar bones, pale nipples, nipped waist, cream soft thick thigh and thin wrist and ankle, enough that’s average and exaggerated to let me play with both. But I like my body best when it is being a lure. I like to feel like I’m hunting and baiting and my skin feels shivery and fitted best to me when I pull his gaze.

Like all things to do with sex with me, it’s unnecessarily complicated and personal. Wildcard reacts best if I initiate sex, but is very coy and careful- tug or pull the wrong way and something tears or breaks and the immaculately self contained facade melts into water, rushing out or becoming un-graspable as he slips away completely into himself. I did not pick a partner who came prepared to surrender, but one who has to be lured there.

He speaks in subtle things, but seldom seems to notice little touches, or prefers to pretend he doesn’t feel the hints in our brushing legs or my fingers on his arm. I can kiss him and still feel a distance. At times, to push past this, I am blatant, outright forcing him to look. Last week, feeling impish, I set him to the task of preparing dinner and then joined him, stripping off my clothes, layer by layer until I was naked except for a line of black jewels down my sternum. It was my pleasure to touch him how I wanted but deny him, and delight in his aggravation when I added high satin pumps to parade my nude self past him, hearing him groan. “Oh come on!” before he followed me around trying to get my denying self to give him some release.

Often, he ends up on his back, my hand circled around his cock. He takes the gentlest stroking, like some sort of fragile creature. It reminds me of holding a snake, the way that it is at once clearly rigid, and alive and able to give and shift and respond to your warmth, but the skin is so velvety, the softest thing I’ve ever touched. I make him beg to cum, sometimes pressing him between my breasts, or adding a palmful of wet and slippery lube or licking and sucking him until I’ve made him wet with me.

And he just can’t resist. And for me, that desperation is downright addictive.

Go on, say what you think!

%d bloggers like this: