Silver sits, stiffly, in a chair in a circle of the first comers to the party, and stands between the protection of a tall fan, and the edge of the television, his back to the wall. He is immersing himself in the gathering like a too hot bath, with the lure of my presence to bait him out and across the long drive over the border.
I promised him his first ever, real kiss, for New Years Eve. I wasn’t planning on moving that fast, still covered in Brick dust, still reeling from by what at turns was ripping off a bandaid and putting a kitten down, but when you find out that you have a perplexing puzzle box of a guy who is at once about the same level of perversity as you, has pursued it, and… has made it four decades without a kiss on the mouth, the Aesthetic demands sacrifice.
That’s rushing things for me, but I have always been fast.
It’s New Years Eve, and I am dressed in a tight black number, satin heels, thigh highs. I know I look stunning, I have even worked out the right way to do my eyes to make them look even more enormous and luminous. I blow off my own anxiety by dancing like a maniac. Tension comes out as extroversion in me.
And we spend a good half hour with a sort of gulf of distance yet orbit, with me gently moving into his bubble to measure his reactions. As first he skitters away at the least little bump, but gradually and carefully he acclimatizes, closer and closer. It’s a bit like getting a new pet to calm down after you first bring them home, only I can’t put butter on his paws to distract him.
It goes this way for maybe an hour. He had been the one to helpfully answer the door (to help the host), and reacted by taking a step back, away when I arrived. The impression I got more than anything was that he wanted to run away, possibly out a window, if any barrier presented itself.
Eventually he lost some stiff terror (I imagine male spiders know this feeling) and slunk up on each other, powered by a mutual lust and opposing polarities, myself to dominate and his to be utterly and completely oppressed.
Such stretching of his limits includes dancing, which he decides he must be bad at, but as he is in nigh on perfect physical shape and has nothing wrong with his sense of rhythm, is… perfectly fine. We joke about chaperones, and his childhood’s rules to keep such activities chaste.
Friends come and go into the mix. Slow dancing is aborted when the host decides the maudlin “Wicked Game” has to be replaced mid way with a parody, but a peppy bunch of gothy nerds perk up and sing along when we hit the standards: Depeche Mode, etc…
Eventually we move more and more into overlap- incredibly tentatively. As much as I am dominant, boundaries and consent matter, and a few crashes have ravaged my confidence to the point I am perhaps bordering on self protective.
He, meanwhile has managed such maneuvers as the old stretch/yawn/lean snuggle.
Nonetheless, the evening, to my entertained, observing friends, culminated in the promised kiss… with my hand discreetly on his throat. He discovers it was softer than he expected and I remain delighted by the innocence that I am tearing away.
We are doing that very human thing of hovering over each other, noses a few millimeters apart. Pheromones and heat are present. Our respective dynamic roles mean that I am not doing a lot of direct orders, but “X or Y” style questions and re-emphasizing his right to set boundaries at least once an hour.
I offer him that he can drive me home or back to his hotel room, and he picks the latter, although I have made it plain that he will not get the orgasm I have already flirtatiously snatched control of from him. What I will do is teach him how to kiss.
Let it not be said that femdom does not give a really good script for navigating experience gulfs. Nothing more reassuring to the fucked up gender dynamics than tossing our assumptions men need to be masterful away, and just doing kissing Miss Pearl 101.
He doesn’t go in too bold, and I teach him how to tease tongues, touching, stroked over the lips.
Also hesitancy over where to put your hands? Sexy. He gets a little bit more practice with my skin, my flesh and my breasts. He wants to please, but also I admit I am enjoying how intensely impressed with my body he is acting.
Because I am plain speaking, Silver already knows what to expect- he knows I will be taking things slow and standard penis-in-vagina really isn’t on the table as a menu item for him either. He isn’t ready and I still have exit injuries from breaking up with Brick.
What he does have is an erection you could hang a heavy winter coat on, stark straight and curving back towards his stomach.
Despite his desire for solitude he wants, out of his choices, to take me back to his hotel room. We navigate accordingly past sleepy folk filing out of their parties into the lobby and I make free with his body until about 2 AM and then fall into a comfortable sleep.
This is more elusive for him. He is… uptight. Tense. The room isn’t pitch black. There is a *girl* there. I sleep the sleep of the wicked and wake up refreshed, him, alert in spite of it and awakened by me failing to figure out the mystery of the bathroom door after freshening up and getting rid of the traces of makeup (reader this includes me rinsing my mouth- I do not like being parted from my toothbrush).
He rescues me from the unnecessarily complex door and we dally with more kisses before he locates me tea from the restaurant downstairs. I enjoy his warm, clear delight at getting to bring this for me and more bossy kisses transpire.
I have naught but a black cocktail dress, but past me was more thoughtful and stashed cozy socks in my purse, so feeling rather excessively pleased with myself, I cap it with a borrowed soft white shirt from him and feel I am making a very chic #walkofnoshame together, to pancakes.
My ever accommodating roommate gives me a sock on the door style deference to chez moi, after noon, and thus he ends up restrained to the bed and receives a decent beating.
I adore it. His skin colours perfectly and I feel alive and in control.
His arousal at the beating is gloriously delightful, and I am being incredibly shallow because his body is perfect. Gracious, on a purely vanilla, conventional axis it’s a gift wrapped delight- so pleasantly clean and unblemished and not too cut, but shaped and spare. He has a perfect ass, not too round, but muscular with a curve that begs for another hit, and another.
When he is aroused I fondled him, and my fingers seek the split and the place where I can tell he wants to be fucked silly. For a moment I further consider rushing things and doing just that, but instead I take him up from the bed and against the big mirror door of the closet, controlling him with a grip on his cock.
I slide one of his fingers into my wet cunt and come, almost instantly, a little jolt. His expression after is a particular kind of joy.
He has never known a woman like this. Been fucked up the ass, dominated and controlled… all things he is familiar with. Slutty virgin, I initiate and bathe in the adoration of his firsts. All of this is novel to him, dazzling and it seems, surprising.
He leaves a perfect hand print on the glass.
He has “earned” an orgasm, although I am loathe to let his submissive feelings end. He has warned, desires released, he rebounds to a more reserved self. Nonetheless I want him to come and in the process succumb to a little temptation myself.
My mouth engulfs his cock. I love the act, the control and the sensations. He has no strong, front taste, just the pheromone whisper I pick up, same as was in his shirt when I briefly stole it, something that warms me.
I tease him about only getting to come on my mouth, but he cannot, which is ok, and I take control from him to use my hand and extract approximately half a pint of glossy semen from him. It arches up onto his belly, and he lies with his legs off the bed.
I clean him with a warm wet cloth and we end up in bed together. After coming I check in and he has turned back to his stuff board restraint. Something is a bit askew.
He stays, despite the obvious desire to bolt now back in his body. I do a different sort of teasing, the gentle, kind like removing a burr from wool.
What does this mean? What could it? What if he can’t be what I need? The blue in his eyes has a frightened wet, hidden enough I can find it but he likely would otherwise conceal it without notice. I take another kind of control.
I ask him what my middle name is. I tell him that it is too soon to worry about anything. I point out that frankly I just broke up and it is too damn early to even think of more than sex.
He warms and the stiffness leaves him. His fingers make little circles on my shoulder, a very, very careful and novel exploration. I stretch to it and tell him to keep going.
He puts his mouth to my breasts, discovering what pleases, and then with his unique, tentative kind if daring asks “biting?”
Bodies, in a lazy afternoon, twined up in a fresh white bed. I feel the hint of his cock stir, and think little of it at the time until I realize he is full erect again, rampant.
He realizes there is a long drive ahead of him, but the bed is so soft and my skin softer. We waste another hour before he gets up the inertia to leave (briefly foiled by my mouth on his cock again, sucking insistently and holding him fast) and I am bemused to discover something about the experience has left me slick wet enough to leave a damp patch beneath me.
Later, where his mouth bit, I will find two yellow ghost bruises on my breasts. I leave the hand print on the mirror, for now, and save snatches of images as memories.