Three days, two sleeps, flying down to Laguardia, waiting anxiously at the airport for him to arrive and the meet up, full of bounce as weeks of anticipation culminated in the hard impact of bodies next to the baggage carousel. The heat off us and the mist of lust kept us cocooned as my hands stroked his chest, my lips met his and my body insistently pressed. He was already hardening just from my touch, there, gooey but not pushing the bounds of good taste in public too far.
We took a taxi to Manhattan, where our hotel sat just off Wall Street. I was in New York, one of my favourite cities and I didn’t care. The wedding we were supposed to was a fig leaf for this moment, getting him up into the room and the door closed so I could get my mouth on his cock.
I needed to be fucked. My body needs it, subverting all else, all thought but the moment when he is inside me. Even back in Canada, writing this, I put aside all thoughts, impractically, but how to repeat the experience. I want him.
He’s as pale as me, skin translucent, blooming red where the bite of my nails touch his back. He’s fragile and soft to touch, so much so that there is a certain sort of decadence in it- touching him is like stroking silk laid on butter; long boned limbs, shadowed eyes rimmed in red and the brightest blue I’ve ever seen on a person.
Metaphors fail me there: like stained glass in sun, like the ocean in the right hour of the afternoon when it catches a clear sky. He’s self conscious about the ruddy-blood bloom in his pale skin- some celtic ancestor’s gift, but I like the translucence that underlies it. I am known for my snow skin, part of the underpinning of the moniker for my nom-de-kink, but his a match for mine, on the face and inside of the wrists, where the sun hasn’t left him sleeved with freckles.
Six foot something, tall enough to exactly rest his chin on the top of my head, and I’m as wide as his chest at the shoulder. I’m tiny, and yet it’s more often his head folded into my chest to rest, myself curled onto his back to sleep. He speaks fast, many words, not one for silences, with a southern accent. His homeland is a strange, foreign place to me, full of firearms and personal responsibility to the point of fatality. He tolerates more than me, born of consequence of exposure but perhaps more patience than I have.
He comes when my hand’s on his neck and my voice is in his ear, telling him who he belongs to, reminding him that he’s my slut. Independent, leader, giving, brave… and yet under me his eyes get soft and gentle and vulnerable. I learn him, inside his head and outside, where my tongue can touch his nipples and make him whimper and how to meet his gaze with my mouth on his balls, so the combination of the visual and psychological overcomes him.
He delights in my “gleep face”, hands over my eyes like I am playing peek-a-boo as sudden waves of shyness hit. The dewy, cozy mind melt of love has hit us both, leaving us addicted and adorably besotted.
The heat of this false summer followed me down, but the buildings gave shade. Warm, perfect nights, out with two people getting married, her pregnancy pushing at her belly under her sari, vows exchanged, him praising her ambition and drive, her promising to care for him properly and listen to his perspectives even when she is sure she is right.
We’re among nerds, and I natter happily with them, making friends oh so effortlessly. The couple whose nupitals we hijacked to give us a convenient excuse to try to merge as one are so accommodating when we push myself past when I should have eaten on day one and I fold up all sleepy.
I meet his ex-girlfriend, small in stature, big in personality and we hit it off. His friends at the wedding feel out who the new girl is and gently tease him about him being a bachelor. We eat diner breakfasts in the morning, and lavish meals at night, pasta with extra sides compliments of the chef (note to self: add capers to my baked cauliflower next time!) , wedding fare that’s tasty and well picked, and around the social time and the fucking we barely have time to see much else. We visit the 9/11 memorial and look over the depths of the reflecting pools. I take two fallen acorns and forget them in my pocket.
I dress for my comfort, on vacation, which is how I am touring about in black leather knee high boots and a glossy pleather mini. He enjoys watching men check me out. We’re some sort of exhibitionist- with a combined vanity- getting ready for the wedding proper we take about as long to assemble. I slither into a stretch purple cocktail dress, himself a suit, very square in the style I have been taught is American, but no less flattering.
I have waited until now to see his cock. He shyly offered, before our meeting, to share it after I teased him that over dozens of pictures exchanged and shared orgasms over the phone, I’d still seen no more of him than his chest. But I wanted the surprise.
Oh god, he is big. Not monstrous, but later my friend will ask if my jaw dropped when I saw it, and I will fire back the bon mot- “Only when my mouth was already full”. I can’t swallow all of him yet, although that’ll come with practice- I can get my nose to his pubic bone but only with a naked good inch out from angling my head. Some of this is shyness, as deep throating takes build up and our fucking is so new, as is this connection- this isn’t porn where I am entirely comfortable with all the noises and adjusting to the risks and vulnerabilities… yet. I want a few good hours without the pace of many things to do to practice.
My cunt, so long unstuffed, at first is clamp tight. One of the times I mount him, sopping wet mess I am, he sees my face and cautions “give it a moment”.
The comedy inherent in this makes me smile.
I tell his more vulgar prying friends he is “hung like an artillery shell.” He himself notes the way my cunt acts like it’s going to take complete possession of him by pure grip. I expect it to hurt more. It does not, and I find myself resilient. It doesn’t sting, just a swollen warm feeling.
I leave my boots on for him to fuck me from behind and feel completely and utterly full. That is at the limits of my comfort, but masochist me would rather have that sexual power as I find his favourite position and add it to my tool kit. I like seducing. I want to know all his buttons. I want him. Mine.
I provoke him, constantly, testing him. I am a dominant. I need that poke of control and power. He finds even though he’s by far the stronger, I am full of tricks, using the blanket to trap him. In one return to the hotel I undress him, taking off his black belt and laying it over his throat, hands on either side holding him down, and I can see his mind struggle with a new sensation of being this kind of vulnerable. He’s shy about this, alien territory.
He worries if I hurt him his instinct will not be to curl up whimpering and vulnerable, but fight. I want realness. I likewise show him how I can tell between his well meaning efforts to act submissive versus those moments where I have made him weak, for real. There will be no by the book rote service. I would rather have him raw and rebellious, to seduce him to heel, than polished and empty perfection.
It’s a question mark, can he satisfy my dominance?
He wants to get it right, desperately. If you asked him my pleasures and particulars he’d repeat it back by instinctual memorization. He is a giving partner.
On our last day, I say I want him to try giving me head, again. Long term readers know I dislike it- my tiny clitoris doesn’t benefit from direct contact, and the wrong touch of tongue is just unpleasant. But, I have opened myself just as I seek to engulf him, to accept all things and allow myself to be pleased.
Dominance, is after all, the supreme vulnerability of allowing another person to make you happy by force of your ego applied over theirs.
He hooks the black cotton of my panties to the side and I lie back on the hotel bed. His tongue and lips touch. I could say feather lightness, but that would imply tickling. It doesn’t, no nerve-raw-burn sensation, no excessive wet, just warmth. It starts to build. I feel one of his long fingers slide into me, anchoring everything. He keeps going.
I come. Not big fireworks, like the orgasms I give myself, but at no effort to myself, there he as given me a pleasure no longer alien to me.