I love you very much, painfully so, with the yearning of spending too much time apart. We are that couple, together, in public, but just as much with no eyes on us but each other.
I cannot recall the music, writing this now, but I remember, in late February, dancing in the kitchen with you, guarding for the slight slip of my black cotton tights on the faux wood linoleum as we shimmy-twist. Alongside the peril of losing my footing, it’s distracting how beautiful you look in motion, in a blue blazer over a light blue button down. Your body tapers sharply from your shoulders, shimmying. I’m wearing the green vintage dress you bought me for Christmas. When we pull apart and I twirl, the skirt bells out, all picturesque.
We have returned from a Pike Place Market french restaurant, where I stole half of one of your crab cakes, and you took, at my urging, half my salmon filet. I think I got the better trade, though there was nothing wrong with my fish.
There was a window to the restaurant kitchen marked by a pile of citrus fruits, aiming to put themselves into the dining area to make things feel more casual, or maybe make the most of the space. Once upon a time, in the 70s, this was a jazz spot, but its so crowded I wonder where they used to put the musicians. Still, it’s well prepared fresh fish, bread with a $5 up charge and pleasant crab cakes. And noise, lots of it, more crush and clatter than intimacy. The hints of old music, there, are drowned out in the excess of the conversation of others. I am content, holding back my urge to nitpick this nice gift, but nevertheless we do not favour them with the opportunity to sell us dessert. You serve me icecream instead, later, after we have danced. Looking after me is just what you do.
When I arrived for the weekend, I took the train in. It’s always comfortable, but too crowded that particular night to fight the line in the dining car, so you met me with food. It’s been a bad eating week for me again, a fact that I am not proud of, but being home in my space is driving me a bit nuts when I try to cook.
I daydream about kitchens that are not shoved into main areas. I am well sick of exposed, designed for people who don’t cook counters that push atrocious storage and a strict inability to let anything be, lest it become noxious clutter. I keep optimizing, all the endless expenses to try to make the space livable. Hooks for this and that, shelves expanding outwards and upwards. Ultimately no compensation can fix a cramped, poorly laid out space with too many things in it. And there’s no walls in spaces, anymore, a victim of the open plan trend. Sharing these spaces is even more frustrating, because there’s twice as much room to let the dishes or the mess get away from you.
If, perhaps, I lived flung out from my work by another 30 minutes, I might have my own solo shoebox, on my comfortable middle class salary. It pays more, on this coast, but rents jack up to eat one’s earnings. But, even paying more, the kitchen would still be in my bedroom, or at best, still in my living room. On the west coast, new construction is the norm. I think they are so cheap, regardless of the actual cost, they would leave the doors off bathrooms, if they could justify it.
Case in point: Tech job or not, your kitchen, the one I danced in, is “open plan” as well. This pivot and swirl smooth space I slide about in is an island of no texture in the otherwise stucco and wall to wall carpet, an alley of linoleum fenced between appliance and an island counter. For this visit, you draped the island in a rich quilt, handmade in a medley of turquoise and blue, serving as tablecloth to display a bouquet of flowers. Pink and purple and green, stems capped by pale, fat roses that remind me of babygirl birthday cakes. Just for me, to be pretty to look at for the weekend.
We’re in the approximate orbit or Valentine’s day, so we brought each other gifts to unwrap, too. Yours were piled up on the kitchen island when I got there, mine hand wrapped in sticker covered tissue paper and tied with real satin ribbon. You gave me a cape-capped coat dress with a flash red lining; a box of fancy tea; costume brooches; and spangle-sparkly tuxedo bodysuit that tugs at your fetishes to lift the collective sense of power over you, even as the glitter roughness of the fabric repels your touch. I gave you a high end, self thrusting sextoy by lovense.
Gravity in use
I wore the bodysuit, fitted to my measurements, the next day, when my gift to you finished charging. You lavish me with these things, expecting nothing in return, but I had my eye on the Gravity, another attempt at the thrusting toy category. It’s bright red, with a screw on suction cup, and I quickly realize there are no other practical, smooth surfaces in the condo to set it on than the kitchen. I slap it onto the floor, to start, but after a maiden voyage, I try the window of the steel doored stove, and then determine the polished expanse of the fridge is the best place for it.
I could put it in the bathroom, but the tile wall inside the shower-tub is cramped as hell. Forget swinging a cat, though the last tenant’s accessibility bars make great hardpoints, it’s not enough room for what I want. I consider, in the long run, buying a hefty ceramic tile to plant the toy on and better tie it to the seat of a chair, although the thrusting motor part, while sheilded is past the comfortable part of the insertable length. It’s perfectly safe to hilt on, but not using it to make the best of its design if you do so.
The Gravity is loud: screaming servo motors, a high pitched whine at the low setting. You are louder, not in the least because at the same time as I set you to be fucked on all fours, ass towards your fridge door, I attached your testicles to your toes with the ribbon the gift I gave you was tied with, and put the black clover clamps on your nipples. For the noise, but also to torture you, I added a posture collar with a built in ball gag.
You are always verbal, a good sub skill. Now you are yelling, the sex talk that you always do in the moment: “I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m so fucked.” I slicked up your cock to stroke and that gets desperate screams, through the gag “MISS! MISS!”
You don’t beg to come, you warn of it, assume no possibility of permission by default. Midway through this vicious excess, we’d paused. It was before I rigged your testicles, but you had already nearly broke. You were shaky and I thought that would be an end point, but after you steadied yourself by resting your head on my lap, you were asking to be put back. I admire your masochism.
At one point, as I am pulling on the chain of your nipple clamps, you accidentally dismount, and I push you back into place. The fantasy that overlays this for me, is to think you are abjectly helpless, a hole trapped against something mechanical and merciless. It does a good job of being relentless while seeing to respect the structural integrity of your insides.
I began on the lowest operating settings, one quarter up the app’s sliding screen, then half way. We stay there for a bit, but I am a maximalist in my heart, and I cannot resist the top setting. It chugs in and out, the insertable length, for you, just to above the accordion folds that drive its hidden pistons.
I alternate, pulling the clamps and your slicked up cock, but sometimes both. It’s just about too much for you, and you are gloriously overwhelmed, a cycle of quick edging and suffering. Eventually even your exceptional endurance falters and no amount of clenching and resisting can stop the shoot of cum from your body, white on the towel’s grey. I stop the thrusting, as this punctuation marks you are broken, unhitching your poor balls, and freeing you from the collar as you release the pinch of the clamps on your own nipples.
You are wordless, only able to respond to questions, and I wrap you in the big white fleece “aftercare” blanket and take you from the kitchen to the bedroom. There’s another kind of erotic for me, of the post fuck helplessness. Nonetheless, within moments of my embrace, in the bed, you are wild and squirming to kiss me. You want, you crave my touch and to express the extent of the passion in the moment. I have you unzip me from the bodysuit, and we come together in my slickness.
I had noted the evidence of my desire earlier, while the toy still fucked your ass, but no position seemed likely to hold you for use inside me while you were properly mounted. To be inside me is akin to your kisses, it feels like another link of intimacy through sensory warmth. It’s different from our lips touching only in that hint of shyness, as you offer yourself. You are bolder to kiss than to, I suppose in your thought process, impose with your cock.
So, to fuck, you initiate by moving to all fours, but with your hip twisted a bit away from me, as if to say “but would you like it?” Fetching, offered, I wonder if a part of you is still incredulous that I want this, or if you are just mindful that my anatomy has its fragility? Femdom is often all the anxieties of the heterosexual orgasm gap writ large.
I certainly haven’t ever assumed you don’t want it, since you first did. Instead, your libido is a comforting, almost indefatigable thing. It’s a rare moment I need to extend myself to inspire you erect, as much as I relish those moments. For me, your cock is a continuation of my experience of your body, the same soft to touch and firm underneath. Dutifully, most times, you slick it with a little silicone. Sometimes it isn’t at hand and we are too focused on the moment, but you have made that concession by default since I told you it can cover any hitches where brain and body are aligning to what brain wants.
It’s a form of coupling, a word that conveys this act well to me, your cock as a swivel point in a ball joint we pivot on. I am muttering the nasty versions of sweet nothings, chained verbiage to chain you. Body and brain, here must align, as raw sensation or naked parts, in the traditional fashion would never carry the day for either of us. Psychological filth, encouragement, whatever you call it, in this act or in stroking your cock for my enjoyment, one of us is always talking.
“I’m your slave, I’m your slave, I’m your slave,” the refrain follows your thrusts. You used to get self conscious you were less chatty when you were on the throws of whatever I was spinning. But my words are spider silk to cocoon you, binding all sense. And who among us was particularly articulate during cardio?
I want you to lose yourself in this and I want you to accept you make me happy. There’s a sense of power for me in how much I have trained you to trust in that, so far. I’ve built it through endless examples of my own desire and pleasure, as much as in reassuring words, you are good, you are wanted, in this and in all things. I get it, particularly in this act, specifically. You are attempting to give pleasure with a part of your body that goes on a break if it feels too much joy in exactly what you want to achieve.
In this moment, despite the limb tangling come-together, and my own encouragements, your previous forced concession on the towel gives you the stamina I know delights you. It occurs to me, not unwelcome, this is a performance of appreciation for what already happened in the kitchen, the immediate act, but also to desperately celebrate who I am. I’m a sadist, a creative pervert, and completely in love with you. Lately, perhaps aware of the almost overwhelming good I am getting from you, I have been insecure, but I understand that for you I am exactly what you want.
Gym bunny, you have the cardio to carry this, the self knowledge to pause, and my permission after the first time that when my vocal orgasm happens, if the moment tilts you over, you may fall with me.
It’s a distinction I make, for there’s the little jolts your cock draws out of me just in standard missionary, almost like electric zaps, but also what can be done like so: you rear up, our faces no longer close enough to kiss. I encourage you; my legs briefly extend, calves trapping the sides of your throat, to tease, until the impulse to come has nudged me to act on it. And we have this well practiced, my legs up to roll my hips, my hand, sometimes both, mashes my clit as you keep a steady pace, fingers on my nipples. We’re I not a masochist as well, this would be very uncomfortable, but as I get closer to coming I always make you go harder.
I think I remember teasing you with a scenario where you are helpless victim, being fucked, as you were, by the new toy to teach you to mimic it. I added the other aspects to flesh it out, knowing you, the layered latex to imagine being trapped in, the faceless attendants positioning him, and the “supervisor” directing it all. I do not remember when each beat of the story happened relative to what we did together, but I do remember the shot moment of my tensions flipping into a scream from me.
You do not finish in the euphemistic sense, but I stop you, even as the tingling waves and contractions continue. I am over sensitive, now, bathed in afterglow. The mechanics of this, I remember remarking, are not just external engagement, but the whole of my insides drum pulsing.
We twine back up, and somewhere in the cool down talk things get sexual again and you note that oh no, you are turned on again. I say back smartly, “You think I’m not?”
Of course a round three, in the same pose more like an L on its back than one atop the other. This time as I come I brush your hands away from my breasts and order you to just keep thrusting. Though I kicked this orgasm off, I remark, shocked “It’s not stopping!”
This orgasm follows the thrusts. I have learned this is possible with my body, my own hands like pulling a ripcord, that then takes your thrusts like fuel. Push, push, the reaction of my body is a series of skips like a flat rock skimming the water, going on longer than seems possible. Eventually, though, even that extremis must reach its end point, a final plummet and then tingles from collarbone to knees in its wake.