Conjugal Tents was not a phrase I expected to learn, much less use. The border remains sensibly sealed to the majority of traffic, though Silver is twice vaccinated, and I the Canadian once. At current suspicion that might be done at the end of the summer, with the start of the tentative discovery of metrics that will make it possible to lever our two countries open to each other.
I am late, this time, to the park. Usually I beat him by ten to thirty minutes and take up a book on a picnic bench in front of the US parking area. They do not want me there or inside the cars, though they tolerate me assisting carrying things about. But the park rangers have created a merciful compromise. No tents in the broad lawns or where the weddings happen at a steady clip as soon as the weather warms. But, in the more wooded far edge overlooking the road that splits the park from Canada proper, nylon mushrooms of various sizes sprout up.
It’s a proper field of desires.
Some play music, some muffled giggles. We all know, without saying, the purpose is sex. All private, at least as much as if you could still camp there or the bedrooms across the street. When I arrive Silver has already set up our little pop-up and pegged it down to the ground, waiting inside for me to make my way.
He wanted to please me, so he brought a nice collared shirt, along with the picnic for my birthday, the chief anchor of which are truly massive pound-cake cupcakes he spent the whole prior day perfecting. He has a cooler, with other things. But, before that, kisses.
I have said that, before me it had been nothing but a kiss to the cheek. It seems after he developed rather a taste for it. I don’t know why this delights me- I think it is the glee that rather than indifferent, his long absence from much of the acts we call “making love” have in no way diminished a libido. The last partners I had who had that level of consistent eagerness were in the early parts of our lives.
Silver has the sex drive of a man half his age.
I enjoy it, the easy erections, the seeking eagerness. I want my relationship to be horny. We are at the stage, thanks to the pandemic’s separation, where by I am teaching him some specific particulars of my body that, to be honest, I am barely learning myself.
It takes nothing to make him hard. A croon. A selfie. My mere presence. Initiation is a cycle of mutual appetites stoking off each other. Most nights now he sends me a picture of himself kneeling, cock rampant in that way men get when there could be more, but there’s definitely more than enough to work with.
In person, with real, complete privacy that isn’t a peace arch tent and the constant sense we are doing something wrong, I tread him with a casual cruelty that relaxes my whole self. Were I more inclined to metaphysics, I would call it soul warming. It is love, his body craves pain. When he edges for me sometimes his hand will spontaneously find his own balls to firmly tug.
I can’t hurt him as much as I’d like. There’s no room to swing a whip, and even if I could, the swish and smack is rather more audible. Many activities are curtailed before climax, particularly mine, for with another person I can be rather loud. Meanwhile, with him, his own instinct to struggle presents a not-quite-the-space challenge.
But I can pinch nipples, press where it’s sore, fuck his mouth with clean fingers. His ass, is alas out of the question as there’s not the space to clean up. But we make do.
And he’s getting bolder.
When we first got alone, his mouth was almost on my breast in an instant, finding the curve, an inch from the slight left placed mole in the valley between them. A kiss became a more agressive suck and a mark bloomed ruddy and bright. It is an idiosyncrasy that he marks me this way. It’s very much with my consent, but there’s a psychology of it that goes to another place than the standard after bruises.
It feels, every time, that I am taking something away of him, a vulnerability that’s a crack in his perfect façade, the one that tries to snuff out all hint of anything that is selfish, a noble impulse, but one that locks away vulnerability that I prefer to play with. So I admire the mark turn from red pin dots to yellow and purple in the following day. Mine.
He also seeks my cunt eagerly. He has learned to rub and finger me. I have taught him the importance of not just trimming and filing his nails. And he, of his own accord, quite suprises me now. He will be seeking and rubbing, lips pressed to mine, my body starting to arch and hips move up and forward. Then he with give a hard yank at my hair. He’s learned, but more than that, he can extrapolate what he learned to new ideas.
My masochism is well served.
If you are involved in the BDSM community, sooner or later, usually particular to women, someone will point out topping is not the same as domination. The example is always obnoxiously furnished with the worst kind of bitch garden order barking, as if to be a femdom was so fragile I must command every twitch of his body with strictness. Meanwhile I just accept it’s nonsesense that I have to be a particular way or another. Pain becomes erotic for me, giving or receiving, and the primary audience to my fucking is myself and my partner.
So also have I finally found a cunnilingus that doesn’t make me want to kick my partner. I dislike tongue on my labia. Direct contact with my clit is neither painful or pleasure, being a sensation I can only describe as chewing on tinfoil. But, biting. Poor Silver, finding his way to serve as he nibbles his way through new territory for us both.
Foreplay is likewise nothing you could trust a poor man to instantly grasp. Indeed, that was today’s lesson, that I do like having my breasts and body touched and strokes. I do get pleasure from his warmth. But my cunt wants what it wants and all the elegant service offered to me cannot make it open.
I teach him a finger at a time to feel if I am ready.
Sex ed talks about being wet, but they give you very little to go on Erections are there, will or won’t, but a vagina can take well before the muscles have complied. At no point do they tell girls of the warm, swollen feeling of the vagina swelling. Even as it seems to get, larger it becomes more sensitive and the sensation is as if it wants to push forwards on its own. But to get there, to be able to use it, it takes a sacrifice.
I hurt him. I praise him over and over again, calling him beautiful, besotted even as I find the most quiet tricks to torture. I make my words a leash and hynotise, teling him he as no choice. Telling him he must. He is almost ready to play doll-helpless when I lay him supine, reminding him that his erect cock is mine to take at will.
A slight break, affirmative consent. I had told him before the meeting that I wanted to mount him, but that he was under no obligation to do so. So, as I fetch the condom in its foil wrapper, he gives a quick little nod. He wants me to know that the game of ownership is fueled by willing surrender.
Condom on, with all his past paints, he homes in me easily. It’s a barrier between us, bought with ribs I can faintly feel as I begin to ride him.
When he nears coming he is so shy.
He is afraid he has not pleased me enough yet. I don’t care. I am enjoying the terror-desire in his eyes, reminding him, no choice, no choice. the orgasm is quick after that but long, the last spurt a jerk forward that lifts his torso from the ground and makes his face look almost startled.
Of course I dismount, for condoms keep a short seal after the journey ends, but as I do I tell him of my pleasure. It is true, but not spontaneous. The truth is that I am getting off on taming him, enjoying breaking him to be forced to acknowledge inside his head he’s a good lay.
And my goodness, he makes a prodigious amount of cum! The condom catches all of it and I tie of the neck, folding it away in its own package to dispose of. But it’s a lurid, pornography-level last gift as I admire my handiwork. Happy birthday to me.