Allergies boil my head, but his body is an aesthetic dream. My twitter feed’s a minutiae of trying to clear my head of goo, unerotic except to that one person with a histamine fetish (I mean there must be?).
Silver has the gift of most smaller men, proportion easy, then honed with dedication at a gym. He refused to admit he is muscular, calling it into question because his shoulders and arms don’t stay swollen like frozen hams when they are not flexed. He was also incredulous when I pointed out we should probably size up in condoms, because I had to fight to get the standard size down his dick at the last inch.
Even now, the Magnums, with their bold branding, actually the middle not the extreme, from the drug store’s offerings, create a sort of self conscious cringe. Neither he, nor I find much pleasure in harping on imaginary inadequacy. We never developed a taste for the male sub standard of claiming your partner doesn’t do it for you and attaches a certain self defeating aura to the dominant. No knock to your own kinks, but if I am going to own someone I want to think they aren’t a sexual imposition.
I began the weekend by offering him the chance to come, right then, or be denied on my terms as per usual. He picked the latter, of course, for fun in teasing. My god, he’s pretty and I’m horny. My botched IUD install and its correction is wearing off and I get wet easy. But, it’s not his tight little body I adore, by itself. Aesthetically, yes, it’s nice, but subtract my love and the possibility of control and certain tensions and I would have an immunity.
I skim the sex scenes in novels, not repulsed, but bored, often preferring “fade to black”. The intensity *to* bed can do it for me. And yet, now, with him, even writing this, the texture of his flesh when I squeeze it is an alluring sense memory.
The first night I edge him to distraction, then after a long break we have painstakingly slow sex, using my body to edge him. He cannot dare thrust faster, missionary position, legs twined around him, reminding him he is trapped. Until I tell him to stop, I feel so good that he has enough self control to stop moving before he comes, but not so much that he can pull himself free. Trapped, trapped. You can’t stop.
I love how frustrated he gets, the natural way he’s familiarized himself with my softness. When I first arrived, after I queried him on coming, and he declined the chance, I set him upon all fours, made an inspection of things.
In our relationship, much of our love-talk is impenetrably self referential. Nights before, I spun the fantasy of him in a tight stall, milked and penetrated, unable to see his gloved assailants. Now, in person, small reminders as I send him to freshen up, before fingering his ass. The inspection game demands a ring gag, pulled as tight as I can until I deform the sides of his mouth with the straps. It digs in, begging for me to place a softer dildo just in front of the rubber O it’s turned his mouth into.
I tested it with clean fingers, three holding his throat until he realized he couldn’t breathe, then set him to his obvious task, swallowing the silicone in front of him.
He was paused in that only to nudge his head to the selection of cocks I would fuck him with. The Funkit L won. That went in the strapon, and then in his ass, nudge nudge to replace a plug. We play a game now, me pressing on toys, telling him to push as I tease him, watching the intensity build.
This is a rough, wet fuck. I’m just in reach to force his poor blond head down on the dildo in front of him. Deeper. Skull fucking is evocative but it’s so dry, as his throat’s violation is slippery, noisy, gagging but converted to that place I want him. He’s so beautiful, and my thighs are slick as the toy I force his mouth to hilt on and hold him down on until he starts to buck.
At one moment, I am using the gag strap almost like a reign to guide hiss head. I love it when I can push him to that state of abject indignity where he can’t even feel humiliated, just a thing to be used.
The next day I am full of impulses. Real life intrudes on our latex plans and then that season is fast veering over into nasty humidity. But it offers two more chances to really push my beloved little bitch.
Every night, to settle his body, he takes an almost ritual soak. He strips to entice, reveling in that I like him. Two years in, he’s internalized I think he’s hot. No more demurring, downplaying “I’m just ok!”. Such submission deserves reward.
The bath he’s run is so hot I am concerned about what I do next, but it’s actually just right for him. On me it’s a bit much, but I can adjust, placing him on all fours facing the low rim of the tub, so I can push his face into the water while I circle my other hand around his cock.
It’s damn dangerous. Lifeguards and those who know a little about water safety knows it takes very little water to drown, but the truth is my breath play never gets close to anything significant. Into the water, my hand takes a tight grip on the hair he’d grown out for me, just enough to grab. I am technically holding him down, but there’s a few fail safes, both my rapt attention on him, and a safe-signal. We never exceed that moment when the body stops letting you consciously control stopping your own air nd says no for him.
That’s fucking enough, we’re taking control, stupid mammal. The adrenaline-panic is the rush, not the floaty high of oxygen deprivation. He tries to be good, be it my hand over his nose and mouth, or maneuvering him so I can press him down. Eventually he breaks and starts to twist and buck, self rescuing automaton. If there isn’t water, usually at this point there’s a few seconds and I croon “You don’t need to breathe.”
There is water, and since I don’t want him to reflex gulp in water, he is quicker to get pulled back up. Not that I think he notices. But we’ve been adding more encouragement for him to struggle, and it’s something that pleases us both. For me this is deeply erotic, and for all that I am a sneezy and stuffy mess.
Over and over again, little dips, discovering this new game together. What more could I ask for? Pushing, stroking, that oil and water sensation as the wet of the bath mingles with lube. The water is boiling, to me, his face red. We pause repeatedly for me to check on him, but he’s completely unharmed.
One time in the cycle of this, I pull him back into my lap, shivering. He always gets the shakes when it’s intense. I hold him there, mine. It’s a moment of perfectly uncompromised joy, carved out after two years of therapy not to second guess that I could be so happy with an anticipated calamity.
He asks, getting his composure, again?
Real life, the same thing leaving me a sad, snorking, snotty mess, banishing me from makeup, steals in and makes things more stressful for him. I had daydreamed of slithering into black rubber and spending an evening with him practically serpentine with desire. And yet, that energy shift, never mind, I have other tricks.
I hypnotize him, the whole nine yards with the swinging watch and rambling storytelling, pushing him to relax, and drop a bit deeper. When he’s completely limp of body and hard of cock, my story has shifted to some sort of doll or drone that gradually gains consciousness, only to be periodically wiped clean for programing. He’s supine, propped up by a knock off liberator wedge behind his back. I do that to him as a sort of dominant flex, forcing him, not me to be the most comfortable.
Funny, how we find our power, isn’t it? He’s in a happy doll space, with the body for it, all stretched out helpless and hard, and I ride him, crooning that he’s realizing that the reset method is coming and I am about to wipe him completely blank again. Umph. He’s not moving at all, committed to that role. Not a twitch.
He even comes perfectly quietly, and I realize it for sure only after the fact when I feel the texture of him engulfed in me switch and have to dismount quick. I need to catch that semen before slippery latex slips and seals break. When I return home I start the “mini pill” as my next experiment, but for now, but be careful. How can I share the fascination- the milky rubber and the leaning a little golden tint to his cum. Fluids are so complicated, taboo, erotic maybe because of that. Myself, it’s silicone and my own sliding slickness.
The traces tie me back to seeing the wreckage of the past time, what I plundered from his throat. Thank god for towels.
I hold him next to me, kissing. Why is he so good?