The theater darkens and we quickly look at each other in the fading light. I smile, just barely, and he casually removes his sweatshirt and drapes it on his lap. I snake my hand under the soft fabric and find the growing lump of his erection and begin to rub.
We’d planned this, this daring little tryst in the dark. My two friends to my right were oblivious watching Hunger Games, my lover to my left smirking as I dipped beneath his waistband to continue my ministrations.
And when I heard a faint “zzzzzp” from beneath his hoodie and the proof of his arousal hot in my hand my eyelashes fluttered and I could barely focus on the opening scenes. My heart beat faster; my pussy throbbed a beat or two of its own.
We got home in a state of half-arousal. We’d stolen kisses in the car on the way home and as we climbed the three flights of stairs his hands fondled my bottom beneath my dress.
This is going to be fun.
During one of the many nights of our affair wherein I found myself begging him to fuck me, to stop fucking me, to fuck me some more — basically begging him to release me from myself — I shared that I wanted to make him feel half of that one day. To make him beg. Just like I beg him every time. He replied it wasn’t possible, that he couldn’t possibly get as turned on as me; he had more control. I decided to test his claim last night.
We kiss and head directly to my bedroom. We undress in candlelight, his cock bobs somewhat mockingly at me, like, “Hey, Hy. Whatcha gonna do about this?” I think, “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ve got plans…”
He lays down and he is resplendent. His broad shoulders are accented by a dusting of dark chest hair that tapers to his tumescence, his thighs bulge with muscles, his veins apparent along the ridges of his muscled arms.
A man is beautiful because of his control. He can hurt me with his strength, but he chooses not to. Instead he is tender and gentle and measured. A practiced hand could crush me, but it doesn’t. It pets me, brings me pleasure I myself cannot. A man’s beauty is born of the trust I lay at his feet in my soft womanliness, my swells and pillows of flesh made to entice life to her and then to grow it. We cannot be more different, this man before me and I, and it thrills me so.
I tell him he is beautiful and dip to kiss the inside of his ankle, trail up his calf to the inside of his knee. I spread his legs apart and cup his sack with one hand, continue to kiss up his inner thigh. My mouth meets my kneading hand and I fill it with warm skin and two small, bulging pouches.
“I want to taste you,” he suddenly says and he pulls me up off of him and flips me over and falls between my legs. His tongue is broad and laps at me. I mew my pleasure.
We’ve done this so few times over the course of our time together and the cradle of my sex sings his praises. His fingers work me from the inside, his tongue the outside.
He gets me close, but I know it’s not going to happen. He stops and rubs his jaw. He’s exhausted. “We need to practice that some more,” I note. He readily agrees.
I kiss him and exchange places with him. He moans and I work his cock as I love to do. “Stay here. Don’t move,” I say breathlessly. I leave him for a moment and return with two stockings. Without a word I tie him to my headboard and find a sleep mask. He says nothing as I put it on him.
Restrained and blind in the middle of my bed, bathed in warm light with an enormous erection, he waits for my next move. I draw lines my from his wrist to his hip, my lips nibbling after. I dip my nipples in his eager, open mouth, and then I climb onto his chest and ride his face. He’s pulling on the restraints and I feel my pussy gush as I hear metal creak and see his muscles straining in effort.
I return to his cock and spit on the pad of my index finger. I stroke the silky patch of his perineum a few times, then press the tip of my finger into his tight, little anus. Its fuzz gives way to slick heat just inside his body. I let my face fall down onto his shaft and apply pressure to his sphincter in counterpoint to my sucking. His hips thrust up and twist slightly in answer.
I focus as he beings to writhe beneath me. I use my entire body to bring him pleasure: my cunt with its smattering of hair stamps its approval on his leg straddled by mine; my breasts press into his flexing thighs; my mouth sucks and laps; my hand grips and squeezes, the other dips and strokes.
He can’t stop trembling. “Please, Hy. Please. Please…”
“Please, what, TN?”
“Please, you have to fuck me.”
“Beg me. You said I could never make you beg.”
“I’m begging you to fuck me. Oh my god I have to fuck you. I’ll do anything.”
My finger never leaves his body, my mouth never leaves the region of his cock. “You’ve already given me what I wanted. There’s nothing else I want.”
And so I straddle his hips and guide the helmet of his cock to my center, then slowly bear down, remove his blindfold, and buck wildly on him. I feel more beautiful than ever as I look down at him, his hands still above his head, his eyes locked on my face. He tells me to grab my vibe so I can cum with him inside of me. I leave him again for a second and when I return I climb on top of him facing his feet.
He moans loudly as he gets a full view of my bottom bouncing on him, the tuck of my waist nearly hidden by the spill of my hair. My pussy clenches as this new angle draws me down and then I feel his hands on my hips. He’s freed himself, the bastard. He thrusts hard into me and grabs my hair and pulls, his heavy hands rain down on my flanks with searing blows. I whimper and can only follow his lead.
I was a good girl and tied him up and made him beg like I promised, but now he is done with that. Obviously.
He has me stand on the floor and hitch my leg up onto the bed again. My pussy rains down on his hand and arm. (Later, he’ll have me feel from his wrist to his elbow and it’ll be wet.) He coaches me sweetly, tells me I’m beautiful and hot, and when the orgasm rolls over me I tremble from head to foot and let him pull me into his arms to rest.
Upright now and wrapped in my robe, he tells me again he thinks I like sex more than he does, that my libido is much higher. I struggle with what to say, but boil it down to this:
“I don’t know if you’re complaining or complimenting me. I know it’s high, it’s part of what contributed to the end of my marriage. I can’t help it. I don’t know what to say…”
He’s sensitive and smart and so his answer is, “You’re right. I forgot that you’re sensitive to a comment like that and I’m sorry. I think it’s a good thing, I really do, but I still think your libido is higher than mine.”
I impart to him that I have never felt turned down or let down by him regarding sex, that I’ve felt like he’s kept up wonderfully. He puffs up a little at my assessment.
I’m confused. I’m well-fucked, my body is still tingling and I feel connected to every cell in the universe, but my heart is in knots and I am scrambling for footing. He gets up to leave, gives me a little wave, and I say, “Wait, come here,” and pat the couch. He comes and sits and I gently take his face in my hands and say, “I want to kiss you goodnight.”
Our lips part and press together. We hold still. Just there. Breathe each other in. When it’s over, I’m a little dizzy.
Finally, he leaves.
A night of many things. Of hard cocks in bare hands under sweatshirts in a theater; of men restrained and forced to beg; of a woman left wondering if she is, yet again, too much for anyone in her life if she is to be truly herself.