I laid in his arms slowly recovering my breath and my composure. “That was so fucking hot, Hy,” he mumbled into a kiss on my temple. I swelled with pride again. Pleasing him is nearly orgasmic.
“I have more for you,” I said smiling wickedly. I kissed his hairy chest and whiskered neck and climbed up on top of him. His erection, having never abated from our love-making thick and wildly tempting, rested on his belly. I slid my lips along its length. He lifted it up and we tried to connect hand- free. We laughed as we butted parts; I reached down instead and guided him in. Sat back slowly, long and deep until I felt him in my throat.
I rocked and bucked on him, his hands lightly rested on my hips. I never took my eyes off of him. “I like being on top because I can see you.”
“But you can see me when you’re on the bottom.”
I leaned forward and offered him a breast, slowly raised his arms above his head and surreptitiously reached for one of the silk ties I’d hidden under my pillows. He issued a surprised muffle into my flesh when he felt the silk wrap around his wrists. In two deft motions he was tied to the bed.
I climbed back off and tied his ankles to the bed then crawled up between his legs. “Now this is more like it,” I purred as I filled my mouth with his sac and lovingly stroked his shaft.
He is always in control. Always. He almost never loses his shit like I do and his orgasms tend to happen only about three-quarters of the time either from good hard fucking or even one of my expert blowjobs — he wishes he weren’t circumcised — but when I tie him up I get results. He begs, he pleads, he bucks and cries out. Tonight I was going to make him mine again.
I pushed my finger down the length of his cheeks and found his asshole. I explored gently as I sucked with my mouth and gripped him tightly with my left hand. He moaned. I pushed the tip in further and I could feel his muscles pinch my finger like a vice. His breathing became labored, he started to moan, his cock throbbed and grew in my hand and mouth. My finger curled inside. It was soft and wet and tight and I began to gently curl it in arrhythmic motions to my bobbing and slobbering, finding a spongy patch so like my own g-spot.
His cyclist thighs clenched, his abs flattened out and he pulsed and bucked around me, shuttered, but no cum filled my mouth. “Please,” he panted, “something just happened. I think I came. Did I cum?? You have to pull out of me, gently.” I stilled and gently removed my finger. It’d been buried to the hilt.
“Holy shit,” he practically whimpered. “What the fuck was that??”
I told him about coitus reservatus, an orgasm without ejaculation that the in the late 19th century the Oneida community had perfected and made famous. He said he’d never felt anything like it. I kissed him and told him I loved to play with his sweet little asshole and then left him to recover and think about this new development. I returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I poured and asked if he was thirsty. He said, “Yes.”
I took a long swig and bent over his lips. He opened them and as our flesh touched I let the wine trickle out. Another drink, another exchange. And then I filled his bellybutton and drank out of it, poured some on my breasts and let him suck them clean, drizzled it on his chest and licked it off.
He was a vision to behold: alabaster white against dark sheets, his broad shoulders and chest dusted with dark hair, his meat resting deliciously under his belly button; his eyes followed my every move.
I stood up next to the bed and put my foot on the frame and grabbed my vibrator. I wanted him to watch me cum, helplessly two feet away. As the orgasm came close I opened my eyes and visions of warm flesh resplendently displayed before me flashed my desire to new heights. I shyly looked at his enormous cock between lowered lashes and could only glance at his beautiful face, intense with desire.
The orgasm ripped through me. My legs shook and my teeth chattered as I practically screamed. My eyes flew open; I was desperate to see him as I came. He looked like he would snap at any second, his eyes locked on me and mine.
Spent, I crawled into the nook of his arm and he asked me to untie his hands. He wrapped his arms around me and said, “Jesus Christ, that was hot.” I thanked him and took more pictures to go with a couple I’d already snapped of his hands and feet tied. His hand on my breast and my hand on his arm, his warm body curled against mine. The photos evoke intimacy and trust. Silken ties hung limply at the foot of the bed in the shots. I lay there thinking how much I loved him and how utterly impossible it all seemed.
He said it was time to have my treat then. He’d bought more cognac for Sidecars. I dressed and joined him in the kitchen.
“So, I was thinking since I’ll be child-free in a couple of weeks that that should be a Sex Week.” I smiled a big smile, pleased with myself.
“But what if I don’t want that??”
I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to have sex that much,” was his simple answer. He cut some lemons and squeezed the juice into a bowl.
“I want you to know something,” I said conversationally, taking a back step from my emotions, “I’m feeling some pressure to spend time together lately because this is terminal. I just want you to know that is what’s going on for me.”
He poured sugar into a bowl and filled a shaker with ice, “But isn’t that like driving a junky car until it breaks down and you buy a new one?”
I laughed. “No. It’s more like I want to ride the roller coaster as many times as possible before the park shuts down.”
“But the roller coaster has an opinion about that, too.”
“Of course it does! I’m just sharing with you my feelings about our situation, that’s all. I’m in no way trying to dictate how things go between us. I’m just telling you how I’m feeling.”
“Ok. Well, thank you.” He poured in the liquor and shook the canister over his shoulder like a pro and poured the golden liquid into two sugared champagne glasses.
He offered me one and I thanked him, sipped the tartly delicious brew and walked to the couch. He followed me. “You know,” I said between more sips, “I’m curious. What do you think I mean when I say ‘Birthday Sex Week’?”
“I think you mean constant sex.” Again, I felt this disconnect between connections he’s making about who I am in his mind and who I am in reality, a s light chastisement. It set my teeth on edge.
“TN, you’re fucking retarded,” using a word I hate to use only emphasized my seriousness about his deficient thinking process on this. “What I meant was we’d make a point to sneak over in the mornings if we had time, if we were both home at lunch we’d have a quickie and at night, if we were up to it, we’d have another round. It doesn’t mean constant sex! You think so fucking literally!!” I laughed lightly.
His contrite response was, “Oh,” and then, “Your tits look fucking hot in that tank top.
I looked down to see them bulging out of my snug camisole and sure enough they looked like buttery, creamy rounds spilling out of a dish.
Just then there was pounding on my front door. We looked at each other. It had to be Downstairs Neighbor, my confidante and our friend. DN knows everything about TN, but thinks it’s some dude I call “Jason”. He has no idea we are having an affair. I looked at TN and got up to answer the door.
Little did I know that DN was about to cause me a living nightmare, the crawl-under-a-rock kind, not the call-the-police kind.