the heavy bones of his skull

Last night, I went over to Joscelin’s, feeling a bit insecure.  I hadn’t seen him online in a day and a half, and the last time I saw him in person, he didn’t really have time or attention for me, and the time before that had ended with me sort of crashing and feeling my energy not reciprocated, and then our last online conversation was about how problematic and confusing my sexuality is, so…yeah, kind of a mess.  However, I hadn’t let myself dwell on negative fantasies or anything, and when I showed up he was happy to see me, and life was good.

Really good.

We had a little punishment to take care of, and afterwards, I decided to see if fucking right away instead of having foreplay first might be fun.  I was wet from the punishment anyway, and so I told him I wanted to fuck him, and he started playing with my nipples, and put my hand on his (a request? an offer? I’m not sure) and I hurt him pretty bad, making him hard, and we fucked, and it was good.

It wasn’t great, it was just good.  He hadn’t come in a couple of days, and couldn’t fuck me for very long before needing to stop frequently to avoid orgasm. 

“Can I hurt you like this?” I asked, with my fingertips pressed into the backs of his upper arms.

“Yes.”

And I dug my short nails into his skin, hard, and he moaned, and started moving again, and I told him he could come, and he did, and as he did, I eased up the pressure in my fingers.

Afterwards, we snuggled and talked.  He played with my nipple briefly, and I stopped him, saying, “I don’t want to be turned on right now.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t answer, but it seemed important.  Not wanting to be turned on at that moment seemed at odds with my general stance that I prefer arousal to orgasm.  He pressed me for an answer. 

“This is after sex,” I said lamely.

A few minutes later, we were spooning with him behind, and I was definitely horny.  I was talking about still wanting to have anal sex with him someday.  (I’ve done it before, many times, but not with him so far.  I’m a bit ambivalent about it in general.)  And then I started talking about regular fucking.

“I wonder if you could fuck me with your fingers,” I said.

“You want me to?”

“Yeah.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

He took his watch off, alarming me.  “Don’t go that deep!” I said, and joked and pantomimed that next he’d be pushing up his sleeves and really scaring me.   (He was naked, of course.)

“Are you wet?” he asked.  (I find this line comical.  You have ways of finding this out.  And also, duh, I haven’t even been out of bed since we fucked.)

I don’t normally like fingers in my vagina, at all, but I relaxed, and he did it like fucking, with that same motion and rhythm, and it was nice.  I mean, really nice.  It wasn’t as delicious as actual fucking – didn’t hit the same spot in the same way - but it felt incredible and I wasn’t worried about him at all.  And something about the way the palm of his hand was pressing/grazing my clit was…mmmmmmmm.  (He kept distracting me by, for instance, joking that he was about to come.  I didn’t tell him to shut up, but eventually he did anyway.)

His hand got tired after a while, and with my permission, he rested it.  But I was horny and asked him to play with my clit with his fingers, which he did.  Either he did it well, or I was just craving any kind of touch, or some combination.  (Although this sounds bad, honesty compels me, for the sake of the completeness of this story, to mention that he usually never touches my pussy.  Ever.) 

For a long time I really wasn’t thinking about coming.  I figured it wouldn’t happen anyway.  I was just luxuriating in the touch.  And then, either on purpose or because his fingers were getting tired, he started switching it up.  Sometimes the finger that was in just the right spot would go dead and others, nearby but not quite right, would start up.  And it was maddening.  Perfect.  Delicious.  Crazy.  (Want to make me come?  Tease me.  Give me less than I want.)

I wasn’t that far from coming, but that last little bit can be a bitch, and he switched back to fucking me with his fingers, and it was still good, but killed my progress.  And when he went back to stroking me, I was mainly enjoying it again, mainly not thinking of coming again.

“I wish you’d get hard again,” I said after a while.

“That can be arranged,” he said.

“Do it.”

He started stroking himself.  He got close to coming before he got fully hard, and remarked on this conundrum.  And then realized the condom we’d used the first time was the last one.  So much for that idea.

I was…how to describe it?  I wasn’t primarily thinking exactly about my clit, or my pussy, or about coming, but I was full of lust and I just wanted to grab him and do everything to him.  I gripped his jaw with my hand, choosing it because it’s a good strong bone, and I turned his head this way and that.  I hurt his nipple pretty bad.  I grabbed at his chest, pulling at him futilely.  I fucked his mouth with my fingers.

“I need to do something to you, and there’s nothing I can do,” I said.

“If you sit up a little bit, you can kiss me into the pillow,” he offered.

And I did.  I raised up so that I was over him, and I kissed him, hard, pushing his head down, and I let my arm rest heavily on his chest, pinning him, and sometimes I used my hands to hold the heavy bones of his skull.  And I bit his lip, hard, and then his tongue, harder, while he tried not to scream.  But mostly I just kissed him, trying to pry his jaws open with mine, practically climbing into his mouth.

At some point, still looking down at him, my hand on his cheek, I told him I wanted to slap him.  He didn’t want it, but agreed, and I hit him once, really firmly.  It felt crazy good to me.

“Did you like that?” he asked.

“It was incredible.  Can you tell?” I felt the feeling of it radiating from my eyes.

“No,” he said.

“Damn,” I said, and we laughed a little bit, ruefully.

And then I stroked his cock for a while, and when he got close, I let him come again.

It was getting near time to go home and to bed.  I kissed him some more, gently, reminded him that he had to dress and accompany me to the front door, and he did, and I left.

At home, in IM’s, he was briefly flip, and tears came into my eyes in a rush, and I told him to stop, to be with me, to reciprocate my energy, and he did, and I was fine.  (”I’m not post-orgasmic,” I reminded him.)  I went to bed and read the end of Oliver Twist and turned out the light.

And then, in the dark, I realized I was too horny to sleep.  Too horny to sleep.  This doesn’t happen to me.  I got my vibrator and used it, thinking about what he’d done to me, thinking about the feeling of his soft fingers stroking me, not quite giving me what I wanted.  I held the vibrator lightly, excruciatingly so, quivering between pressing it to myself and drawing it away.  And when I came, well…I didn’t scream, quite.  I didn’t want my roommate to hear me.  But in feeling, I screamed my bloody head off.  I screamed silently.  It was intense, incredibly so, harder than I’ve felt it in a long time.

I blame the slave.