I posted an entry some time ago called 30 Days of Oral Sex. It was about a challenge we’d given ourselves. Settling it took a lot longer than 30 days and there have been rocky paths in between. There was no doubt that we would finish, though. Mr. Tungsten and I have a completeness fetish. Also, we are nerds.
I organized the first fifteen days in a manner meant to evoke Sei Shonagon, so I’ll continue:
the time there was noticeable shift between “I’m turned on” and “holy crap I’m gonna come right now”
after Star Trek, Into Darkness
the night he’d mastered that amazing new technique he’s been working on
with a bonus finger
with a bit of stubble, but otherwise sheer heaven
the time he said “right at the end — what were you doing there?”
with the softest, gentlest aftercare of all
when I messed up and brought a real issue into a scene
after a spirited sociopolitical debate
after a long dry spell
once it started to be all right
after an even longer break, when we had to talk about it first.
when it didn’t work because I’d been cross-dressing for Hallowe’en
the first time he wore the hat
the other day, in the morning, on the bathroom floor
I’ll have to elaborate on that last time because it was pivotal.
A few nights ago, Mr. Tungsten said he was going to ask me a question and it was important that my answer be honest. The question was “Are you the same domme you were when we first met?” He didn’t mean to belittle me. It was obvious because he said so, as well as from his tone and from the general vibe of fondness he was giving off there on the old futon-couch where I’d sat as he’d first proposed. It was on bended knee, by the way.
I said “no”. Not to his proposal, I’d accepted that gladly, but no, I wasn’t the same domme. I didn’t crave his submission the way I used to. I would top him if he asked, but was unlikely to just do it on my own.
It was surprisingly hard to get this out. Admissions brought feelings of guilt, since “sub at heart” hadn’t been in my Alt.com profile all those years ago. Plus he is a sub at heart, or at least that’s what I think.
But the question was more for my benefit. Mr. Tungsten, as often happens, sees and understands that I’ve been leaning this way for a while now. He wanted to know I saw that too. He wanted to hear it as a preamble to what was coming next.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, and proceeded to tell me, as he held me, that our sex life was about to change.
I would still be as free and independent as I always am at work ,or with family and friends. Nothing about blogging or late nights in L.A. or my savage geekery needed to change. The only (heh) switch was that at home I would belong to him. We would share expenses and chores. We would still be equals in the relationship. But sexually, he would call the shots.
Mr. Tungsten was tired, he said, of overthinking, of trying to gauge when the time was right. He would give or take as the mood struck him. There would be two rules. I could still approach him for sex, but orgasms would be at his discretion. If I broke the rules, he would fix it, he said, pressing his index finger to my temple, so I couldn’t come at all.
I felt a thrill of fear. It raced out of my belly and brushed my clit. Blastoffs have always been difficult, although they’ve gotten easier over the years, and masturbation is as much for pleasure as for battling stress. Not having that release would be the worst kind of torture, not to mention oh so easy to achieve. My man has implanted hypnotic suggestions. He can drop me with a word. The trigger isn’t as strong as when we were practicing regularly, but it’s strong enough, especially now that we’re going to be ramping that up again. Mr. Tungsten is going spend this weekend, he assured me, getting back inside my head.
That morning in the bathroom he was testing the waters. He groped me, pushed me against a wall, moved in for a kiss. He took more with his hands in all my places, as I, delighted, hummed into his mouth and wondered what was happening. Then I was on my knees. He pulled his ardor out. He held me back. I strained against the tease and sucked him, once he let me, my body eager and alive. At one point he paused. A silver thread ran between his cock and my mouth; I could feel it. He told me, later, that it was his hottest view of me in years. That I looked beautiful. Rapt. Lost in the moment, with all my focus on the act, on what passed between us.
There were an intervening two days when I had an awful cold. “I could have had you,” Mr. Tungsten said last night at dinner, “just to prove a point. But a man has to take care of his toys, if he wants them to last.”
The fear returned. It was real and yet so sweet, too.
This morning I slept in. He came back to bed, once I was up, knelt over me, and shot into my mouth. It took maybe minute — he seems to be able to last forever these days, or just plain come at will. When the tang hit me I thought “why haven’t we done this before?” Later, I said as much. He just held me.
I lay on my side. The dog came back in to investigate the the sudden smells. and we stroked her. We talked about our schedules that day and what we wanted to get done, a concert last night, a party later. It felt natural. Nice. We went to Starbucks and had breakfast with the dog at our feet. Nobody knew. But we did.
The day of our serious talk had me wondering. “If you’re a sub at heart, how will you get what you need?”
He was unusually calm. “Let me worry about that. But you? Are mine.”
I, Kinkster 