#AtoZChallenge – X is for XXX

“I’m going to go home, unpack, crawl into bed and administer a little self-care,” I say.

“Oh? And what exactly does that ‘self-care’ entail?” I detect, even over the car’s speaker, a change in his tone. A very subtle edge. I am a master at sussing the nuances of his tone. It is an enthusiasm of mine to recognize the shift in his mood or attention or intention just by the subtleties of his tone of voice.

I hesitate a moment. I’ve been flirting with the limits of this past(?) rule. I’ve pleasured myself many times without permission these past weeks. Yes, it has been satisfying, in terms of pure physical needs. And it has been interesting to find myself dipping into my old fantasies to use as wank material, deliberately avoiding the ones he has placed in my head these past years. But it also lacks…that special something that knowing he has control over my orgasms, that I come for him and only at his whim or pleasure, elicits. My libido is very much driven by giving up that control.

Still. It has been…a point of mine to live in that space where my orgasms are mine again. But I can’t help dangling that independence in front of him. Wondering if and when he will reclaim control. Wanting him to.

This weekend we talked about the nature of our D/s relationship, if not the specifics. The nature, he assures me, has not changed. Because he has allowed me off the leash – out of the box – does not mean he no longer owns me. That has never changed.

There is something inside of me that settles to hear those words. That needs to hear those words. I may question the…specifics…of how our D/s is expressed; we may negotiate and reconstruct and find new paths to explore in our D/s relationship. But the core of who we are to each other: Owner, owned; has not changed.

I shift in my seat, check my side mirror as I merge onto the highway. “An orgasm,” I say. “And then a nap.”

There is a pregnant pause, to use a very apt cliche.

“How bad do you want this orgasm?” he says then.

This is familiar territory to me. The request, followed by his question. How bad do you want it? I know then that if I want it badly enough, it will be granted – with stipulations. Stipulations I may object to but that must be agreed to, once stated. Sometimes, I am allowed not to pursue the orgasm after all; more often once stated, I am required to attempt the orgasm, following his orders. So “how badly do you want it?” is a loaded question.

I consider this turn in our relationship. This re-turn I should say.

“Do you own my orgasms again, then?” I ask after a moment.

“If an old man stops yelling at the kids to get off his lawn for a time, does it mean that he no longer owns the lawn?” he shoots back.

I chuckle. I love this man’s metaphors.

“Of course not,” I reply. Resisting the urge to ask him if I am Kentucky Bluegrass, Zoysa, or maybe just some run-of-the-mill crabgrass. Now does not seem the time for levity.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Very bad,” I say. “Please?”

Before I even hear his voice I can feel the satisfaction emanating from him. He loves owning his kitty. He loves it more when she acknowledges that ownership. And he gives me my instructions.

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I lay in my bed, blessedly alone after the event. I peopled a lot over the weekend, and I am happily in my room at the top of the house, quiet, with nobody and nothing demanding my attention except my own body. It has been thrumming with excitement since his instructions.

Eleven – all massive, intimidating, shiny 11 inches of him – is in my hand. I drip my favorite lube on one side of the toy, the smaller, ridged side, pushing its girth inside of me as I imagine Viper’s voice on the phone as he’d given me my marching orders. I slide it in and out, not deep, but enough to feel my lips opening, gripping the head and ridges. Suckling the toy. My own wetness collects and slides down the massive steel cock onto my hand.

“Before you orgasm, turn it around and use the large side,” he’d said. “You are only allowed to come with the big side inside of you.”

I use Baldy on my clit as I play with the smaller side. I haven’t used Eleven in a very long time, and it is like discovered it all over again. My cunt feels like it is reaching out for it, drawing it in greedily. I am panting and close to an orgasm almost before I know it.

Reluctantly I pull it out, clean it so that my hand won’t slip, and turn it around, applying fresh lube. I play with my pussy for a few minutes, pulling on my pubic hair, which I have allowed to grow out a bit, tugging on my rings, slipping fingers into the folds of my labia and over the raised nub of my clit. Then I can’t wait any longer, and I press the hard steel against my soft, slippery lips, pushing the thick, bulbous head inside my body slowly, gently. “Don’t break yourself,” he’d said.

And as I start to massage it against my g-spot, using Baldy on my clit, I remember the Smut Marathon stories I’ve been reading about eavesdropping. My thoughts drift to my roommate down in the dining room with a friend; I wonder if they can hear me all the way up on the third floor. I wonder if that thought is a turn on or not. I wonder if V is imagining what I am doing. I wonder if he imagines the roommate hearing, because oftentimes I am hesitant to pleasure myself, worried that she will hear. Of course she wouldn’t care – we have a very open household – but the thought is titillating anyway, in light of all the lovely, sexy stories I’ve been reading (go there and read & vote for the ones you like!) And in no time, I am there, coming in a flood over my fingers, drenching the sheets beneath me.

“Thank you, Sir,” I whisper as I drift off to sleep.

 

Comments

  1. Brigit Delaney

    So satisfying…to have the orders…to have the orgasm…to have the time to take care of those needs. I love to hear His instructions in my head when I am pleasuring myself. It just adds to the whole experience.

    Reply
  2. Kayla Lords

    In completely different ways, I feel ALL of this down to my core. JB “gave” me permission to masturbate and orgasm as I see fit, and it feels good when I do it, but having him control my pleasure is something on another level — the acts are the same but they’re not at all.

    Also, I agree, that was a great metaphor, lol.

    Reply

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