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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Body language

He moans. Light at first but getting longer and deeper. Mr Smith is on all fours, spreading his arms out in front like a cat, sprawling. If he had claws, they would be ground into the bedsheets.

All I can really see of him are his back and shoulders, arching gently up towards me. Ankles and wrists cuffed but not bound to anything (some hotels are really inconsiderate in their lack of useful hitching posts). His face is encased in a rubber hood selected for him earlier today. It's tightly zipped at the back of the head with two pinpricks for nostrils and an ovoid, red rimmed hole for the mouth. I like kissing hooded faces, He's secured nice and snug with a collar around his neck. The exterior of the mask is smooth, featureless and shiny, when I press my hands, or run my tongue, against it I can feel the warm, yielding flesh beneath. We are separated by millimetres of latex and by
miles and miles of power exchange.

When the face goes; they go. Ways away, and deep, deep down, both in their mind and in my mind's eye. He is muscle and bone, Fuck Toy. Ultimately, only and solely - perfectly for my purposes - a body. Those beautiful, abstracted submissive bodies.

I've spent the past hour or two amusing myself and slowly working him up to a good, long session with a strap-on. Lubed fingers pressed, spread and curling inside him, then a series of plugs moving up in size as I felt him relax. I like the feeling of being inside someone, of the heat of their body. The intimacy and the power of pressing my flesh, my force, my muscle, into their yielding skin. Finally, I pull his legs up and push the harnessed dildo into him - all the way - and start to fuck.

I zone out a little, entering that straight-line arrow from a bow feeling that is the trajectory of dom space. It's not like concentrating, I am not thinking. I am doing. Fucking is
an exercise in unconsciously reading flesh. The majority of communication is carried without words and he's a book spread open. There is a wave that keeps passing between us, on a heavier and heavier tide. I ride it, I ride him. His moans rise and fall and I can see the flickers and twitches of muscle spasms in his back. I create rhythm with my hips: grinding into him, gripping tight around his arse and thighs: pulling him into me with the dull thump of flesh on flesh. I thrust harder and faster, enjoying the build of heat in my body, the wetness growing in my cunt and the synchronicity of fucking. The pure animal joy of it.

I become aware of a rising tension flowing up from him as he clenches and unclenches seeking a release that moves away from his grasp.
I push him towards it, but feel him slipping, eventually slowing to a halt, and we collapse in a sweating, gasping heap. Waiting for language to return to us. Later he confessed that he felt on the point of orgasm but without knowing how to - orgasm through anal stimulation is somewhat uncharted territory. I told him that I was sure that if he's well behaved I could certainly help him practice.

1 comment:

njbh86 said...

Certainly know (approximately) how he feels on that score. I get close, but no cigar, every time.