Muscles vibrate in his back, clenching and unclenching in spasms that wind tighter and tighter. He's coiling up like a spring, My hands are wrapped tight around his hips as I thrust my new, larger dildo into him. Saturday night, Mannequin has gone to bed. Mr Smith and I are still awake and I'm using the small hours to engage in a very active search for male prostate orgasm. Determined to drag him through it.
All the pre-signs are there. He's prone, arms splayed out and fingers grasping at the bedsheets, feet curling. The muscles in his thighs are trembling and he's bucking against me, pressing his hips against the cock. I fuck him, building him up through faster, harder strokes, then slower, deeper ones that take their time to press him open. I can see his desire for release in his body, and I watch him carefully, judging depth, speed and playful little thrusts upon his own movements. I can hear it too: the tell-tale type of panting, tiny gasps that lift upwards, getting softer and more lost as he begins to hyperventilate. A few times I need to calm him down, to force him to breathe more deeply, relax and stop striving so hard.
I stroke his back, I can feel the heat rising from his skin, feel the sweat pinprick, then run in rivulets over his naked body. I love that moment. Sweat is an under appreciated fluid: I love sweat. The cold sweat that starts from fear, shock or pain. The sheen from flushes of excitement. The gentle overnight sweat where the scent of two (or more) bodies mingles with sex, sleep and animal contentment. And this. Pure fucking exertion and mindless force, flowing - literally - from his pained efforts at my command. With it comes his smell, now familiar and resonating with my own dominance, already part of the attraction I have for him - scent is a hugely important thing for me. I can track pheromones and those the rise from him are heady. Sweat. It's a power trip. Emperors must have felt this way when gladiators roared and bled in the arena.
The orgasm isn't coming, but he's working really hard towards it. Perhaps too hard, in that desperate, uphill struggle that climax can sometimes be, especially unfamiliar climax. I remember the effort (and surprise) of my first orgasm through cunnilingus, and later, from someone else's fingers. To this day I've never had an orgasm purely through vaginal penetration. Each first time was hampered by the fear that it wouldn't happen, that I would fail, falter and collapse. Which is what happens to him, eventually, both of us worn down by the exertion. I've led him up and down the waves of rising almost-orgasm several times before I decide we need to stop. His entire body is shuddering through with tiny convulsions and he is almost without speech (a rarity for this one) for several minutes. He's angry, frustrated and - as expected - feels like he's failed. Submission and failure are tricky but often present bedfellows, I can certainly call on my own experiences, especially the desire to produce orgasm for a dominant, but also for oneself, to give a true sense of completion and finality.
Eventually I get up and fetch a dry towel and begin rubbing him down. The long strokes across his back and limbs seems to calm him, and he quietens. Even that action is pleasing to me. He's a horse ridden hard and in need of stabling. What I'm doing is very familiar to me from teenage years spent riding. And the minute I think "horse" is the minute everything falls into place. The more I think about this one, the more I think of horses, and all the pleasures that come with that.
I tend to visualise my submissives as animals, so they generally go by a moniker like "kitten", "puppy" or even "bear" to recall a name from my almost-vanilla past. And so this one is a horse. Sweat like horses do, with all that impressive power and force behind them, yet passively following a bit and bridle. Groomed, trained and even bred for purpose. Sure, they whinny and nicker every now and then, but generally fall into place if treated correctly. I smile as my brain fills with all the thoughts of leather tack, hay-filled stables and my thighs twitch a little. Once he's dry, I curl up around him, wrapping him up in my arms and holding him tight whilst he continues to give the odd twitch and moan. I stroke his hip, and my brain reads "flank", whispering soothingly into his ear. There's plenty of time for all sorts of training for this boy.