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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Sunday, 2 October 2011

The fuck

It's been a while since I've had sex, I'll admit. And it's certainly been a longer while since I've been fucked (as a slight aside, but to complete the set, it's been years since I've made love, but that's a blogpost for another day). Dominants are not fucked, they fuck. Either cowgirl style on top or rocking a strap-on, I've become used to being the one in control of the motion, the depth and the hip action.

Over dinner with Technophilia, the new and unexpected boy on my horizons. We're discussing the plans for the rest of the night. Initially, we weren't going to meet up at all, which rather put me out, but fortunately the universe realigned itself and we managed to get together. I was reasonably determined to have sex with him, but equally slightly concerned about pushing things too far, too fast and "putting him off" for want of a better word. I told him as much, as we drank porn star martinis (the perverts cocktail of choice) and he pointed out - somewhat coyly, I felt - that he was here and hadn't run away yet.

Once again, in all our interactions, I got the strong impression of playfulness from him, the switch in him I guess, there was a balance still to be struck between us. Things could go either way, he pushes my own switch and I feel equally excited by the idea of pressing his face into the pillow as I do feeling his hand do the same to me.
For the moment, however, he is more comfortable on top - it plays better into his experience and frankly, I have an amount of top fatigue right now. The idea of not taking charge is appealing. The idea of having some filthy sex as opposed to building a detailed scene is very appealing. We made a deal over our steak and red wine: he takes me home and he gets to do what he wants with me.

I like playing into other people's fantasies - whether it's as a top or a bottom - and his first request is a strip tease which lets me warm us both up. I finish straddling him, pushing him down on his back. I enjoy feeling his hands run over me, the appreciative noises and the little gasps and sighs as I smooth my fingers around his shoulders, back and slowly, very slowly kiss my way down his stomach towards the top of his jeans. I undo his belt buckle and start to play with his cock which is just as satisfying as I remember, then apply my mouth and tongue to the shaft and head. Immediately, I am conflicted.
If there's one thing that screams "submission" in my mind, it's blowjobs. They neatly encapsulate almost all of my challenges with the idea of female submission, with my feelings of vulnerability around my own past acts of submission. My submissive self is a self not often seen these days and it's a part of me that is most easily hurt. I am not certain I want to submit to him. Bottom, yes. Fuck, absolutely. Allow myself to be taken, dear lord yes. But submission is a big thing, a huge exchange of trust and a reminder of many things - both good and bad. We're not at that stage.

But we are at the fucking stage, kinky fucking, certainly and with trappings of D/s - there are "thank you's" (from both sides, he's an appreciative recipient) along with question and response. The thing I realise is that I do want to suck his cock and I know he wants me to do it, which makes me want to do it more. But I'm also wary. not just for the things outlined above. Even when I was back in the land of the vanillas, blowjobs were never been a routine part of sex for me, my partners weren't that into them. Now my standing response is that I have people to do that for me. The truth is that giving head has underlying problems for me: physically I find it quite difficult, which is made more so when deep throating is involved and the recipient is quite so well endowed. Additionally, I worry about whether it's good enough - The Photographer was always quite vocally critical of my oral skills, citing previous partners expertise in the area. Though frankly, the more I think about that, the more I think that it was another of his psychological games, akin to the "I don't love you game" designed to make me feel bad and weak in order to control me.

So I have all these thoughts buzzing around my brain as my mouth makes contact with his cock and he thrusts, hand on my head and moans in squirming pleasure. That works. Just then, the sense of giving pleasure, the desire and drive to do so - akin to the desire to give pain. To hear him make those noises, to feel him get harder inside my mouth, the quickening of breath, the whisperings of desire. I grin. And continue.

Later, he flips me over and forces his mouth against my cunt. His tongue laps quickly, before my hand against his head slows him down to that gentle rolling boil that I find so pleasingly satisfying. I get wet, although frankly, I was pretty wet to start off with. I also know I'm not going to orgasm - we're too new, too uncertain in our nascent kinky exchanges for me to be able to accept orgasm easily yet. He doesn't stop though, and for the first time I understand the dominant factor in giving head (although many people have explained it to me, including Majeste and her wonderfully imperious demands to taste what is hers). This time, I really get it, mostly because I'm getting it. The build of pleasure becomes almost-pain as my body clenches and unclenches and doesn't quite get there. Again. And again. And again. Eventually, I wriggle away from under him.

Finally, after what is realistically a week of waiting. We fuck. Doggy style. Heavy and hard. There's a physical equivalent of a roar coming from somewhere deep in my cunt when he penetrates me - it's a wave of exertion, of pleasure and just the right amount of plain, brute force. He has a skilled confidence that takes me by surprise - although by now I'm not sure why I'm surprised. He fucks like he behaves in everything else: there's a superficial presentation of soft, slightlly cutesy coyness as he bites his lip, then a glint of something nasty as the thread of gleeful filth unspools in his mind and he takes charge. Not bullying or cajoling, but taking and taking pleasure in taking.

And I give. I let the sensations roll over me as we fuck, which translate easily into noises I'm only partly aware of making. I know that I moan. I'm almost certain I screamed a little (I certainly did in the morning when we fucked again because we ended up muffled and collapsed in pillows after he pointed out he had thin walls and neighbours). We don't so much fall asleep as part pass out, limbs wrapped around limbs. Resurfacing in the morning to start again. We lie around in bed, swapping notes and rummaging in his box of toys and as I see the anal vibes, the dildos and ball gag I wonder how he could have ever thought of himself as vanilla?

So now I'm home, digesting what has happened, partly sated, certainly wanting more, and very curious about where we might take this. For the moment, we are dancing and the music has not stopped. Equally, we have yet to really decide if we will continue. I'd like to, and said so plainly. We both agreed we were in similar places emotionally. Both of us are interested in where the next relationship will be and wanting it on some level, but both unsure whether we are ready for it, whether those things which hurt us in the past have properly healed enough to dive in once more.

Thoughts for another day. Right now, I'm enjoying that pleasing tiredness in my thighs and working out when we can next arrange another date.

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