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There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. — Anais Nin
From time to time, Anya had mentioned the “natural rhythm” of sex but until this afternoon, I had scoffed at the notion – lightly perhaps, but scoff I did. However, as the day wore on, I found myself thinking, shit, is that girl ever wrong?
With every step he had taken; slipping a hand into my bra, working my jeans down quivering thighs, he’d hesitated, almost imperceptibly, but it was there and I wondered at it. I hesitated too, but that was different. After all, he was supposed to be the one in charge. He’d led me to believe as much in the brief emails we’d exchanged before meeting. What had he said? Something about all the things he could show me? He’d shown arrogance. I’d shown naiveté!
At any rate, it was too late and there was no backing out. I had dutifully sucked his cock like a good girl and now…now I wanted to get laid and was growing impatient. How much longer was it going to take?
As absurd as the image was, the whole thing reminded me of a game of Monopoly. How many times did I have to allow him to pass go?
I was handing Park Lane to him on a silver platter…in fact, not just Park Lane. Mayfair too…Mayfair, I decided, almost laughing out loud at the jeering comparison, representing anal. Anyway, he knew he could have whatever he liked yet seemed content to wander around in circles while I wanted to scream, just take it, will you?
My eyes explored the emptiness of the ceiling as he gently but firmly pushed me onto my back. Without protest, I acquiesced. What a surprise.
“You’re an obvious submissive.” Anya had remarked once. “You’re such a funny one. Part of you wants independence – control, even – and the rest wants to be led around by some dangerous guy. I don’t know what to make of you sometimes.”
Lowering my eyes, I responded uncomfortably, “I don’t know what to make of me all the time, Anya.”
As he eased me back, my breasts rolled softly, settling to either side of my ribcage as I fell against the cool sheets. We kissed again as he moved on top of me, his erection hard against my thigh and I held his head tightly as his now familiar tongue explored my mouth.
I wondered if he could taste himself after the blowjob. Can men do that? Or are they so drunk on their bodies they taste only us? I made a mental note to ask Anya’s opinion.
It was another sappy question threading its way through my gallery of titillation as I perused and sampled fleeting visuals which for me were off limits during “real life.”
Leaving my mouth for a moment, he quietly whispered into my ear. “I like this. I like kissing you.” Offering him what I hoped was an enigmatic smile, I wondered if he was lying.
You? You? I repeated the pronoun twice to myself as I gazed up at him. By now, I was sick of hearing the word. He hadn’t called me by my name, not once, not that whole afternoon. I was getting an education in just how dehumanizing sex could be and thought, if kissing is intimate, addressing a girl by name is a long-term relationship.
“If all we do is to kiss like this,” he added, “the day was worth it.” I smiled for him again.
I did like it – a lot – the kissing, that is, but knew the barriers he applied to hold me firmly in place were there to keep our sexualities separate, with him supplying the cock and me submitting the cunt.
Stop complaining, I chided myself. It’s what you wanted!
He drifted down my neck, abandoning those sweet kisses of a few moments ago and planting fresh but firmer ones in narrow pathways before descending to my nipples, which earlier, he’d worked fruitlessly to suck a response from. Their utter refusal to acknowledge his attentions, though not surprising to me, seemed genuinely puzzling to him. Guess he was used to tits that talked back with more…zeal.
Tarrying a moment at each of the rose pink summits, he fellated them, gently at first, then harder, from time to time, lifting his eyes, awaiting for the reaction I knew I was “supposed” to show in appreciation. It didn’t happen. I felt nothing.
Didn’t he know how self-conscious I was? Hadn’t he noticed how I had covered my breasts the instant he had slipped my bra off? They were too large for my petite frame and I hated the thought of anyone seeing that.
I could feel his disappointment, but he soldiered bravely on, across the firmness of my tummy, lingering at my navel, which grew warm and then cool as the tip of his tongue scrubbed the little dimple, filling it with gluey saliva.
I knew his next effort would take him to my freshly-shaven slit, soaked with anticipation from what was supposed to have been a bout of simple fucking; something I knew now, had taken on greater complexity.
True to form, little self-conscious me instinctively closed her legs. Not too tightly though, as I truly wanted to feel a tongue there. Another kartal escort bayan of those acts I’d “never done before”, I was curious and wanted to know if I could come that way. Other girls did, or at least the contention was all over the internet, presented like some constitutional right and I thought back to our initial “I’m out here and want to have sex emails” from weeks ago when all of this started; when he had alluded confidently to his oral prowess.
With his intentions now obvious, I remembered it was during one of those exchanges when I did the unthinkable, revealing to a strange man that I’d be at the finish of my period by today. He’d responded with an almost predictably appropriate answer. “That’s all right, love. We don’t have to do anything the first day, just get to know each other and have a drink.” His tone had been reassuring.
Knowing it was likely a fabrication, I still opted to take him at his word and checked the condition of things down there the previous evening. My tampon had been nearly clean – nearly. So when I’d showered this morning, I had taken the precaution of inserting a fresh one anyway.
If nothing else, its presence — if I even let him get that far — might ward off the whole cunnilingus thing and I thought, if I lost my nerve, if I changed my mind or if I suddenly grew uncomfortable…well, it might serve to stop him. Shit, like most things, I couldn’t decide what I wanted.
After all, I’d just met him and somehow, nothing seemed more intimate than a man putting his mouth on me…there, kissing that sensitive flesh and drinking in my juices. And yes, I knew everyone did it, but that did nothing to alleviate my self-consciousness. How could a girl not be?
Anyway, I had to do something before he found himself tugging at a tampon string with his teeth.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” I announced when he was only half a breath away. He froze as both he, and time, screeched to a halt.
In the face of yet another of my ill-timed interruptions, he stayed surprisingly calm. “Of course,” he said, lifting himself aside. “This way.” He showed me to the bathroom door which I slipped through and quietly closed, shutting him out. It felt good to be alone, and listening till his steps faded back to the bedroom, I cautiously leaned into the mirror.
The girl who stared back wasn’t the same one who had smirked so confidently at me in the hall mirror this morning. With hair tumbled around her shoulders, cheeks rouged from his abrasive stubble and swollen lips testifying to having born hours of friction, she raised her fingers to her face, as if checking to see if it was really her.
Snapping back to attention from that tangential journey, but still focusing on my own dismal duplicate, I squatted and tugged, all the while eyeing myself warily in the mirror. Phew, I thought, it’s clean. It was settled then. I was going learn what it was like to have oral sex after all.
With a flush, a turn of the doorknob, and arms folded across my breasts to diminish their natural sway, I tiptoed back to the bed where he extended a hand in cautious welcome. “Come here,” he said. I slipped under the sheet.
Playtime was over, that much was clear. Having fed myself to him a la carte for hours, I recognized he’d have to make his move now or face the prospect of having to explain himself to some ‘end of time’ tribunal which sits in judgment of things male, and to which he’d have a problem presenting a rock-solid case for masculinity if he didn’t fuck me soon.
I imagined his plea to the court: “I held back with her Your Honor; waited hours even, all the time knowing she wanted it badly. Doesn’t courtesy count for something?” He’d explain it all with deferential arrogance, of course. The judges, presumably all women, would show little mercy.
Anyway, by now I wanted to be fucked. I had only stalled the whole thing these past hours through fear; fear of allowing another man back into a body which had lived in a sort of sexual solitary confinement for years.
And the thought that that someone would end up being a guy I didn’t know, had much to do with the splintering of my reasoning skills, now diverted due to what had apparently happened during my absence in the bathroom, because thankfully he had at long last decided to take full control of things; of me, something I desperately wanted.
For that matter, I had been “ready” from the beginning, at least physically. God, I was soaking before having left the apartment this morning. So yes, I was ready and certainly he, being a man, was ready. In fact, I so wanted to scream out loud: “FUCK ME GODDAMMIT, FUCK ME NOW! PLEASE!” But I didn’t.
As I opened my legs to him, his hand went straight for my mons and we kissed again. A moment later he was back down there, licking my clit, apparently not caring about my whole menses fixation.
He slid his tongue along my suddenly willing vaginal lips, still venturing escort maltepe to glance up at me, still appearing to seek that illusive sign of approval.
I was too nervous to respond, at least not the way he would have liked, other than to widen my thighs even more, which I think pleased him.
His mouth felt good there – in a mild sort of way – and I grabbed at his hair as if to say “harder.” Everything was so damned lenient with this guy – except for his cock, an object I hungered for but couldn’t seem to get inserted.
Anyway, having decided oral was pleasant enough, I pulled him back up to my mouth – my “regular” mouth, that is – knowing the orgasm of my dreams wouldn’t happen from a too gentle tongue on a clit aching for forcefulness. I needed him inside me and wondered what would all this be for if I didn’t come?
“That’s so nice,” he groaned into my open mouth, his fingers slipping into my sodden sex, whose condition, thank God, genuinely pleased him. It was the only firm reaction he’d gotten from my wavering body all afternoon and I was glad for him, poor thing. Too bad my conscious self had so little to do with it.
As he finally…finally, mounted me, I could feel the tip of his erection as he waited at the gateway of my sex where, using his hand, he moved himself round and round in concentric circles as if to say, “It’s me, I’ve waited all this time, and demand entrance.”
He kissed me again, giving me the chance to close my eyes to him, to keep at bay that intrusive device he used to “see into me” with what I felt was too much effectiveness. “I don’t want you to see in,” I silently berated him. “Just get on with it! Fuck me!”
My thoughts again drifted, back to Anya, only this time to another breathtakingly arousing video we had watched together only a week before. In it, a wretched girl, her wrists and ankles tied to bedposts, her vagina spread wide apart and completely at their mercy, was taken by one man after another. I so wanted to be like her, to be bound and free from the litany of detested decisions which he’d put me in the position of having to make. He had done it on purpose, damn him.
Why he didn’t just…I gasped with his lunge, and his erection slammed into me, collapsing my thought process which had drifted off for what seemed only a moment – for half a second! My eyes shot open widely and for an instant, I couldn’t breathe and clenched his arms tightly as if hanging on for fear of falling from a cliff!
He had done it so consciously, had waited to pounce, knowing all along he’d launch himself into me that way, that he’d hit me a hard blow, there, between my legs, to jar me to the reality that he owned the game – always had.
His eyes, shit, had riveted on mine, catching my fluttering lids as they snapped open, and fuck, it was already too late as I refocused to discover him staring into me. In that split second I was laid totally bare, and worst of all, I saw him see in. Fuck.
Instinctively, I did the same, only in reverse, staring right up at him. His satisfaction was instant, and stunning me that way left a word graven on the white-board of his features. It spelled “Conquest.”
Oh fuck – it had been so long – and it hurt and felt good and I knew what he had done.
He had retaliated. But I had played him – had dallied for hours upstairs and down — and, as if settling a score, he’d taken his revenge. I deserved it, I supposed, as I’d stymied his persistent search to reveal what pleasured the woman under him as he sought, mostly in vain, to have that pathetic need of his assuaged.
In that moment, he witnessed in me the full shock of it; a woman’s concurrent delight and dread at being pilloried under a man’s weight and physical strength, of knowing he could do anything to me, as I was helpless.
I fought desperately to shut him out again, but my eyes refused to answer as for an eternity of seconds, everything in me was on display. My mind’s defenses, though feeling the searing heat from touching the burner called sex, and not recognizing its full scorch, had seen my skin blackened before my intellect had time to send its message back to slow-motion fingers, telling them too late, to retreat, to back away.
Fullness had mastered emptiness and his body now waited for mine to catch up after his initial vicious swoop. It did, eventually, signaling to him by opening my legs, just enough to allow that final inch of myself and as if to say, “All right, you’ve made your point. Now if you’re going to fuck me, fuck me hard.”
I’d almost forgotten how it felt; how much I enjoyed penetration but was speedily reminded, as we calmed and settled into the rhythmic dance of sex. But letting go was something different as he wouldn’t, instead all the while continuing his search, his eyes still agaze, which to his annoyance, found mine persisting in silence, like two frozen lakes. “Now then,” he quietly offered, “Is that good for you? Are you okay?”
“It’s pendik escort good, yes,” I answered, hinting affection now but still sidestepping pointless conversation. Placing my arm around his neck and pulling him to me, I once again kissed him deeply. In bits, my mind regained its resolve and my eyes found the courage to shut tightly, persisting in steeling themselves against a genuine inclination to open for him.
I feared if given the slightest liberty, they might show even more of who I was in the midst of an encounter whose brevity was central to its fulfillment. I dreaded too much intimacy, that I might…there was no telling what my body might allow him.
And he did seem to try, I’ll give him that; he strained to pleasure me but sadly, in the end, I don’t think the effort was intended for me, but rather for himself, for the amusement of knowing he could bring me off.
He pumped my open sex like a machine, and it was good, with no more of that “catch her napping and pummel her” kind of thing, but much as he worked and much as I lay back and took him, I knew almost immediately he couldn’t make it happen.
It was me. Something, something deep inside myself prevented it, prevented me from realizing the orgasm I craved with a man buried inside my dripping sex, so just as I did when alone, I sought my own way, carefully working my hand between our sweating forms, where I found it – my clit; swollen and ready but strangely detached from a body instructed since childhood to fend off exactly this; exactly him.
He said nothing and reacted not. But my digital flourish drew his displeasure. I felt it, knowing it questioned this shadowy man, a huntsman who had crawled out from his hiding place in the shadows of the World Wide Web.
For a moment I worried as I thought he’d counter me, as he had when he’d taken me with that swaggering pounce at the beginning, that he might display some contemptuous look, an abbreviated breath even, which might declare his true thinking.
For a brief second, the opportunity held itself up, as if suspended in mid-air. It was there for the taking, right in front of him…but he let it pass, just as he had let them all pass and I felt sadness as Anya’s admonishment rang loudly in my mind.
“Erotica,” she said, “issues through the joining of opposing sexualities, of his and hers. Otherwise we are slightly less than two people using each other’s bodies to Jack or Jill off.”
But I didn’t care anymore and continued nonetheless, working myself in spite of him. I guess I couldn’t help taking a final swipe at his wanting skills. It was the meanness coming out in me, stating I knew he couldn’t do it for me; that I, a lowly woman needed to intervene for herself in order to savor a simple orgasm!
Anyway, there was more – or less, rather – as a moment later, with my climax finally beginning to build, he came with a groan and then stopped.
We lay there for what seemed a long time, my fingers still pressuring my aching clit, only by then, having given up their will to manipulate. Like the kissing which preceded it all, this part I liked and I stroked his hair and listened to his breathing as it tapered back normalcy.
He softened, as I’d wanted him in the beginning, only now my reason, temporarily misplaced, suddenly returned and warned that I had to get him out before the condom slipped off him and into me. Oh God!
He got the message when I gave him a get off me kind of shove. Well, it wasn’t even a shove but he felt something, a stir maybe, and without relinquishing that indifferent look of his, he reluctantly backed out of my cunt.
Right away, my body curled into a chilled and near naked little ball as he wandered dispassionately off to the bathroom, to rid himself, I assumed, of the spent condom from his spent penis – which I would have attended to, had he asked.
In his absence, confusion invaded me, an all-too-familiar feeling of knowing I’d gone too far with all of this. Who was he anyway? For that matter, who was I? In two seconds, I had two questions and no answers.
The bathroom door creaked open and he reappeared, his cock now glistening and free of its counterfeit shield. It dangled lazily as he walked toward the bed where he slid in next to me.
“I think I should go,” I asserted quietly, abruptly jumping up and over him to the floor.
Suddenly I was all disarray, as like a scavenger, I grabbed at my clothes, the ones I could find anyway, and my thoughts clumsily tripped over themselves as images of Anya, my mother, and my own silly face in the bathroom mirror, collided with one another’s backsides in an emotional traffic pileup on a foggy motorway, where I unexpectedly slammed on the brakes to avoid an innocent deer in the headlights.
“So soon?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. “Why, love?”
“I just have to, that’s all,” I answered too curtly. “It’s late and I should get home. Look at the time. It’s gotten away from me completely. I’ll walk to…how far is it to the station?”
Seeing my sudden agitation, he cautiously lifted himself onto his elbow.
“I’ll drive you there. You needn’t walk.”
“That’s very kind. Thank you. I’ll be ready in five minutes. Could we leave then?”
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