"You're going to have to fuck me," I told him plainly as I felt the latex item in my hand. "And make me cum. Without using your hands, without using your mouth. " The item that he regarded with such disdain was an inflatable latex gag, an item he particularly hated because it hurt his jaw, affected his breathing and tasted terrible.
Last night I told him it must be my way.
A serious chain of events, a myriad of deadlines and pressures and frustration led me to that moment when I realized, quite unexpectedly, that I was long overdue.
With him, it always seems so intensely urgent the moment it hits me, and that’s why I could give him no advanced notice.
He looked at me wearily when I told him it must be my way; weariness because he hadn’t slept much the night before, weariness because he was facing his own insurmountable deadlines and frustration.
But he just said, softly, “Ok,” and he looked at his watch and rubbed his eyes, returned to the images that clouded his computer screen and added as I made my way to exit his cluttered office, “I’ll be finished in about an hour.”
**
When it’s my way, it’s distinctly different from when it’s his way or our way. That’s the way we’ve come to communicate about how we’re going to have sex – those times that aren’t simply spontaneous and end up being anyone’s way.
When it’s his way it’s furiously passionate, somewhat nasty (he can be that way, and it so much contrasts his almost proper demeanor that I find it extremely sexy, even when participating in acts I used to think were reserved only for the cheesiest pornos or the peep shows at the darkened 24-hour book store on the back corner). I can’t count the number of times I’ve said to him, “You even make THIS position sexy.”
His way is often fucking me over the side of the bed until the pictures rattle right off the wall, or purposely making the largest possible mess of his cum; on me, on him, all over the bedsheets and in my hair. His way is with oils and lotions or messy foods.
Our way, of course, is slow and meaningful lovemaking, without urgency or structure, slow and rewarding and sometimes so subtle that you’d think we were exploring a soft dance together.
And then there’s my way.
**
“I don’t like your way,” he said to me once. He said that to me while holding me after I’d slapped him in the middle of sex. We’d been halfway between sitting and fucking sideways, and I’d told him three times to open his eyes but he wasn’t paying attention.
When I’d slapped him he’d lost tempo, opened his eyes and let out his breath, blinking back to reality and looking for some explanation.
When it’s my way, it’s laced with aggression, power, degradation and sometimes pain. It’s the most dangerous combination of lovemaking and erotic power exchange, and I can’t let it end until I’m fulfilled.
He learned to like it my way. He learned because he knew I needed it sometimes, and because, in the scheme of things, the pain or pride bending was not all that much for him to take. He’d come out of “his way” often with more bumps and bruises, his knees scraped raw from fucking me over the rocks on the seacliff, his back often sore from having me fuck him on the stairs that led to the loft, holding tightly onto the railing for balance.
His ego, though, was what came out of “my way” so bruised. And once we learned to repair that together, each time, he was far more accepting.
**
My way, last night, had to do with satisfying some dark obsession that I’d just been consumed with; the desire to make him fuck me, penetrate me, plunge into me until I came but while fumbling with shackles, an incredibly awkward position and without the use of the tools he had that he’d mastered bringing me to orgasm within a matter of moments when he wanted.
He’d be unable to use his mouth, his fingers, his eyes. He’d be unable to whisper things into my ear that’d push me over the edge. He’d be unable to communicate all the conflict he was feeling by parting his lips and grimacing ever so softly at me.
In my fantasy (that had been playing heavily on my mind for days by then) he was forced to use only his hips, his sex and his strained body language.
When he came to the bedroom I didn’t really have many things assembled; I knew it’d all come together. I had a single black scarf, some ankle shackles and my favorite leather bondage mittens.
He had no idea what the extent of my plan was; he knew it was his role to just accept and endure, to go with whatever unfolded and to do his part to accept my way.
I undressed him. He stood there, solemn, rubbing his eyes once more, this time with two fingers. Barely moving as my fingers moved down the buttons on the front of his shirt in a slow, precise manner. He moved his shoulders to accommodate me when I eased his shirt from his body but did little more to help. Next, I disposed of his pants and shorts, finally his socks, leaving him standing before me completely naked.
He was visibly uncomfortable already; mind you, he often parades around with absolutely nothing on; his discomfort wasn’t related to his nakedness, it was related to the deliberate way in which I regarded him. The obvious intent was to render him completely naked and vulnerable immediately and without hesitation.
He’s not a big fan of the mittens, first of all, and that may have something to do with the value he places on his fingers; whether it be from playing the piano or fingering me to orgasm, it’s no secret that he considers his hands his most valuable tools.
Second only to his eyes, of course, which explains the subtle sigh he gave when he recognized the scarf I used primarily for blindfolding him. He held hands out for me and watched me fit and lace the gloves to him. I used the long ones, long leather mittens that extended to his elbows and could not be pulled off no matter how hard he tried after leveraging them against something. They encased his fingers and left him with nothing but big leather paws.
I blindfolded him for several reasons; one, to make him feel vulnerable. Secondly, it always seemed like he was even more attention with his mouth. And thirdly – because it looked good on him.
Dark silk covering his eyes tied tightly behind his head with his bangs hanging out over it – from below him, this was always a sight to behold. When the blindfold was in place he probably figured (and hoped) that’d be the extent of his torment (as it was enough), but I also attached shackles to his ankles.
I used the soft leather shackles and attached a chain a few feet long between them, giving him enough room to spread his legs about halfway before being pulled back into place. It probably would have been barely noticeable at other times; in fact, there was enough slack that he’d be able to walk without much problem, either.
But I wanted to hear the rattling of the chains every time he shifted his legs. And that’s probably the only reason I did it.
**
I made it clear to him (through hushed whispers) that he was to not fuck me just yet; that this was merely foreplay. And foreplay was something he was very good at; shackled or not.
He’s arguably one of the best lovers I’ve had, mostly because of his taste for precision and his total patience and attention to detail. He also has really great hands; but this time, I’d rendered those somewhat useless.
This time, his hands on my body had a uniquely sensual touch; I enjoyed the way the leather felt against my skin, pleasantly observing how, even without sight, he instinctively knew just where to put his palms.
I held his head in my hands and made him kiss me; over and over again, my eyes closed, feeling the blindfold brush against my cheeks. “I can’t see,” he whispered for good measure, knowing all too well that foreplay, for me, extended all the way to words and things as subtle as the way he breathed.
It was maybe forty-five minutes of what I’d considered unparalleled bliss: his mouth on my body, the contrasts of the smooth, sensual leather on my skin as he used both hands to explore me with the sudden, shocking coolness of the silver buckles on the mittens that would occasionally touch my hot flesh.
Sightlessly he managed to maneuver the cold silver O-rings of the mittens to my nipples, which were already undeniably hard, and about 30 seconds was all I could take of that before I reached up, took him by the hair and said, “We’re done with this part.”
He knew though, without my even saying it, that we weren’t done doing it my way.
**
After the time he spent feeling my body with the gloves, teasing me with his mouth, showering me with deep, aggressive kisses I was so wet and hot that I wanted nothing more than to have him inside of me. I could almost feel it; how good the sensations would be when he entered me and took me with long, deep thrusts. Eagerly I reached for the cloth covering his eyes so we could move to the next stage.
He was pleased to see the blindfold go but was visibly bothered when he saw what item had reared its ugly head in its place. Laying next to me on his side, his leather-covered hands together and curled up slightly under his chin, he rubbed his legs together, fidgeting, and looked at the black device I was coming toward him with.
“You’re going to have to fuck me,” I told him plainly as I felt the latex item in my hand. “And make me cum. Without using your hands, without using your mouth. ” The item that he regarded with such disdain was an inflatable latex gag, an item he particularly hated because it hurt his jaw, affected his breathing and tasted terrible.
“Do I need to wear it the entire time,” He asked quietly, finishing his sentence just in time to open his mouth for it, looking at me for the answer.
“Yes,” I said as I made sure the bulb was in his mouth before wrapping the smooth outer latex around his face, leaning over and buckling it behind his head. There was an audible grunt of displeasure from him – displeasure either at my answer or at the feel of the device or both.
I didn’t do anything with the pump that hung from the two-foot rubber cord. I pushed it out of the way and then took his leather-covered hands, pushed them together, and locked a length of chain between the two, giving him a couple of feet slack between them.
He was distracted enough by the latex in his mouth, eyes shut tight, jaws testing the moderate discomfort, to not even notice what I’d just done to his hands. The added restraint was probably the last thing on his mind.
Just when he thought his situation could not get any worse, he opened his eyes to see what I had in my hands.
**
When I have it my way, I try not to hold anything back. And I can usually do it with little or no remorse or sympathy for him.
But this time, when I saw the look of persecution in his eyes, the way he looked at me as if to please, “But WHY?”, I felt painful twinges of guilt that only served to turn me on more. Call it the sadist’s version of “painful pleasure.”
He had no idea why I would need to not only gag him but put a hood over his head; to interfere with his already strained breathing, to essentially blindfold him (again), to eliminate even being seen by me; to be, effectively, removed from the situation.
In fact, he hated the idea so much that he fought with me, which was rare. He gave me a muffled but audible, “No..” when I lifted the loose-fitting, soft black material to his head. He turned his head away, used his shoulders to lift himself up and out of my reach, his hands coming apart finally to test the slack given by the newly added chains.
At the same time, he tried to bring one knee up but his ankles were still locked together with just a few feet of slack. I had no choice but to grab him by the chin, hiss his name and remind him, “We’re doing this my way.”
He gave it one last try; his eyes, searing into me, pleading, begging me to reconsider. Urging me that it was overkill, that he’d be hot and sweaty, the material would stick to his face when he tried to inhale, the darkness would be disorienting and he’d be unable to carry out his task of pleasuring me.
But the hood went on, slowly, purposefully, and his two hands, still encased in leather, reached up to hold my face as I did it. Telling me, essentially, that he’d do it for me.
**
So there he was. Ankles shackled together. Hands in leather bondage mittens locked together with just a little slack. A black, loose-fitting hood was over his head, and out from underneath, it hung the rubber tube that was attached to the bulb that I could utilize to enlarge the terrible tasting piece of latex in his mouth.
He was on his side, but I told him to get on top of me. I reached down to wrap my fingers, my flesh still hot, around him. I held him, possessively, massaging him to erection so he could be ready to give me what I wanted. Like switching on a machine; I touched him to get the desired effect so that he could fuck me. Pure and simple.
But without the use of his hands, of his talented mouth and tongue, without even the ability to whisper things into my ear or give me a desperate, pained look, he was facing an ominous challenge. Making me cum by merely fucking me; disoriented, off-balance, desperately trying to find a position that would even give him leverage.
And I made it perfectly clear to him that if I was dissatisfied by his efforts, I’d show him by squeezing, slowly and purposefully, on the bulb in my hand. And the growing latex in his mouth would be even more to worry about.
**
He seemed to pull himself together with every effort to perform to standards. I made him get on top of me and he spread his legs what he could to gain some leverage on his knees, and he put his shackled, mittened hands above my head.
So close to me, right above my face, he looked ironically menacing completely covered in black cloth. I could still feel his breath through it, though, and he had that sound to his breathing that showed concentration, strain, physical exertion.
He found a position that seemed to work somewhat and managed to keep his weight off of me, supporting himself on his hands and knees. I certainly didn’t make it any easier for him, rarely even taking the effort to lift my hips and meet him halfway. No, I was much more interested in watching him strain. Even though I couldn’t see his face.
He was clever, though. He knew that without the use of his hands, his mouth, the only way he’d bring me to orgasm would be from just the right kind of penetration, the right timing of the thrusts and a deliberate, directed moving of his hips to apply all the right pressure. Unfortunately, the positions he was limited to, especially since I demanded that he stay on top, made it nearly impossible to keep the tempo long enough to get me close.
The poor boy was exhausted. And I could hear it in his breathing, in the way his arms buckled slightly, how he’d stop briefly, shaking his head around (probably because the sweat underneath the hood was stinging his eyes), catch his breath, and re-position his body. Every time there’d be a series of jingling of chains (which I loved), his careful, gentle re-placement of his mittened hands someplace, and a blind, cautious fumbling to enter me again.
And the sounds he was making or trying not to make, were almost enough to be that extra edge he knew he needed. Frustrated, hot, claustrophobic. He kept lifting his head up high to swallow, then he’d put it back down, at one point resting his forehead on mine. So close, I could almost see the outline of his face.
I knew, then, that if I could just see him, just see him for one brief instant, I’d probably cum. Because underneath that hood I knew his eyes were weary and the sweat was making the hair stick to his face, and he was trying to keep his jaw set right so that the gag didn’t hurt.
I reached up to his face and held it in my hands, tracing with my thumbs up his cheekbones, under his eyes. The fabric was hot, damp. I felt his breath right through it. I felt the outline of the gag that was still firmly in place, and I felt that his eyes were shut very tightly. I could literally feel the eyelashes through the fabric.
That’s when he got clever, using anything he had to bring me closer to orgasm. He leaned closer and pressed his cheek close to mine, breathing hard into my nose. He did this while resting before re-positioning himself, he did it with a slight, muffled moan that seemed to ask for freedom from at least one of the multiple torments I was making him endure.
I reached down, though, tracing the long rubber cord that led to the plastic pump which controlled the inflatable gag, and I said softly, “You are not to stop fucking me.”
And I squeezed it, just once, but felt his entire body tense. He let out another muffled plea, this time almost apologetic, and immediately propped himself back up, solid, and the next thrust was so hard, so deliberate that it almost hurt. He’d found some strength in reserve, and he was angry.
Angry at being tortured for being human, for needing to rest. I wrapped my legs around his hips and held him in me. He was more tired than I was (by far) but still had the strength to pull out. And in his furious thrusting, he lost balance, half collapsing on me.
“Don’t be SLOPPY,” I hissed, and this time, before I even found that plastic pump, he was shaking his head at me as if to warn me, or plead with me, not to make that gag in his mouth any larger. I knew, from experience, that it was now crossing the boundary into serious discomfort for him. Discomfort from the size, from what it did to his breathing and from not being able to escape the powdery taste of latex he despised.
But I did it anyway; I did it for his indiscretion in the way he entered me, for his lack of focus. When I squeezed the device just slightly this time his knees seemed to buckle, just slightly, and his hands separated above me, pulling tight on the chain. I could see him trying to grip the headboard of the bed with his mittened hands.
His breathing was more labored. He was also starting to shake; I could feel his body trembling a little, and we were both covered in sweat. The hood over his head was starting to stick to his skin from perspiration.
It worried me because he’d stopped trying, and was just shifting for a comfortable position. It worried me that he’d given up. For a few seconds, I just remained there, watching him struggle.
**
I knew then that if I removed the hood, it’d certainly be over in a matter of minutes. Because he’d look at me pleadingly, blink sweat from his eyelashes and struggle to enter me, and the moment he did, gazing into my eyes hopefully, I’d cum.
I knew if I unlocked his wrists he’d have one hand down between my legs in an instant, and the feel of the cool metal against my wet sex would be enough to push me over the edge.
I didn’t want it to end. I wasn’t finished, and I wanted him to complete the act in the way I had planned it.
I took his face in my hands, and he turned to my touch, pressing his cheek against my palm, nudging a little, hoping perhaps that I’d take off the hood.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “Just a little longer.” I reached down and took him in my hand, guiding him into me, this time reaching behind him to grip his ass with both hands, opening and lifting my legs a little, allowing him the freedom to really push deep into me.
He inhaled and eased up, shaking his head again to get the cloth from the hood to un-stick from his face, and started penetrating me with the long, deliberate strokes I’d become spoiled by. He pushed up with his entire body each time, he shifted his hips to work into me at just a slightly different tempo each time.
And I felt leather mittens in my hair, I could feel the outline of his fingers from the inside, just touching my hair gently, perhaps to keep him oriented on his position, or maybe because he knew it’d make me weak to feel him trying to somehow touch me.
“Faster,” I ordered, and I was close enough that he could hear it in my voice. He knew this was the home stretch, and again found a burst of energy to pull him through it. I’d never been so turned on while being fucked, I’ll admit because he was managing it with unbelievable grace and dignity.
The chain between his legs rattled, his breathing was loud, pounding into my face. Then he almost pleaded with me, he made a sound that seemed so much like he was urging me to please, please give him the help that he needed to push me over the edge.
Then he sat upright a bit, reached forward with both hands to balance himself against the headboard, and really started pounding me.
**
It was quite a view at that moment – his chest above me, his head up, holding it upright to perhaps breathe easier. His hands pressed against the headboard for leverage, his knees spread apart what he could manage.
Then he finally lowered his head, positioning it against the wall, as if staring right down at me through the black material that completely covered his face.
I wrapped my legs around him, holding myself up, and came only moments later. I came loudly, right up toward his face, grabbing him by the back of the neck to pull him down. His face pressed against mine and I felt his skin, through the cloth, soaking wet with sweat.
Heat seemed to permeate everything. My entire body was covered with a thin film, his knees were still shaking slightly. He collapsed, eagerly, on top of me. Waiting for release.
**
Once the hood was off and the gag was removed I could really see what effect it had on him. His eyes were red, his hair was so wet it looked as though he’d just emerged from the shower. His cheeks were flushed.
He shifted next to me and got his arms around me, still in leather mittens, still shackled together. He was catching his breath.
I knew he’d be sore the next day. Sore, exhausted. I held his face in my hands and kissed him, one time, on the lips. Tasting latex.
“I knew you could do that,” I said to him.
His eyes were closed. “I thought it’d be impossible,” he admitted.
I reached down slowly and felt for him, felt for his body. He was still hard. “I’d like to return the favor,” I said to him delicately. “What way would you like it?” I offered.
He opened his eyes, sort of laughed, the exhausted kind of laugh, and said “Any way. Any way at all.”
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