A shudder runs through my body and quickly evolves into an uncontrollable shake. I couldn’t turn back now even if I wanted to. Perhaps just five minutes earlier, but not anymore. Her hand is gliding over me and setting every bit of skin it touches on fire. My lust is violently taking control, and she knows it. We both know it. It is not the first time.
By now, she enjoys the power she holds over me, if for nothing else for the simple thrill of seeing me lose control. An expert manipulator, she shows me her leg, her perfect foot beautiful beyond imagination in her black stiletto shoe. It is a perverse dance we dance, Wilde’s quadrille, and like his shadows we are little more than wire-pulled automatons that can’t help but do as their master commands. Even her momentary power over me is not real, but her execution of our lust’s demand. Yet regardless of all of that, we play our parts and fuse into a unity in ecstasy, a carnal inferno with known telos and inescapable seductive abundance.
Not anymore, even if we wanted to…
I kneel before her, holding her right foot in my hand. The black silk feels warm and inviting. My lips quiver as I look up to her, waiting for the word.
Her eyes are burning, bottomless and dark, as if her soul has given in to the persuasion, but I feel her with me, no matter how far we remove ourselves from our real being, regardless of how weak we are vis-à-vis each other, she is always there with me.
That’s what makes it all only the more difficult to grasp. What is it we are doing? Why the need to give in to our darkest sexual desires when outside the bedroom all we can be is good friends? We have struggled with that question for quite some time, both offering rather elaborate explanations. The urge for love, the lack thereof, and thus the need for the loving touch, even if only from a lover who is not truly our love. It never adds up. And if it did, how could we explain the length that we go to, how far we go in fathoming our darkness?
No, it is not love, and yet it is. The urge for love is there, but it is not what we find in one another. The friendship gives us the familiarity and trust, but at the same time it makes it save. We won’t fall for one another, we know that now. We are crippled as so many others in this city; unable to love because we are afraid. It is this fear of loss that allows us to engage in this escapist orgy, this drug that is our bodies and the synchronicity they find over and over and over again. We can’t be fooled, not even by ourselves. We both know it is a charade, and yet we can’t escape it. Whether we like to admit it or not, it is as much self-destruction as it is self-protection; for what else than one’s own demise can come from such contorted attempt to save oneself the pains of loss?
Think about it and you will inevitably start falling. It is an endless spiral that crushes the mind on the way down. We claw to its walls, trying to stop time. At her feet I can escape it all. There I am hers and she knows it. I lower my lips onto her foot hearing her breath escaping her now open mouth.
“Good boy,” she whispers. “Good, good, boy…”
I let myself drown in the scent, the sweetness of the fabric that blends with her sweat. At this moment all I want is to fuse with her, I want to be swallowed by her, but this wish is just as futile as the entire endeavor. It pains me to touch her and be so unfulfilled in my absolute satisfaction. There is no escaping the ambiguity, not even at her soles.
Her gorgeous body, covered by the black dress she loves to wear for us, moves like in a dream. She leans back in her chair in front of which I kneel naked and lifts her foot higher, thus lifting my head. Opening my eyes I can see the soft skin of her leg, her white thigh emerging from the blackness of her stocking, the clean shaved mount of her flower that intoxicates me with her scent.
Our eyes lock and she smiles.
“My beautiful thing, I need you now. Come closer…”
I begin to shiver again. My skin is cold, and yet the sweat runs down my face into my eyes. No escaping the paradox here… Not even the physiological one.
Her hand reaches for my hair, grasps it in a strong and willing fist that pulls me between her legs. Willingly, I lower myself onto her and glide deep into her waiting flesh. The taste, her scent, it all is so overwhelming that I whimper like an animal. She hears my gentle sobs and I can tell that they only excite her more.
“Yes,” she hisses silently. “Yessssss…”
Her pelvic undulations drive herself deeper into my mouth, and I respond to her by meeting her rhythm with my tongue. I can feel her hard clit as I suck it, lick it, bite it. She sounds like a crying dove, her voice the lamenting of a hurt and lonely bird. I swallow her nectar mixed with my saliva, the well known aroma slowly taking hold of me. I can tell she is ever so close.
It is morning. A pale light finds its ways through the shades and makes the world appear slow and warm. Her arms are wrapped around me, her hand holds my cock gently in sleep. We often fall asleep like that, me offering myself to her even when unconscious. I am hers, that is our play. I have given myself to her fully, exposed and vulnerable to all her follies, and yet, when we awake the next morning and rise from our escapades our roles reverse to the starkest. Once again, I am the self-confident intellectual, the scholar well accepted by his academic colleagues, while she once again becomes the shy artist, the creator of beauty. Not that we let go off the feelings we share for one another; I still love her – as a friend – as she loves me – a friend. But we have slipped out of our alternate skins we wore during our love making. The darkness that emerged for the night is back in its cage, and we are in power of it until something between us sets off the whole cycle again.
“Good morning,” she whispers. I turn to see her look at me inquisitively.
We kiss. Gently, like a brother would kiss his sister. It is a thin red line we walk when we are by ourselves. Right now, we manage the balance act admirably.
“Did you sleep alright?”
Her question is aimed at more than polite chatter. She wonders about my mood, as she often does on mornings like this one. And for good reason. More than once I had spiraled into a semi-depressed state that I displayed in accusatory exhibition. I never mean to do so, but somehow it now and then surfaces against my will, and there is little I can do to stop it. This morning is different.
She still holds my cock, gently, yet firm. The gesture is as indefinite as the whole situation. It is soft enough to dissipate into innocent nothingness if circumstances should demand, yet firm enough to signal ownership if the mood so stipulates. Two steps forward, one back…
Her eyes drilling into mine awake my lust slowly. She can gauge her effect by my cock resting between her fingers. At the first sign of stiffening her gaze shows triumph. She knows I can’t resist. I am hers once again.
Slowly her hand glides ever so gently up and down my increasingly hardening rod. Her smile is devastating. She plays with me. She knows she has me.
My mouth opens as she pulls back my foreskin exposing the sensitive skin of the head to the warm morning air. The sheet begins to move down, expertly pulled by her foot. Soon, I am naked and erect next to her, her property again.
She props herself up on her elbow and leans her amazing face over mine.
“You know what you are to do, love, don’t you?”
I can only vigorously shake my head yes; her hand is drawing every bit of air from my lungs as it kneads my flesh into uncontrollable lust.
“Don’t you?” she repeats, underlining her question with a harsh squeeze of her hand that holds me.
I wince in sweet pain and manage a coarse “Yes!” as an answer.
“Very well. Then lead the way, dear…”
It was me who wanted it the first time we did it, while she remained suspicious. Her resistance was not played, not part of our game, but real. It was a hopeless revolt against the force that was drawing us into our fantastic world. Her face had reflected the conflict. As much as the first thought of it repelled her, it also attracted her. She knew it was a lost battle.
“Why is it that with you I want to live out my darkest fantasies?” she asked me. I didn’t answer, only kissed her foot I held in my hand in encouragement.
Here now we are, and she is leading the procession. Over the months she certainly has learned to enjoy it. In fact, she has become quite innovative in our game and has extended it to new realms. It is almost funny, if it weren’t so confusingly beautiful.
Back when I had first pleaded with her to fulfill my fantasy, she had held my cock while I peed. There had been a short moment of resistance even on my part; a momentary shyness had grabbed me and it took me a while to simply give myself over to her lead and release my bladder. When I did, it was like nothing I had experienced before. I felt the liquid inside my shaft press against her fingers as it pushed its way out. Standing behind me, she kissed my neck and whispered: “You are so wonderful.”
Here we are, both naked, our bodies drained with each others scent, following one another into the bathroom. She drank a lot of tea last night and must have felt an urge to go for quite some time. I am surprised she didn’t have to go at night.
Inside, she points at the bathtub, which is really not necessary, but it is, as everything else, part of our perverse ritual. It sends shivers down my spine and only too willingly I lower my body into the cold tub. The metal makes me shiver more, anticipation mixing with chill. Again, she smiles triumphantly.
“Good boy,” she says, her victory heightening her passion. Our dance has begun again.
Is it wrong what we are doing? What is the measure of wrong and right here? No one is being forced to do anything he or she does not like. We are willing participants, and – on my part – voluntary victims. Does that make it alright? Or is the bout of depression both of us feel from time to time in spite of our relationship reason enough to doubt the validity of our little game? Perversion is a big word. It seems coupled with guilt, a sentiment either one of us knows all too well. We were both raised with it, ingrained with it, learned to respond to it. And we build it up in case nobody does it for us. But such thoughts are almost too construed to be of help. It is neither my longing to submit to her that is perverted, nor her desire to dominate me. What is perverted is our inability to love, be it one another or anyone else.
For a moment I sense sadness for my inability to love this wonderful creature the way I should. I weep silently for our lost chance to be as close all the time as we can allow ourselves to be in our assumed roles. It remains a fleeting thought I chase away with the last bit of control I have left in me. Then I give myself over to the game. And to her. To her.
I look up at her as she squats over me. She smiles. It is so impossible for me to resist her smile. I want to give myself entirely to her, want to show her my complete submission, my acceptance of her ownership of me. She knows it, and it is as much an aphrodisiac to her as it is to me. She lowers herself until her winged sex is only inches from my face.
“Open your mouth for me,” she says, her voice firm and demanding.
I do as I am told, my cock so hard it hurts me after a night of making love.
Her hand reaches for my face and lifts it up by the chin so that our eyes meet.
“Look at me, my wonderful boy. My slave…”
With that she releases herself and the warm liquid ejects into my awaiting mouth. I swallow as fast as I can, but can’t keep up with her, so that her juices run over my entire face, neck and breast. She acknowledges my effort with an encouraging nod and an angelic smile.
I burn with desire. Her taste is intense this morning. Usually, she tastes mild and has an aroma that reminds me of white tea. There are few things in my life I enjoy as much as going down on her to bring her off with my mouth. But after a night of holding back, she tastes more sour than usual. But of course, it is less about the taste than about being hers for this act of absolute surrender.
I drink and slowly her stream begins to slow and eventually to ebb away entirely. She holds my face in place while pressing a few last drops onto me. Then she lowers herself further for me to clean her.
“Yes… keep licking… Don’t stop, my precious thing! Lick further down…”
I obey and let my tongue wander to her anus that feels so smooth and warm.
Her joy is infatuating.
“Ohhh… yesssss…. Put your tongue in there, honey. That’s it, push it in!”
She begins to moan, her voice high and anticipating as if she is ready to climax any moment now. She presses her ripe fruit onto my face, her finger playing violently with her clit. My hand reaches my cock and I join her masturbating.
No more words now, we are back to our wordless pas de deux. My tongue is deep inside her anus, each breath I draw is heavy with her scent. She pushes her pulsating flesh rhythmically onto my face, now cooing louder and louder.
I can tell she is close and wish I could join her in her orgasm, but know better than that. With a final push she begins to shiver on top of me, her thighs an iron wrench that presses against my head. Without thinking she pushes herself on me so that for a moment I can’t breath. My tongue still in her, her flower on my nose, I am virtually fused to her sensing how she is overcome by the sensation.
After a long while she relaxes and lifts herself off me. Still crouching above me, she kisses two fingers of her right hand, the ones with which she just a moment ago had brought herself to a riveting climax, and places them onto my lips. A kiss of gratitude. I am not done yet.
My hand is racing up and down my cock while she climbs out of the tub and kneels next to it watching my every move. She can tell by my face how close I am. My mouth is open, my eyes pleading. She smiles, but shakes her head no. I slow down and am trapped at the edge. Her hand glides down and ever so gently cups my balls, a touch that almost proves too much to handle. I have to fight hard not to shoot my load right here and now. My body convulses, a sight she thoroughly enjoys.
After a short moment the danger is over and my hand begins to move fast once again. Her taste is all inside me, her urine still running down my skin, little golden rivers irrigating my thirsty body. And now I get so close I would be in serious pain if she has me wait again.
“Please…” I push out from between clenched teeth. She looks at me with an expression of wonder. Her hand can feel the tension that has built up.
Once again she shakes her head.
“Sorry love, not quite yet!”
I can’t help it and begin to howl as I let go of my cock. The pain is not overwhelming, but the desire to come is. It takes me a moment to realize that indeed I am crying.
“Shhh,” she whispers, her hand caressing my balls, thereby only heightening my suffering. I can feel my come rising up my shaft and the sensation is extreme.
“Oh God… It hurts… Please… please let me come…”
“I know, baby,” she whispers, “it’ll be better soon. Shhh… relax, honey. There is nothing you can do right now, so hush.”
She speaks with such tenderness that I feel extremely open and vulnerable. This time I have to fight for quite a long time to calm down. The seizures that have gripped my body don’t want to cease. Again and again I shudder violently, while her hands gently press me down to the bottom of the tub. Her voice tenderly tries to calm me continuously now. It all only intensifies the pain and frustration – and yes, my lust.
I draw my breath rapidly, the physical pain slowly subsiding. She smiles at me like a mother encouraging her child who suffers from a high fever. With a slow and tender gesture she wipes a strain of hair out of my face.
“There. You see? It’s alright, love. It’s alright. I am right here for you.”
My tears mix with her juices.
“Please…” I mutter.
She closes her eyes and nods yes.
“Yes, baby, this time you will come. But remember, only once I tell you to. I want you to bring yourself close to the edge and then wait fro my sign. Understood?”
My hand grabs my cock and the emotions and physical sensation that causes are enough to bring me to the brink almost immediately. I look at her eyes, pleading.
My body is so tense it seems ready to explode.
Her expression changes somewhat, becomes less engaged and slightly distant.
“Whenever you are ready,” she says and the tone of voice with which she says it drives me over the edge.
My body convulses and I lift my head, my torso into the climax. From my cock, a thick while line shoots out and lands on my face, followed by yet another one and another one. One of them drives directly into my open mouth, adding to her taste. Her hand is still cupping my balls, and it seems that every time her fingers close ever so softly they press another thick eruption from my cock. The muscle in my legs tremble in a series of constant contractions, my head shakes wildly, now held and supported by her left hand.
By the time I have emptied myself and relaxed a bit, she must be excited again. She leans over and kisses my mouth, licking her own and my juices from my lips.