Thursday, December 23, 2004

Date Night

After a casual Friday night movie—an anomaly in my life—Marla and I sat at my place drinking wine. We had a very easy conversation, about this and that. It’s remarkable how relaxing it can be for us to chat, already knowing we are soon to have rough sex.

We were on that topic, and I wanted to know more about her desire to be choked when I’m fucking her. She tries not to analyze it, she said, because she doesn’t want to risk killing the thrill she gets. She wanted to know how it felt for me.

Rough sex is kind of new to me, I said, and choking you last time was a first. It's exciting how hot it gets you. By the time she asked me to choke her, I was already comfortable enough with her to do it. Having my hands on her throat, squeezing her, I felt a rush of control—not of her so much as of myself.

“So you wouldn’t kill me?” she laughed.

Something like that, I said. Like, I couldn’t really let loose and go wild. I needed to stay clear and intent, to secure her as she let go of her own control. I felt responsible, like the designated driver of her body.

“I do let myself go then,” she said. “I’m no longer there. All I can feel is you. It’s nice I can trust you.” We kissed, feverishly.

We undressed and climbed into bed. We were slow, touching one another, holding one another, kissing. She had her mouth on my cock, her eyes on mine. I pet her hair, now and then taking a clump and pulling.

I grabbed her hair, forcing her head up and down my cock. She moaned and drooled on me.

I rolled her over and set to fucking her. She came as we kissed. She kept her eyes open, as do I. It was very tender.

“You know what I want,” she said, her eyes on mine. “Push my face into the pillows. Fuck your slut.”

I pulled out and tossed her over. I pulled up her hips, hard, and kicked her knees apart. I slipped my cock into her, and pounded. I grabbed her hips for leverage.

She groaned and panted. I grunted and fucked. I slapped her ass with my left hand. She sent her ass back to me, slurring into the pillows. My right had reached for her hair and pulled back, fierce.

I slapped her face, popping her several times, rapidly.

“Unnnh, no, nooo.” She reached for my hand. I knew what to do. I slipped it around her neck. I massaged her throat, then went in for the kill.

I yanked her hair. I fucked. She came hard. “Unh yeah, gah yeah!”

The next morning, I made breakfast, eggs and grits, with coffee. Sitting with her over coffee is like visiting an old friend—no rushes, easy, open talk. Her hair flows over her shoulders; she is wearing a t-shirt of mine. I’m in pajama bottoms.

“Nothing better than a half-naked Saturday breakfast,” she said.

The conversation veers to past loves. We commiserate over bad (or nonexistent) sex within a relationship. She tells me about a boyfriend who was pretty good, but for two things: he refused to go down on her, and he couldn’t do it rough.

But heck, I say: you love those things!

True, she says. I couldn’t even get him to call me a slut, or a cocksucker, or anything. But I don’t see you like that, he said. I couldn’t convince him that it’s okay; I know you don’t think of me as a slut. But can’t you treat me like one now and then?

Mental note: I haven’t been verbal enough.

She said, you never can tell what’s going to work. Like, last night when you slapped me. It’s great you try new things, but that doesn’t do it for me.

I apologized. Oh no, she said, it was a good effort.

(I would see her again in a few days. She had a slight black eye, disguised by make up. I was mortified! She laughed it off: “I like to be roughed up, she said. “But I don’t want to look like a battered woman.”

I’m still new to this rough stuff, I think. I have much to learn.)

After breakfast, we take another round. She sucks me nice and slow, fingering herself as she takes me. She feeds me her pussy, and I give it my all, clacking her piercing against my teeth as I suck clit. I slip in one finger, then two . . . my entire hand is in her, thrusting. She pushes into me; I push back.

She gushes. She shoots up my forearm, between my legs, as I milk for more. "Unh yeah, gah yeah!"

She is atonished by the size of her puddle in my sheets. "Promise me you will sleep in my cum tonight," she says, hoarse. Oh yeah, I will, nasty.

As we are resting in each other arms, her fingers gravitate to her mouth, collect spit, and move between her legs. “Damn girl,” I say. “Leave that thing alone! How many times you need to get off?”

She takes my cock. “Let’s jerk off,” she says.

Back in the day, I only jerked off with a girlfriend once. It felt very awkward and silly, like I should just be fucking her. When I was married, it would never have occurred to me to jerk off with my ex—that’s just way too nasty for her.

Nowadays, I love me a good circle jerk.

We kissed to get ourselves going. I kneeled between her legs, stroking myself as her fingers worked her clit. Now and then, I rubbed my cock on her labia, or took pussy juice as lube. “Tease,” she smiled.

Our eyes were on each other’s bodies, catching eyes as we gazed at each other, jerking, jerking.

“I’m going to blow all over you,” I breathe. She rotates her fingers faster, arching her back. I shoot, in waves, covering her belly, her arms, her hands, her thighs. She cums fast as the orgasm takes me over. I shake and pulse. She pushes up into her hand and moans. “Unh yeah, gah yeah!”

“That was the hottest orgasm I have ever seen,” she tells me, smiling. “I’d fucking pay to see that.”

When she left, Marla remembered to take her bracelets. She left a ring in its place.

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