My contribution for #MasturbationMonday this week comes in two parts because it’s turning out to be pretty long. It also has a companion piece of personal non-fiction which I’ll post later in the week, which explains about certain fears I have (and which have the potential to make me a real pain in the arse submissive), one being blindfolds. So, obviously, me being me, I’ve written a story about blindfolds (if only I could confront my terror of spiders, slithery things and huge, prehistoric bitey critters in the same way, but I draw the line at writing about them!).
So… here is part 1 of ‘Insightful’. I’ll link to part 2 and the non-fiction piece at the end of this post, as and when they are published.
I love working in the same room with him, me at the table, him sitting on the floor, laptop over his knees, snacks on a coffee table, mainly so that I have the excuse of getting up and wandering about legitimately. Instead of calling it ‘procrastinating’ I call it ‘feeding my brain’. It’s as good a reason as any I can come up with to squat down behind him and kiss the nape of his neck and slide a cheeky hand down into his groin.
This time, when I grab a handful of nuts (or the cashew variety) and head back to my chair, something looks funny. The screen is doing things I am positive a laptop screen shouldn’t be doing. That dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as scrambling becomes an evident case of crashing is brought right back to the surface by the bile as my own lividness with myself takes over.
His head snaps up at the pathetic whine that escapes me and I immediately feel guilty for causing him to stop typing. So when he says, “Is it backed up?” and I reply, “No,” it doesn’t surprise me that he sounds irritated, and dismayed.
“I’ve told you – how many times since I’ve known you – to do it regularly. Why don’t you ever do as you’re told?”
“I’m a Luddite. So punish me.” I’m pouting, petulant, to disguise my guilt at disturbing his flow. I just stare at the blank screen, force a shutdown, and feel the harsh tingle building like magma in a volcano that always signifies that I’m going to explode in a gush of tears any moment, if I’m not very careful, very controlled. The room feels like the onset of a thunderstorm, the air clagging, electric hovering.
He gets up. I sense him moving, just like I sense the biting tension in the space between us. I don’t look; I’m focusing on forcing the terror back down into the pit of my stomach. The air grows heavy over my shoulder, more electric, as his hand cups the back of my head and slowly traces the length of my hair. The tears dry, evaporate and the tingles burn inside me as his words reverberate through the top of my head where his hand now strokes, soft and repetitive.
“You really are a naughty girl. Calm down.”
The moment he says that, it sets me off again. Everything churns inside me, and I tense up, seeing that hateful screen staring at me, and the reflection of my own uselessness mocking me in shadowed reflection. He must feel the tension, in the air, in my body, as he runs his fingers down my neck. Every nerve end in me sparks with his touch. I have to stay focused – have to concentrate. That’s what we’re both meant to be doing.
“I can’t see a way. Don’t know how to make it work. What if it doesn’t come back when I press the button?” I hit the start button, and there’s a groan, but little else. “I can’t see—”
“Maybe that’s your problem. Too much seeing.” His lips are against my ear. “Get up. Sir says so.”
I want to refuse and force some life back into the stupid machine, but I can’t. His breath against my face, his words, the slightest of touches – and that word, ‘Sir’ – all pull me up, make me drift, following his lead as he takes me by the hand to the door of the bedroom.
The whirl in my head comes to an abrupt focus as, from somewhere, he plucks a wide strip of red silken fabric. My heart races. I know exactly what he means now, about seeing, and I stare at it; stare to the point of tears. “What about my work…?”
I hear the words, but I don’t know if he’s saying them, or if they’re in my mind. Do as you’re told or there’ll be consequences. What are they? Punishment? Is that what I need? Do I trust him to punish me? What does that mean, to him? Part of me fills with an ache that floods my sex, leaving remnant tingles in my pussy lips and a throb in my gut. I’m tense, stiff, but painful desire converges in my clit. The parts of me that want his punishment do battle with those that want to scream ‘no’ as he says, “Come here.”
I go to him, almost unable to walk, in pieces, and he stands behind my trembling body. The first touch of the fabric over my eyelids and the bridge of my nose makes me jump. Its touch is cool; my breath is on hold as he runs it across my face and down, away from me and out of sight. In my ear, his voice floats, wisping around my head: “You’re an erotica author. You know what to do if it’s too much for you. Tell me the word.”
The sudden gentleness, the brush of his fingers against my cheek, running down my neck, resting them on my shoulders leaves me desperate to hold him, but I daren’t move, daren’t break this moment. It’s like we’re lost in time, and I want to stay there.
“Jet. That’s my word.” My first dog, the first living creature who broke my heart – I don’t know why he invades my head at that moment. What does that say about me? He doesn’t query why.
The silk trails up the side of my neck and I offer myself up to its motion. Over my throat, and up against the side of my face, fluttering over my forehead until I hear my own moans at its touch. The aroma of his shower gel fills me as his hand brushes my face, and my eyes close as his skin brushes my lips. They chase the touch, not recognising that the silk has covered my eyelids until it pulls tight round the back of my head.
I don’t want to make an idiot of myself, but my chest is lurching. I don’t know if I can cope with it; not knowing, not seeing. His chest presses up against my shoulder blades; his cock is hardening inside his jeans, pressing against the top of my backside. The thought of it makes my heart bang. The movement of his cock is so mesmerising to me that it takes a moment to notice he has my arms up above my head.
“Hold them there.” His voice is like melted chocolate in my ear. His palms slip inside my top, the heat over my ribs, sliding up my skin and driving me into spasms as his thumbs run the length of my arms, taking my clothing with them. But still I’m like marble. His breath is in the back of my hair; kisses flit across the back of my neck, over my shoulder, up my arm to the crook of my elbow, where he sucks gently.
The buzz of his zip is unmistakable. His body detaches itself from mine in every place except the elbow, ruffled noises of denim down his legs, and the stomping that indicates feet aiding with the removal. A lift of the back of my skirt – his flesh against me – tells me he’s naked from the waist down. A throb punches its way from my cunt, and round to my hips, holding itself there, leaving me in the physical agony of insecurity and anticipation. Much more of this and my knees will buckle.
A tug; hot palms letting the fabric rest on my thighs until it drops to the floor; those palms working their way up my calves, the backs of my thighs, cupping the cheeks of my backside.
A little irritated sigh escapes me; not at him, not at anything specific. Well, yes, at my own inertia. As if he’s in my head he voices what I’m thinking.
“Are you intent on resisting me?”
Silence. Then – “No.”
For the first time I notice the air, cool against my skin, and how I’m goosebumping all over. His fingers explore them, over my belly, and in a straight line between my ribs towards my breasts. My breath is harder, gasping as his fingertips find my nipples through my bra. My body ripples with unnerved desire as he rolls them to bullet peaks, and begins to sigh in my ear.
“You have the most magnificent cleavage. I want to – I’ll show you. Feel.”
As he moves around me, his lips and his fingers hold me ransom, until his words breathe hot against my bra. “Feel this.”
His tongue dips deep between my breasts, lifting out and plunging back in, first slow and so the rough wetness of his tongue makes my flesh stand to attention, then faster, so all I imagine is a weird, sexy kind of tit fuck. Every so often, his tongue flicks over the exposed tops of my breasts, and tiny, high-pitched whimpers escape me. When his arms wrap me up and I feel the ‘give’ of my bra, it’s impossible not to push my flesh into his face. I smile, despite my conflicting feelings, at the knowledge that his face has just disappeared between my now naked breasts. The heat of his rapid breath beats at my flesh; my back gives into his mouth, arching as he nibbles his way to each peak in turn, sucking when he claims each hard treat with his strong lips.
He drops to his knees, his hands plumping my backside as he trails kisses down to my knickers and chews on the lace at the front, his fingers running underneath the cotton at the back. I don’t know if it’s the action of his mouth, or the heat of each of his own intermittent, erratic sighs, but my pussy pools and drips until I know he can feel it as his fingers get ever closer to my pussy folds. I want his cock; it’s too far away, brushing the back of my leg. It’s soaking at the tip. Will he…what is it he wants to do to me? What do I want him to do? I want to see it; it’s driving me crazy. I have to imagine it, its head like a giant purple mushroom, waiting for me to devour it; its entire length sinking into me through swollen folds or…maybe…oh, does he want to fuck my arse? Would he make me wet first? Wet with his lips, his tongue, as he prepares the way?
And then – nothing. Well, yes. A breeze, a groan and a knee crack, followed by “Fuck, I’m getting old.” My insides leap, burn, tie themselves in knots for the brief second I think he’s giving me an order. My eyes roll behind my lids as I realise the mistake, but by that time, footsteps and other sounds break through my own idiocy, and I listen intently: banging; a clipped sound; chinking, or clunking, or something like that.
The nerves return with gusto. My arms are quivering; I tell myself it’s the cool air. I stand still; there’s nothing whatsoever to stop me flinging on my clothes, grabbing my laptop and flying out of the front door. Nothing to stop me removing this blindfold – it’s not like he’s tied me up or anything. Just told me to…actually, he’s told me nothing at all.
The laptop. The work. I want to complete this project; I think it has a lot of potential. If I walk out now, that will probably put an end to it. I won’t want to be reminded of it and I’ll blank it out. The black screen flits across my mind, but it’s suppressed by the sound of his footsteps.
I can feel his presence even before he touches me. His thighs burn against the dew that coats my flesh. He’s so hot I expect to hear it sizzle. But no, that’s what’s happening to the air around us as his voice permeates the electricity.
“Do you trust your instincts? Do you trust your body?”
The words fight for supremacy against the sounds coming from him. Clinking. Something sliding through his hand, almost indistinguishable yet I can hear every slip against his fingers.
“What have you got? What is it? What are you going to do to me?” Do I seize up? Does my body go rigid? Or is this feeling a desperate, aching need to know. I don’t feel like I’m breathing; the air is ramming my ribs, penetrating my lips to find its freedom.
Then those words, as his fingertip brushes over my belly, heading down: “Do you want to trust me? Will you trust me?”
(Part 2 next #MasturbationMonday)