“Good idea.” says Richard “Post tipsy. You’re bound to say something profound.”
He’s sitting next to me on our patio, watching the Weber, which has a head of garlic, baked potatoes, thick slices of aubergine and two eensy weensy steaks a-grilling on it.
I’ve taken control of a truly artisanal margarita, the second of the evening. We’ve been making margaritas from scratch almost nightly for the last week, since the kids have been with their father. It’s not often that I can take control of something in the Richard/Amy D/s relationship, me being the /s and all. But Richard is a cheap drunk, and he’s having trouble wielding the barbecue tongs, and so I have co-opted the margarita.
I was planning on my next post being a very deep, thoughtful, evocative thing aka Z or droplet or sulpicia or jdslove, if she would ever begin blogging ffs. But no. You get drunken ramblings instead.
We always share a glass. Water, lemonade, soda, wine, JD…we share. Boundaries issues? Mebbe. But it feels very romantic and wonderful from here.
Oops! He just snagged a gulp of it while I was writing.
Then he asked what I was writing about and I said “You. You and your enormous cock.”
“I don’t have an enormous cock!
“I have a perfect cock. The perfect size.”
OK boss. Perfect cock. Yup.
Well he does actually.
I used to scoff at the saying “It’s not the meat, it’s the motion.”
I figured that was something that small guys said. Call me a size queen. I was wrong. (He’s got lots o meat, but it’s the motion, omigod the motion)
This morning, no in the middle of the night actually, I woke up to Richard wrestling my breasts. Not fondling. Manhandling. Before I could surface to consciousness he had flipped me onto my tummy, grabbed my hips and hauled my ass into the air.
I was suprised (in a vague, half-awake kind of way) that he was able to slip into me so easily, without really any foreplay at all. Today when we were driving to a Greek restaurant for lunch and talking about this he said “Look, I’m feeling really aggressive right now. You want foreplay AND an orgasm? I don’t *think* so!”
He fucked me so hard, so long, so sweetly…he was an artist. He is a fucking PhD in fucking. He deserves a Nobel for fucking, with a specialty in doggie style or hands-n-knees or from-behind or whatever-you-call-it.
After hours (well, not really, it just felt that way), he flipped me onto my back and really started fucking me hard.
The whole time he is growling like an animal. I can tell he doesn’t know he’s making any noise at all. He’s just hammering my pussy and *owning* me by fucking me, I can’t think of another way to say it.
As he gets close to cumming, he moves differently. It’s more…random, less linear, less predictable. And it feels so, so sweet. I just arch my back and hold my breath and try to feel every inch of him. When he cums in me, I understand why the French call it “la petite mort” – “the little death”. He dies in me, I die with him, we die…I struggle completely awake and he pushes himself off me.
He grabs my hand and pulls it down to my pussy.
“Masturbate for me. Do it.”
I start to touch myself, but he’s not convinced. “Do it now. Be a good girl. I want you to cum.”
I keep going. He can feel it, and he starts to play with my breasts, with my nipples. “You’re full of my cum. You’re mine. I want you to cum.”
Usually cumming makes him less aggressive, but not today. Today he knows and he feels it that I am his and his alone, all day long, all night long. His aggression, his dominance – I’m going to feel it throughout the day, no matter how often he cums. This is what life is like when we are alone for several days. I am completely his – his girl, his slut, his toy. So much less and so much more than I ever was for anyone before in my life.
“”Cum for me now.”
And I do. I do. Because I am his, because he wants me to, because he takes me there.