Me and My Boyfriend and Stuff We Did Lately

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One day six months ago, my lucky day, I met Jack. We had a kind of anniversary. Not last weekend, but the one before that.

We had these cuffs we had bought. Brown leather, because you know I really hate all the black. Black and silver everything. Why is so much of kink so fucking tasteless? Crass and lame and black and fucking silver. So vulgar. Dungeons. God. It’s fucking desperate. And it doesn’t need to be. Enough with the moody gothic shit. I’m not 19 anymore. And I’m a redhead – black’s so not the thing.

So we have these brown cuffs. Super lovely. Mediaeval and piratey and dirty and perfect for Jack. It’s been six months. And we have made our first joint purchase.

This is what happened, not last weekend but the weekend before: I tie Jack up in the cuffs. Wrists and ankles all caught together in a big hog tie ring in front of him. He’s coiled up hedgehogwards. I put on a collar which doesn’t match because it is from the other set of cuffs. The old black set that I bought with Pan. I attach the collar to the ring with a big brutey metal clip. With Jack everything needs to be industrial.

I put a bit gag in his mouth and nipple clamps on his nipples. I attach the clamps to the ring to keep everything tight and sparky with pain. The gag makes him drool and once that starts he can’t stop it. Not the way he’s curled up.

Silver saliva threads drape from his mouth down to his cock. His cock is hard and precome sticky.

X used to like to wear tights. Women’s tights. He explained once that he liked tights because he liked to have his cock completely enclosed. Liked to have no way of getting at it. Tights and sometimes a leotard too. He meant no way for him to get at it – but of course that meant it was taken from me too. His cock. Not relevant.

Once he was locked in a cupboard, blindfold, tied to a chair and every time I opened the door I would grab his damp erection. He hated it. Hated it ‘cause I was touching his cock and I might make him come. I never saw him come.

With submissive men, a lot of the time, you see this. This denial of the cock. Hiding it. Replacing it with man pussy (Pan read that post and refused to believe I hadn’t made that up). Hiding cock away in gimp suits, lycra, in panties. Where mandom is all about making the woman’s cunt available and accessible with ten gazillion bondage position that keep her helplessly open.

And that openness isn’t just about access – it’s about demonstrating her arousal too. And I love that aesthetic.

And I like cock. I like cock right there. Accessible and ready and betraying his arousal. I like to reach into the bondage web at the centre of Jack, let his hopeless saliva cover my hands and stroke them down his cock and say, You like this. You’re so hard. You like this. Even while he is moaning his disapproval and distress. Angry and appalled as I lube him up with the saliva he cannot stop falling from his mouth.

And I’m burning. Make no mistake. I’m dying with desire as I look at him like this – humble and hard.

When I let him go, I come and then he fucks me. The next day we cook a meal to celebrate our anniversary and when everyone else has left he fucks me again over the table.

And then he goes away. And then last weekend he came back.

Right now, he has three marks on his wrist in coloured felt pen. He gets one every time he makes me come. I do not come crazy easy. Not a gazillion times each session as is the sex blogger norm. I do not ejaculate. I do not come from sexual intercourse. But I come on his hand and I come with a vibe and I come around his tongue and those are the three ways I have come this weekend that have led to the three marks on his wrist.

We are seeing how many marks we can put there before he gets to come. The woman he most often sees who isn’t me, is away, so we are doing some orgasm control like proper people. We are pretty quiet and lamecore, the way we do it. We kind of keep it in a place where we are counting days, not weeks or lunar cycles. And I like that too. I love to see him come. And Jack seems very good at being a very satisfactory amount of desperate in a very short amount of time. Because all I really care about is the begging and the wanting and the way his voice cracks when he asks to please come, and please edge, and please just be allowed to touch it. And the way he is smug about those three coloured marks on his wrist.

I’d rather count those than days anyway.

But I get caught in the net. When he begs and wants and I deny I feel bad. Shouldn’t be mean to people. Shouldn’t pointlessly deny them. I have no story. No lines I can tell myself about how I’m superior, or cleverer, or betterer, or training him, or denying him for his own good somehow. I’m not stopping him from coming for his benefit but for mine. Only mine. My desire to see him suffer. To see his face twist as he fucks me, trying to keep his strokes hard and regular enough that I scream and screw up the sheets in my fists, without tipping himself over the edge.

See, ‘cause for all I say I want this to be about my pleasure. That I want to see real female sexual dominance for the sake of the real pleasure involved. For the feelings of seeing him suffer. There are so many reasons why it is just more palatable to find another explanations. For all I say that society finds doing it for money is so much more acceptable than doing it for blood-and-guts-sadism, I realise soon and often than I am part of society too.

I don’t like the part where this is what I desire. I often wish I could tell myself that I was denying him because he was addicted to orgasms (addicted! To healthy pleasurable sensations in your own body – might as well be addicted to breathing) or whatever asscrap it is today. That way, well, hypothetically, yes, I want this to be all about my desire, in reality, that’s hard to face.

I wish my desire wasn’t this. I wish I were nice.

But I’m not. And I know it’s true.

We he arrived last weekend, we had gone almost straight to bed. Both desperate to fuck, but I had asked to hurt him first. He lay on his belly and I hit him with a pink riding crop on the backs of his legs. I love his legs. His legs and arms. And his shoulders and his chest. His eyes. His jawline. His hairline. The grey through his temples. The stud through his tongue.

He yelled out a lot and swore and I did it for a little longer after I thought I should stop. I felt nice, like I had pushed a little and not been too scared of myself.

After, I drew his hand inside me to show him what he had done and came quickly on his rough finger. I put the first mark on his wrist then and wrote other demeaning things on his chest. He said I had good penmanship. I love writing on men. But whenever I write on skin I always think of that bit in Stephen Elliott’s My Girlfriend Come To The City And Beats Me Up, where she carves Possession into him and spells it wrong. But Possession is a hard word to spell. But that makes me self conscious of writing on men, ‘cause misspelling on skin would be so lame.

On Sunday, after Jack leaves I feel sad and itchy. Next day (today) I look at pictures of him and send rambly emails to him at work where I can’t really say anything too filthy.

I wait. I masturbate. I count the days until I see him. Until I touch him. Feel safe against his big body. Sheltered.

Sometimes people say he is lucky. They don’t know Jack. I am the lucky one.

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