On the very night I wrote Fucking Mind, something amazing happened. Looking g back on it I think that post had to be written first for me to clear my mind and be open to the onslaught on my body and mind.
After that disastrous night I didn’t think I had it in me anymore.
It started out earlier in the evening (maybe that’s the key; a long buildup?), when I jokingly asked Master T to ‘pet the puss’. As you might know I have difficulty in asking for sex, but sometimes I use euphemisms to make clear what I want. That evening was the same, but by the time we went to bed it wasn’t full-on sex I was looking for anymore.
I just wanted to be touched; to be acknowledged. I wanted to feel his hand on my cunt, then go to sleep.
“You still have to pet the puss,” I said, pouting, but not looking at him. He didn’t move. I waited a couple of seconds, then turned my head. He still didn’t move. When I turned my head away again, he spoke: “You’re supposed to offer yourself to me.”
Many things happened at the same time. My heart missed a beat, butterflies fluttered in my stomach, my head screamed yes and my cunt almost gushed.
God, I wanted to throw off the covers, pull my pants down and offer him my ‘puss’ but my muscles didn’t understand my brain’s command.
A desperate moan escaped my lips, but he waited until I pushed the covers back.
It happened so quick after that.
His fingers pushed inside, ignited the fire that had been smoldering for hours. What had become the norm over the past months, also happened now: my first orgasm took quite some time to build. Once or twice I thought about the disaster of nights before, but tonight felt different. My body and mind wanted this. Relief flooded through me as hard as the fluids escaped my cunt.
That was only the beginning.
Orgasm after orgasm followed.
They were extracted from my body by his fingers and fueled by his words: “When a slut wants to come, she will come for me.”
My moans told him what his words did to me.
“Tell me what you are.”
“I’m a slut. Your slut.”
He didn’t ask for the last bit, but I wanted to add it. I needed to say it. It’s been more than a year since he asked me this. Something was changing. It was dormant for so long, but his natural dominance was showing again.
He made me repeat it a couple of times more. Made me tell him that I am a slut. A whore. His.
My pussy grew more sensitive from the friction his fingers, and mine, caused. I had long lost count of how many times I had climaxed. I didn’t even want to think about how sensitive my cunt would be the next day (it was for two days after).
All I wanted was to come, come, come…
And I did… until the urge to feel his cock prodded me to roll over and take him in my hand.
Sighing because I heard his pleasure. Felt him grow in my hand. Wanted him.
“If you let me spurt on myself again, you’re going to kick it off.”
“Oh no, I said. Not my kink.”
“Whether it’s your kink or not, you will do it. You swallow it, so you can lick it off too.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know, but you will do it, when I tell you to.”
Before I could say anything, he continued: “I still want to see you fucked by several men and when the come on you, you will clean up ever drop.”
I moaned, swung my leg over him, and straddled him. Where I don’t mind swallowing, there is no way I can imagine myself licking or swallowing semen that hasn’t been spurted in my mouth. This was a discussion for later. All I wanted now was to feel him in me.
I did. I fucking did. And loved it.
With a smile on my face, I lay next to him afterwards.
Spent. Happy. Sore.
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© Rebel’s Notes