Friday Night

pencil sketch of rear view of man with trousers down and woman kneeling in front of him

All week, I have been out of sorts – irritable and uncharitable, my blood full of sharp burrs and my mind skittering from one grievance to the next. An evening of tequila shots with my lover in a London pub has smoothed out my most dangerous edges and mellowed my disposition considerably. Only a small smouldering coal of resentment at the world remains, tucked under my breastbone, partially smothered by the fun I’m having. It will take more than fun to extinguish this poisonous ember but I’m wary of intimacy while angry. There’s too much to fear. The risk of a short circuit between my internal rage and my masochistic, submissive need. The space between mind and body in which a gust of desire could reignite that sullen glow. I’m happier than I have been in days; why risk it? Smiles and tender kisses are my restorative tonic for now.

And yet……all the way home, amongst the chuckling and good-natured exchange of quips; something else is building between us. Something dark yet joyful, intense and intoxicating, which roughens his voice and prickles my skin. A drawstring of desire which tightens his hand on mine and pulls my gaze to his suddenly-intent eyes. He finds me irresistible; I am insatiable for his touch. There in the summer night it hums, arcing between us in sparks and pulses of want and need.

We hurry home.

In the lounge, we are playful as puppies. Still laughing, still romping. He falls at my feet, declares himself my slave, tickles my feet. I know he’s joking but I’m too much of a literal-minded pedant to allow it pass without comment. “I don’t want a slave” I remind him, grinning and jerking my foot away from his fingers. “I’m looking for a Master”

And with that, his eyes change and his posture straightens. “Put your foot out” he orders, and with a shiver of delight at his suddenly-authoritative tone, I comply.

The tickling recommences, light strokes of his fingernails against my sensitive soles, occasional scrabbling of pressure in the nerve-dense hollow of my instep. I’m battling my urge to yell and draw back; I’m very ticklish – but he has a firm grasp on my ankle and he’s testing my obedience to his will. My inner conflict between the impulse to flee this stimulus and the desire to submit to his control is showing on my face; pupils dilated and eyes wide, mouth twitching as I hold back the involuntary tickle-giggle.

He can see what this does to me; the way I’m looking at him drives hot blood into his cock, which is visibly swelling with every suppressed squirm transmitted through my muscle and sinew.

He stands. Hooks his thumbs into his shorts and pants, yanks them to his ankles. I’m halfway off the sofa already when he reaches for my tumbled curls and draws my mouth onto him. His half-moaned exhalation of pleasure triggers a hot flood of wetness from my cunt as I kneel before him and rub my tongue back and forth against his stiffening shaft.

I love to do this. His cock filling my mouth, his hands cradling my head, the rough carpet against my kneecaps; this is my favourite place to be. I look up and his eyes are closed, his mouth half-open, head tilted back as he loses himself in the sensations of my mouth around him.

I pull him slowly, deeper into my throat, working my tongue up and down, round and round. When I look again, he is watching me suck on his now stone-hard cock. As our eyes meet, he groans and I whimper; a simultaneous wave of aching lust at the other’s reaction sweeping over us both. His hands tighten around my head, it’s as though he can hear me thinking yes please, fuck my mouth, use me for your pleasure, that’s what I want, please give it to me. He does.

The harder and faster he thrusts, the more I urge him on; bobbing my head to his rhythm and bracing myself on my thighs for stability against this desperate, beautiful onslaught. I gag and he pulls away in concern, no, no, come back to me, fill me, have what you want.

I can’t go as fast as he needs now, he grabs a handful of my hair to pull my head away; taking charge of his cock with the other fist in powerful urgent strokes. I wait to be allowed to provide his pleasure again, mouth open, tongue extended, eyes locked on his. The sight of me pleading with my eyes and stance wrings another groan from him, he pulls my head close so that I can wind my tongue around and over his balls in slow figure-of-eight movements. When he pushes the head of his cock back between my lips, I thrill with adoration and submissive gratitude.

By the time we make it to the bedroom, I am all burning need and slick drenched cunt. Mental focus and submissive fulfilment have succeeded where drink and camaraderie could not – the last spike of bad mood has been crushed, ground to nothing between our close-pressed bodies. There is no irritation left, no silent rage, no phantom fire. Only us in this moment.

His dexterous fingers bring me to orgasm in minutes. I want him inside me; he wants to fill me with his come. We move together hard and fast; kneeling on the bed, leaning against the wall, face-down on the bed again, his hands pulling my buttocks apart as he fucks my arse with savage strokes, my face upturned to his as I mewl and moan the glorious pleasure-pain of my penetration. There’s a feedback loop between us, our movements, our breathing, our panted whispered encouragement is dragging us inseparably towards orgasm. We come together drowning in a wash of purest sensation that pulls a long moan of surrender from him and a shuddering, gasping collapse from me.

Finally – after so long – peace reigns within me

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