I didn’t want to tell him. I couldn’t figure out a way to say it without feeling like I was topping from the bottom. But the reality was that after another evening of pounding sex, I wasn’t happy. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Sex with him always feels good. The sliding motion of cock rubbing against pussy. The way his fingers grip my hips or my hair or both. The slapping of pelvis into ass.
Something was wrong. When had I last had an orgasm? I couldn’t remember.
And I freaked out.
“Tell me, babygirl. What’s wrong?”
Here we were in post-coital bliss, and I was sniffling and feeling sorry for myself.
“I can’t remember the last time I had an orgasm. I just want to be slippery wet and we both know what makes that happen! I know they belong to you, but I can’t remember the last one!!” Wailing. Abject, babygirl, wailing.
Oh gawd, I’d done it. I’d forgotten some moment from a few days before or negated some fun we’d had in the middle of the Thanksgiving rush. I’m topping from the bottom!
He pulled me into his arms, dried my tears, and said nothing more.
Wait? Could I have been right? No lecture about owning my orgasms. No reminders of the last time we played. Just a feeling of being soothed and loved.
Fast forward 24 hours, and I was crawling across the bed, thighs clamped over the vibrating head of a sadistic Hitachi. Okay, so an inanimate object can’t be sadistic, but the Dominant man wielding it is. I gripped the sheets like they could save me. Nothing could save me. I’d thrown out a red cape for a bull – a bull who loves to force orgasms and hates to think he’s not done right by me.
I was getting what I’d wished for. Be careful what you wish for.
Each time he ramped up the vibrations, he smacked my ass with the wooden paddle. My brain went into overload. I didn’t know where to focus my attention or my energy. My ass burned and so did my clit. To ward off the pain of the orgasm, I tilted my body so that the vibrations didn’t make me explode, until my body betrayed me and exploded anyway. A blossoming, opening, climaxing clitoris is a million times more sensitive to stimuli, and stimuli in the form of seismic vibrations is enough to turn any sane woman into a drooling, blithering, crying, sweaty mess.
And I was all of those things.
He came around to my side of the bed. I lifted my head but could do nothing about the curtain of hair covering my face. My fingers convulsively flexed, grasping the sheet like a lifeline. The rest of me was boneless.
“What did you tell me? That you missed your orgasms? Do you miss them now?”
I wanted to say something filled with bravado, but that would have been fuel to the fire. I mumbled incoherently for a moment as he stroked my hair and cupped my cheek in his warm hand. We were connected again in a way we hadn’t been in a while.
Later, after he fucked me and held me and helped me to the bathroom to clean my cum and his off of my body, he asked again, in the tone of a satisfied Dominant who knows the answer. “Was that enough? Do feel neglected anymore?”
“I’m a greedy babygirl and a masochist, of course that wasn’t enough. It never is. But no, I don’t feel neglected anymore.”
In reality, I’d never been neglected. We’d simply fallen into a rut at a time when I was battling pain, illness, and stress. Some nights it was easier for both of us if he just slipped his cock in my cunt and fucked me. Easier doesn’t equal better.
I woke up this morning surrounded by the smell of sex and sweat and rumpled sheets. For the first time in weeks, I bounded out of bed, ignoring my aches and pains of previous days. It’s going to be a good day.
Be careful what you wish for, indeed.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday! Forced orgasms, sex smell, and rough fucking, oh my! Now, it’s time to find out what other smutty writers have in store for you this week. Rawr!