Late last night…
“I remember my last orgasm, but I couldn’t tell you how long ago it was. It was the last time we played…but not the last time we fucked.”
His eyes widened with surprise.
“And I know you’ve had at least three orgasms between then and now.” His eyes darted to the side. “Okay, maybe more.”
The issue wasn’t who’s had more orgasms. This isn’t a competition, and I’m not keeping score. In fact, because I demand that John Brownstone stay alive and be with me for as many years as humanly possible, I’m actively interested in how often he orgasms. Once a day would be fine with me — with or without me — to help keep his prostate healthy. But since he’s the guy in charge of my orgasms (mostly), I couldn’t let my lack of them go by without comment, either.
“My lack of orgasms isn’t your fault. I should have spoken up. I could ask to masturbate at any point — hell, I could do it and let you know later, and I haven’t.” I paused. “But my pleasure hasn’t been anyone’s priority in far too long. And your pleasure hasn’t exactly taken center stage. We really need to do something about that.”
In erotic stories this would be the time he pulled me close, dipped his hand between my legs, and made me writhe with pleasure. But we live in the real world, and we were both exhausted after a long day, so we rolled over and fell asleep.
For someone who writes about sex on a regular basis, I think about my own sex life very little these days. Low libido hasn’t helped and staying busy definitely hasn’t, but I’m actively seeking out ways to take care of myself. Sexual satisfaction is part of that for me…for us. All that means is that it’s on my mind, not that I’m doing much about it.
Thank goodness he’s the Dominant and I’m the submissive.
Fast forward to this afternoon…
After lunch, I wandered into the bedroom. I don’t even remember why now.
He followed close behind, pulling me into his arms.
The abruptness was nice, but my brain had little context for what to expect or do.
“I’m touching you because I can and because I want to.”
“Turn around, girl.”
He didn’t wait, giving me a shove. His hands dove down my yoga pants. Another reason to be grateful I wear stretchy pants and no underwear. He pressed against my clit before I realized just what was happening.
I squeaked and then sighed. The intensity of the pleasure buckled my knees.
“Spread those legs.”
He, literally, rubbed one out of my body as I begged to come. Permission granted, I squealed, then moaned, and fell forward, hinging at the hips as he kept up the onslaught of demanding fingertip and willing clit.
Another orgasm and a splash.
“I’m going to need to change my pants.”
I hung forward, bracing myself against the end of the bed and his forearm. He stroked my back.
One gulping inhale and exhale. Two. A third.
He let me go, but didn’t walk away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his finger…waiting. I opened my mouth and sucked him clean, tasting myself for the first time in a long time.
I straightened up, adjusting hair and clothes.
“I guess it’s a good thing we had that talk last night, huh?”
He just chuckled and walked into the kitchen.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday where we can all thank John Brownstone for this moment. It’s also another day of February Photofest, and I was inspired by a few of Molly’s images lately and created my own version. For more smut or more smutty images, you know where to go…