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Some nature-given gifts aren’t appreciated for their richness until adulthood, and only if we manage to lift the weight of the jibes heaped on our uniqueness during childhood and adolescence.
Growing into my teenage years I was fortunate enough to have average legs, average breasts, an average (if over-rounded, according to one boy) arse and average almost everything else so I almost sailed through adolescence unharmed.
Except my lips got in the way.
I hated owning them. My body grew upwards and outwards at the rate of knots experienced by my classmates, but I’ve had pillowy, oral sexy adult lips for as long as I dare look back at school photos.
I didn’t realise their stop light capability until secondary school and the older boys targeted my lips like bees to borage flowers. “Luber Lips” and “Head Job” were their favourite calls across the yards at lunchtime. I couldn’t minimise or conceal my lips like the big-breasted girls could squash their growing mammaries into too-tight bras, so I soldiered on and pretended their nicknames were old-hat and dull. The incongruity was that I was a virgin and hadn’t touched or sucked a cock, let alone grasped the stupefying power of oral sex for both the performer and recipient. Thankfully, I picked up those life skills later.
A small but satisfying revenge came after secondary school ended and the generation gap with the year-or-two-older boys had shrunk enough to allow interactions beyond one-way catcalls. After a night at the pub, one of the former taunters followed me out of a shared taxi to crash at my parents’ house — it was a smallish town where everyone knew everyone’s parents so extra bodies on the floor were never a surprise. I made him a camp bed in the lounge room and dragged myself to the other end of the house to sleep off a surfeit of vodka and orange. I was still awake when I heard him slide open my bedroom door, squeeze himself into the narrows of my single bed and presumptuously sidle into my back.
I slid out the other side and left him there while I slept on the couch.
I never, ever forget.
I learned to love kissing as a form of wondrous expression far beyond a means to an end. And I’ll always marvel how a resting cock can be resurrected with nothing more than lips and tongue, and transformed magically with some warmth, moisture and desire.
The planets are lining up auspiciously for a bout of joyful and carefree trouble: it’s the last commitment-free weekend before Christmas, The Drummer will be working and sleeping much of the time, the go forth and fuck hormones of ovulation are bubbling and a decent night’s sleep might provide the energy to run riot.
The downside is that I’m tired and brain-dulled from work and nude wranglers are thin on the ground. Jekyll is elsewhere, Hyde could be anywhere with anyone, I daren’t upset the hiatus with ArmyDude for both our sakes and I’m too lazy to get on the web and hunt for a back-up man or two (and risk romanticising ArmyDude even more if I have a less-than-spiritual experience with someone else). Instead, I could exercise more, tidy the house, buy Christmas presents and stock up on vibrator batteries.
We will see.
ArmyDude sent a message asking about my weekend. Sometime afterwards, at my unplanned instigation, we agreed to stop seeing each other.
There are a lot of addling thoughts and dialogue and rumination of possible compromises missing in a blur in the middle. I did all the expressing and he did all the trying to understand and we agreed for now it’s the most sensible thing.
It’s either a break or an ending; I don’t which at this stage. If better control over my boundaries is a learned behaviour, there could be hope. If I can fill in the gaps of my own emotional resilience between meetings, there could be hope. Of course, only if he’s still there when I’m detached enough to return.
All I know is that I’m feeling more than I ought — the best indicator that I am in over my head, a little girl trying to play a grown-up’s game.
Few public spaces in the metropolitan area allow discreet evening opportunities to talk, flirt and fuck quietly after daytime visitors have packed up their bicycles and kites and gone home.
One park Jekyll and I frequent has partially escaped the council’s desire (and sensible need, I admit) to evict visitors and lock the gates at sunset. An empathetic town planner designed the first car park to remain open 24 hours a day and only the subsequent trail is locked in the evenings. The bitumen area is protected by trees and housing is far enough away to minimise the risk of scaring people taking an evening constitutional.
Other night time visitors understand the gift of this space and the etiquette between strangers for use of the car park is based on an unspoken camaraderie. I usually arrive before Jekyll and, if other (we’ll assume) lovers are parked near the entrance, I take the space diagonally at the furthest end of the car park, allowing everyone maximum privacy. Occasionally a third set of visitors will park somewhere in the middle, but if two ends are occupied, new arrivals will usually drive through and go somewhere else (I wish I knew where because I could use a back-up plan or two when we are the third wheels here).
Last night Jekyll was reasonably local and we met at this car park. I arrived first and took the empty territory at the far end. The lengthening daylight hours were helpfully dulled by dark grey clouds and rain and we reclined in the seats of his car, watching the storm outside the window. The condensation from our heavy breathing created another veil of privacy from the world outside.
Sometimes our mobile meetings leave me lingering with disappointment from limited space and opportunity, but with his availability being erratic and the hostile weather raging outside, the metal and glass shell was as luxurious and welcoming as closing the door of a hotel room.
I wished his car had a transparent sunroof so I could have watched the clouds rolling and rain falling above his head when he was fucking me in the passenger’s seat. He didn’t last long when I gripped the headrest behind me and curled my legs around his back. He never does.
What do you say when a man spills the contents of his heart, and a steaming froth of confusion and mini-deaths of the soul pour out of his mouth, and tightening emasculation is choking the very breath out of his lungs?
He said, “My wife and I have had sex less than five times this year.”
He said, “I don’t even bother her any more. I told her that she knows where I am if she wants me.”
He said, “I even grabbed her and asked if I was that repulsive, if she found me that awful to have sex with.”
He said, “I get so tired of wanking when she’s asleep, but I am sick in the stomach for days if I go elsewhere; if she finds out, I’ll lose my kids because she won’t understand.”
He said, “Maybe I’m asking for too much out of life. I have a wife, a house and kids and perhaps I can’t have everything and this is the one thing I can’t have.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said, “I know how she feels because I used to be her, and until not that long ago.”
I said, “But I had the courage to face the part I played in a downfall and pay someone to ask me questions that made me cry in self pity. I learned that I wasn’t allowed to be the victim and control another with sex, and that’s too confronting for most people.”
I said, “I know how you feel because I caused your pain in someone else, and I know nothing I say can help because nothing can help her until she comes out of denial. And that day might never come. Can you live without your sexuality or pay the price of its freedom?”
We ran out of words and hugged the wilted embrace of the broken and the sympathetic.
I ache. My mouth protests at pronouncing words containing an ‘O’, although it held that shape faithfully many times. My inner thighs and backside are pock-marked with bruises and the vertical crease between my eyes is longer and deeper from frowning when he ignored my pre-menstrual sensitivity. My lower spine is surprisingly limber considering the corkscrews it formed to hide my buttocks from his gnashing teeth.
My quadriceps muscles feel like the overtired workers of a long run, but I didn’t travel further than his ensuite. Confusing. I fucked him from behind with the strap-on; perhaps maintaining balance and some semblance of control wiped more strength from my legs than I’m crediting them for.
My anus is bouncing back, so to speak, after his playful warm-up tonguing, determined fingerings and a final fucking when I said I couldn’t, really couldn’t, take another battering. My body betrayed my sense of self preservation and took him fully in a few deceptive thrusts that I knew I’d lament later.
He almost screamed from tear-welling sensitivity when he withdrew his cock from my arse the final time. His anus is probably tender as well after my earlier turn with him — fair’s fair, share the pain.
I hope his hand has recovered from a prolonged period of pins and needles. My drained body had lost enough nervous edge to allow his hand inside but my tightness cut off his circulation. He tried to twist once to find a more comfortable position but a nerve-shattering squeal put a stop to that. Actually, I hope his hand is as tender as my cunt as a reminder that he is big and I am not and big things don’t turn in small spaces.
Before the mayhem, I was lounging at home with my head in a book and eyed the beeping phone that interrupted my indolence. Home alone, you say? Tonight? A few hours later I snuck into his house and found him lying on the bed, his dick released through the open zip of his jeans. You like? Oh yes, I like. I sidled up to him with lingering touches and kisses tinged with hibernative warmth and somehow the rest just happened.
It’s best we don’t have a lot of time together because our bodies would collapse, and so much exchanging and giving and accepting and shape-shifting takes place that I can’t remember the exact order it all happens in. The flashbacks and aches are my only reminders.
I have switched off a little too well. After my last naked shimmy and fist-fest with Jekyll, I have slithered gently into a week of sexual hibernation; a surprisingly peaceful lull bereft of co-ordinating schedules and removing hair.
The other day a young man of the cloth stopped me and asked for directions. I swear he even flirted with agnostic today/atheist tomorrow me in his swirling Swiss accent and eye-creasing smile, to the point I had forgotten where I was sending him. Gladly, I wasn’t hit by lightning after lazy daydreams of how I might corrupt him if given half a chance and some motivation.
ArmyDude said he had a treat for me and flashed up mobile phone footage of himself masturbating in a toilet. I smiled and knew it was made at work because his ID tag tapped his navel as he bent for close-ups. He is a sweet bower bird and I’ll get around to reciprocating when the mood strikes.
There was simple and enjoyable partner sex at some stage but The Drummer became stuck in a pre-orgasm limbo. We halted and agreed to try another day when fun-sapping medication has a lighter grip on his nervous system. He might be meeting a woman with whom he’s been corresponding this week. In a move that reminds me of the lunatics taking over the asylum, I am helping with his e-mail responses. Dear, oh, dear.
I haven’t masturbated all week and almost-but-not-quite-enough sleep has kept me in a haze of fatigued docility like the house cat currently warming herself in the front window. Let’s see how long the calm lasts. I am going to read a book and have an early night.
Compartmentalisation is not my thing. Putting a busy and in absentia lover in a mental box, tying it with string and setting it aside on the shelf for later isn’t in my sanity-protection tool kit (I wish it was, oh, how I wish it was; perhaps I’ll get one for Christmas).
If I can’t be indulged in my preference for the luxury of regular communiqués, I’ll survive better in a harsh landscape of no contact because little dispatches from elsewhere crack the protective layer I’ve constructed to save myself from, I don’t know … stabs of self pity and loneliness, or myself, I suppose.
That’s the main reason flings and casual fucks aren’t chronicled here: I don’t have them. Apart from being too lazy to find a quick fix with a variable likelihood of success when easy masturbation and sleeping in my own comfortable bed beckons louder, I like the little somethings with a lover between meetings. Of course, it has nothing to do with feeding a delicate ego that I’m special enough to be indulged with attention inside and outside the bedroom.
Jekyll is a master box stacker and cannot fathom that others aren’t. He packs his daytime stress in the work box when he finishes for the day and it’s forgotten until tomorrow. Just as easily, he can have a heated discussion about a family issue and the problem is bound, boxed and shelved as soon as he gets off the phone. To my puzzled amusement, he has broken off with past long-term lovers and wondered why his exes haven’t wanted or been able to revert to platonic friendships immediately.
I am thinking about this because he is going through a life change that will disrupt his (and our) routine and opportunities for the next couple of months. I saw the break in the horizon and forced myself to switch off as a protective measure to survive the drought.
He doesn’t understand why I haven’t responded to his unexpected ‘Hi, I’m back for a while, miss you, how are you, where are you?’ e-mails within a couple of hours of receiving them – because he’s got a few moments to play, why aren’t I at my desk? I ignored him for a few more hours as a form of payback for being so damn well adjusted and making me realise how vulnerable and needy I can be. No one will ever describe me as clingy because I do a good line in carefree independence but sometimes I dislike myself for suffering the consequences of my needless emotional vanity.
There’s no joy for either of us with our differing ways of managing interruptions unless he develops greater empathy and I tell him how I think I want to get through it. This period will be harder for him: he is so busy he will need to fight for scraps of unallocated time while I can complain extravagantly that I have had more ‘me’ time forced on me.
I have been editing this chapter for three days and am no closer to being pleased so I’m going to hit ‘publish’ and move on. The synopsis is that Jekyll is a hyperactive sex fiend, I was fisted and came like I have never before, and Jekyll is a hyperactive sex fiend. The feature-length version follows.
Jekyll is the only man I’ve known who can be in the throes of starting a new round less than 10 seconds after orgasm (I know I have no right to complain but often I prefer not to live my life as if every moment’s my last). Being fuelled with nuclear power is a delightful quality for shorter, frenetic sessions but with our half-day together I was wishing he’d listen to my request to slow down and savour rather than gorge.
After two uninterrupted hours of pinching, biting, smacking and being fucked with my legs in the air until my hamstrings felt they might snap like new season asparagus spears, I thought my wish for some unhurried sex was granted. He gestured for me to rest my head on a pile of pillows and I seized the opportunity to uncoil my cramped legs.
After a few minutes of exploring my female place with his tongue, Jekyll came up for air and spread the embarrassment of juices from his cheeks and chin to mine, and we kissed like sloppy-tongued teenagers until he put some extra artillery to use.
He pushed the very new, very basic, very black, very fucking buzzy vibrator (or battery-powered drill, I’m really not sure, but I know we will be very happy together) between my legs for a test drive as he went about the business of preparing whatever he was planning. It’s amazing how a sky-high level of excitement blasted away my shyness at being observed and I played with the control as if I had unwrapped a new musical instrument on Christmas Day.
I heard the snap-top release on my travel container of Crisco but by then didn’t give a toss what he was going to do with industrial lube and the leaking, molten lump of flesh I had become.
“Well, it didn’t take you long to take four fingers, missy,” he said.
A gurgle was my best reply, and rather articulate considering my Physical Laws of Fingery state that four fingers automatically cancel the power of lucid speech.
I descended into a new sexual place and the only way I can describe it is feeling like I existed solely inside my torso and abdomen. My vaginal contractions felt like the slow and strong heartbeats of a marathon runner and I was inside my body, trying to understand how I was both the recipient and silent observer.
Unlike our first successful foray into fisting while in his car, he didn’t need to apply pressure with his hand or talk down my nerves. As each contraction subsided, a gelatinous vacuum drew his hand further inside my body. After half a dozen cycles, I sensed on a deep cerebral level that his hand was up to the wrist inside me but I didn’t want to open my eyes and allow the light to ruin my dreamstate.
I moved the vibrator around the stretched landscape and discovered a bed of nerve cells that responded instantly to my oval-shaped movements. A message wrapped in smiles reached my brain and said I could actually come from this.
Empty air around me was interrupted by the echo of someone saying, “Oh my god, fuck,” as an orgasm started in lines along my labia, spread through my limbs like a lightning strike and seared back to my clitoris as if the energy needed to return to its origin. My orgasms are one-way through my feet and hands and I’ve never experienced a reverse sensation of this kind.
I thought I was fucked after the previous hours with Jekyll, but this time I truly was fucked. My skeleton had vaporised and I felt like an outer skin filled with warm lemonade in the hollows where my bones used to sit.
I begged Jekyll for a few minutes’ respite to find my faculties and he started withdrawing his hand. The power and wonder of the orgasm could almost make the nausea of expulsion worthwhile.
I’d have given a kingdom to drift like a jellyfish floating in a warm sea but Jekyll started poking about to see how sensitive my body had become. I yelped, my clit screamed and my nipples possibly snarled at him. I adore the man, but I wish he’d slow the fuck down and join the slow-the-fuck-down sex movement.
I am hopeless. In my fertile mind that gorges on images of metal and leather and scarlet marks on pale skin and the mindfuckingly pervading aromas of fear and serious sex, I can conjure film-length domination scenarios to the minute. And ideas, dialogue, bindings, timings and the great big exciting hoo ahh moment when I have been granted control of a willing and noble man who wants to see where I will take his brain cells and balls.
A glimmer of opportunity arose to visit ArmyDude late last night. We sorted out details and I asked what he wanted me to bring. He made a tactical error in saying that whatever I wanted was fine because I can do anything to him.
I replied that I was packing the arse tools and I’d see him soon.
In my handbag fitted a small container of lube, my camera phone and the strap-on harness with its two dildos. By the time I arrived I had a strip, on all fours, licking, fingering and fucking ritual plotted, filmed and in the can, ready to be acted out on real flesh and blood.
The reality of my dominant self sits at the opposite end at the back of the undisciplined universe.
I let myself into the darkened house, locked the door behind me and found ArmyDude sitting in the office chair in his study. Within 10 seconds of entwining my arms under his singlet and massaging the contours of his pectoral muscles, my nose was in his hair inhaling his freshly-showered scent and my tongue was running races along his ear lobes.
The ‘arse tools’ in my less-than-eloquent text message didn’t make it out of the bag. He stood, drove his tongue down my throat, pulled my pants to my knees and forced me to hobble to the bedroom like an arthritic penguin. I pushed back when he forced my body in an arc towards the mattress and he return volleyed me to the bed before I could catch breath.
He ditched more clothes, messed my hair, left my breasts spilling out of my bra and pushed my underwear aside to insert his cock. Something about turning the tables on a disheveled dominatrix triggered a rage of lust and he orgasmed in a few dozen heartbeats.
He apologised for not lasting longer. Dominatrix Girl laughed softly and replied that it was a compliment to the joys of her pussy.
We tidied and talked for a long time about his fractured existence and it became too late for seconds. I’ll focus more diligently and mess with his head next time — shambolic Dominatrix Girl needs to die.
