I have no idea what mental processes drive ArmyDude’s behaviour at times, but I remain swinging between being baffled and impressed. I hold close to my heart his tenderness when he gifts me with secrets and I know he’d come galloping with the cavalry if I was ever in danger or needed a shoulder to cry on. The less gallant side of his character is that he has no compunctions about keeping me in line when I’m being princessy and precious.
Unfortunately for me, he has worked out I secretly enjoy his refusal to put me on a pedestal. If I dig through the crap that clutters my psyche, I think I enjoy the contrast to The Drummer’s near-idolatry of me — it’s the occasional release in pressure of feeling sacred on a daily basis to being occasionally treasured yet kept on my toes, I think.
ArmyDude is the man who has almost cried when telling me about the unhappiness of his home life, yet has bent me over his lounge suite and ejaculated on the small of my back, leaving me stranded like a garden ornament until he ambled off to fetch a wash cloth, knowing I wouldn’t dare allow a drop to spill on his carpet.
This is also the man who was so nervous about a potential threesome with another man he went on a mission to try fucking another of the same gender so he wouldn’t let me down, yet video exists on his phone of when he tied my hands to the bed and filmed his cock fucking my mouth, ignoring my protests that I have said no to video in the past. The bastard was even going to hook it up to his television and make me watch the footage on the larger-than-life screen, knowing I can’t stand watching myself.
He also knows how much I’d like to do oh so many things to him in uniform, yet, when I’ve been to his house, he leaves a row of camouflage gear and perfectly-pressed mess uniforms lined up like a platoon where I have best visibility of them, teasing me with their silence about when they might be used. Drives me mad yet I think it keeps the tension between us taut and sharp.
The other day he needed to leave work to collect some thing or other and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. We haven’t been alone for a fortnight and I co-ordinated a rendezvous point in the time it takes to say, “When?” I seem to have missed the master class in playing hard to get; perhaps this is why he doesn’t bother inflating my ego and treading softly in order to get into my pants because I want to be in his as ardently and openly.
I wanted to clear the air about a communication problem that resulted in a missed meeting recently, but it was damn hard to chastise the man when his hand was down my pants and probing my dark places, let alone ask him to stop because we had a farewell presentation to attend when we returned.
“You can’t keep spreading my wetness around like that; I’m going to smell like a brothel on pay day.”
“And you love it, don’t you?”
I can’t lie to him – the risk of public exposure doesn’t excite me, but quieter, more secretive dangers make me buzz to the point of squirming in my chair.
He removed his sodden hand and put his fingers in his mouth.
“You can’t do that; your breath will smell like excited girl when you talk to people.”
His hand went south again, this time leaving my underwear beneath his fingers and mashing the cotton into my cunt, turning the fabric into a soggy and ripe-smelling mess. He’s done this before and I didn’t bother wasting energy in protest.
Basic, straight-to-the-point dirty talk peppered with swear words sends his heart rate soaring and I launched into a retaliative tirade to mess with his frustration level. I described how much I wanted his hand inside my body again and how I have been craving his cock in my arse for some weeks … before I got to the real-time of asking him to pull over so I could suck his dick, his zip was undone and his cock was in the open, assuming my hand would help provide him with relief.
I looked at the gleam of pre-cum on the tip of his bursting cock and didn’t move a muscle. I think he called me a bitch.
I wound him up further with a story about how I’d like him in uniform and driving me somewhere remote, dragging me out of the car, tying me to a tree and fucking me senseless. He wanked furiously as I described the scenario and he added that he’d take some mates who would blindfold me and take turns without my knowing who they ever were.
“Please, when, I’m up for that … hey, hang on, you can’t take away my ability to see and perve!”
“I don’t like you sometimes.”
(I wonder if either of us would consider this scenario seriously when we are *not* aroused and up for almost anything in heated pre-sex talk. Pssst, I would with the right people and careful control of the situation. It’s actually one of my dark moment fantasies – but without the blindfold, of course.)
We reached the office and he drove straight past and beelined for a nearby car park. He proclaimed that he was so close to bursting he’d have to masturbate as soon as he got back to work if the car park couldn’t afford privacy. I dared him to return to the office, lock himself in a toilet and take some photos for me.
He asked if I wanted to walk back.
I think I’d lost every round of the battle so far.
The car park was mid-week quiet and — bickering instantly forgotten in light of our good fortune — my mouth buried itself in his groin as soon as he pulled over. I was glad he wore dark pants as I may have dribbled too enthusiastically when re-acquainting myself with his cock. His hand traversed the back of my pants and he was fingering me again to the point I didn’t care that another coat of excitement was being layered on my underwear.
When he couldn’t – or wouldn’t — wait another moment before relief, he took over management of his cock and threatened to drown me in come.
We finally kissed. We had forgotten our manners earlier.
I lowered my head again and opened my mouth. He came in great globs, I swallowed furtively and he removed a finger from my arse that I didn’t recall being inserted.
He dropped me off away from the office so we arrived separately and I could stop at the canteen for more mints. On the way back I sent him a text message regarding the difficulty wet underwear posed in walking comfortably to the office. I received no reply but a broad smartypants grin was waiting for me when we bumped into each other at the function.
I had neglected my own orgasm in the fray and, in the overwhelming relief of seeing each other, I simply forgot. Being able to smell myself and taste traces of semen at the back of my tongue filled my centre with escalating sexual frustration. The rest of the day passed in a haze of charged daydreams flying through my mind at regular intervals and there were no gaps in time to disappear and masturbate discreetly in the toilets.
Later I sent him a text message saying next time we’re together, he owes me a long and leg-shaking fucking.