“Are you disappointed when your man doesn’t come?” was asked on Fetlife discussion recently (paraphrased by me.) This is a topic I have thought a lot about, and W and I have talked about.
He has many tools, and his cock is one of them.
He tells me he wants to be able to use it like he uses a whip, or rope, or any other of the implements in his kinky arsenal, and for that, it has to be hard.  So he can shove it in me, in my mouth, or my cunt, or my ass, any time he wants. So he can fuck me with it, or choke me with it, or rip me open with it. That’s why, sometimes, he prefers not to come.
He’s serious about his reasons for choosing not to come, and, sweet Jesus, it’s hot when he  puts it that way. “You want to brutalize me with your cock?” Riiiight…
And yet, that is exactly what he does.
He fucks me, and fucks me, and he uses every hole. He holds my head up by my hair and shoves his cock into my mouth, into my throat, making me gag, and then he ties me with my legs splayed open so I have no way to protect myself and he fucks my pussy, making me come, and pant, and come again, until I am exhausted, and until I start to get dry, and he fucks me some more, not caring that it hurts now. And I (fucking body) get wet again, in spite of myself.
And then he pushes me over and takes my ass.  No lube, of course, working his way past my resistance an inch at a time, or simply shoving himself inside of me, until I open up to him (gasping as I do), until I begin pushing back against him, grasping and greedy, rising into another helpless orgasm.
And still he withholds it–his orgasm–from me.
When he pulls away, yes, I feel a pang of disappointment–because I love it when he comes.
But I also love that he uses this most basic, natural, bodily function against me.  That even his cock is a tool in his arsenal against me.
And when he finally does come? I feel the most intense mixture of joy, triumph, and, oddly enough, gratitude. It is similar to the feelings I have when we have a heavy scene, emotional or physical, and afterward I curl into him, and all I can think of to say is, “thank you.” Thank you for hurting me.  Thank you for stopping hurting me. Thank you for being brave enough to hurt me, to do these things to me, to take me to these places.
Thank you for finally, finally allowing yourself to lose control enough to come inside me.

4 thoughts on “Tool

    1. I just reread this…one thing I love about writing is when I can come back to something I have written days or weeks or even months later, and relive it all again. “A ball of emotion.” Yes. That is what I feel right now. I can’t believe it’s less than a week in to him being gone, and I am already missing him…missing *that* feeling, that gratitude when I am spent and exhausted on his floor, in his bed, his hand stroking my hair, my body and mind, finally, replete.

  1. How did you like your encounter? I thanked W for it. Need to practice taking the whole thing down your throat! Next time you guys are in town we need another streaching.

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