I looked up from the 90’s TV show I was watching on my phone and over at Adam, who was reading a book in the other corner of the couch. He must have felt my eyes on him.

“What?” he said, suspicion in his voice. “What do you want to do now?”

We’d been talking about getting up and going out into the world all day – or rather I’d been throwing ideas at him and he’d been saying “seriously??” before burying his nose back in his book again. His lack of enthusiasm for the 90 degree temperature / 80% humidity outside world was disappointing, but understandable.

But I didn’t want to go out. At least not at that moment.

I looked back down at my phone. I knew exactly what I wanted to do. It’s hard to believe that a brief scene of some women holding up and comparing some dildos in a conference room could get me riled up, but (shrug) there it was. Still, stating it upfront was…difficult.

I hemmed and hawed for a moment. Maybe he’d get it by osmosis? But no, this was Adam, his thoughts seldom went that way.

Until today, apparently. He caught me looking at him and laid his book aside. “What are you thinking about over there? You’ve got a mischievous look on your face. Come on, out with it…”

“Um…well…I really want an orgasm,” I finally said. “And I want your…assistance. Your participation.”

He grinned. “Like with a cane?”

“Um, no…” though now that he said it, the idea certainly appealed. I paused a moment to envision it –

But no. I took a deep breath. I had something specific in mind. I wanted things a certain way. I wanted fingers inside of me. I wanted to be fucked with a dildo (I even had a particular one in mind.) I wanted Baldy, my Hitachi. And when I was done, I wanted to make him hard and use his cock for my pleasure again, before (maybe) sucking him off.

Okay, yes, (who was I kidding) I would definitely suck him off: we both knew that was part of my pleasure as well. But I wanted it to be mainly about my body, my pleasure.

So I spilled. Said it all in a rush, before I had time to be embarrassed. And he, god love him, just smiled and said, “Well we can’t do that down here in the living room,” and gestured towards the stairs and our bedroom.

Once we got upstairs he once again confirmed what I wanted. (It’s been awhile since we’ve done this! It’s been awhile since I’ve done this. It’s been awhile since I let it all be about me, or asked for it all to be about me.)

I turned the comforter down on the bed. I turned the blinds up so the room was bathed in golden, late afternoon light. I brought a glass of wine up for me, a glass of whisky for him. I lit a sweet-smelling candle and laid out the toys of choice as well as some lube, because, as slippery as I tend to get, I love the feel of lubed fingers slipping over my nether lips. Slipping over me, inside me. Oh god I was getting excited just laying everything out. I wanted fingers inside me sooo bad. I wanted cock inside me sooo bad. So much so that I almost ditched the whole first act and suggested we jump right to the second, the part where I climbed on top of him and rode him until I came that way. But he was gently insistent that I lay back, that I let him touch me, as I had asked.

I’m not generally built to receive pleasure that way, nor comfortable with giving direction. I can give myself pleasure – though even in that my preference is to be directed, to be told to do it, and how – and honestly in this I would have preferred for it to have been his idea too, him calling the shots, but that’s not his way, and I really wanted it. I wanted to look down and see him sliding my bumpy pink dildo inside me, not forcing me to take it, but using it to pleasure me. I wanted to feel and see his own pleasure and excitement in doing it, in knowing he was giving me pleasure.

Alas, we never got to the dildo. He slid his fingers over my pubis, my clit, my lips, not trying overtly to arouse me, just because it felt good. I wriggled beneath his hand, though, already fired up, already impatient. “Please, put your fingers inside me,” I said, grabbing Baldy. And then for a (short) while we played that way. I’d forgotten how good he is with his fingers! At one point, riding the wave towards my orgasm, he took his hand away to get the dildo.

“No!” I panted. “No, don’t…stop…! Do that…with your fingers…keep doing that…oh…oh, yeah, like that…” Before I knew it, I was cumming in great waves.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way!” I cried, when my breathing slowed and the twitching stopped. He laughed. “I’m pretty sure you can go again,” he said, reaching for the dildo once more.

“No, no, no,” I said, “I want your cock.” He laughed again, clearly delighted, and lay back. “It’s all yours.”

And it was. I used my mouth until he was hard and starting to thrust his hips up at me, and then I straddled him – backwards. I wanted the womb-deep orgasms Baldy gives me again, and facing backwards is the best position for that. I rode him and pushed against him and grinded against Baldy and bit back the primal scream in my throat as I came again, spasms wracking me.

Finally I collapsed over his thighs, spent and boneless.

Gotta give it to the man, he didn’t disturb me in my bliss, even as his cock twitched inside me. I had known that, unfortunately, although he quite likes the reverse-cowgirl view, it’s a fairly selfish position on my part: I don’t move in the way he needs to climax while I’m doing it. Fortunately, I’m a girl that loves to pleasure a man with her mouth, and he loves to be pleasured that way, so: win-win. I would not leave him wanting, especially after he had so thoroughly pleasured me that day.

I looked over my shoulder at him and said, using the term he so often uses: “Want a little of that magic mouth?”

Turned out he did.

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