A Different Kind of Masturbation
I reach down between our sweat-slickened bodies and grasp his cock; the shaft warm, wet and thick in my hand. He’s been fucking me all morning, and was just about to pull away, but I’m not ready yet. I pull him closer by his cock, until he is nestled again in the V between my legs. It’s been so long since I’ve been fucked, almost all month while he’s been gone, and I feel like I can’t get enough of him inside of me. But I pause a moment in the act of pulling him to me, of opening my legs and pulling him inside, which is what I had originally wanted to do.
Slowly, barely applying pressure, I stroke the head of his cock over my labia, the outer ones first and then, carefully, deliberately, the inner labia. Holding his cock like a toy I use it to stroke myself, up and down along those tenderest of lips. They are hypersensitive, these delicate, fragile-seeming and yet incredibly resilient inner lips, the skin like tissue paper that has been handled and fondled until it is almost transparent.
And, of course, my rings.
I get a distinctly physical pleasure from playing with my rings, from touching them, from having them pulled on and stroked. But more than that is the mental and emotional resonance my rings have for me. Having gotten them for W, they can be nothing less than a near-constant reminder of my relationship with him, of our connection, of the commitment I have made in my submission to him. I talked to him once about wanting to have some kind of symbol of our relationship, of his Ownership of me, of my submission to him, that I could wear to lifestyle events or when we are together in places where people that understand such things would recognize it for what it is. That hasn’t come about yet, but I keep in my mind those six rings in my cunt, knowing that they are that, exact, symbol to me. Too bad I can’t show them off at those events, in those places.
Now I use the soft, velvety head of his cock to touch each one of those six, tiny testaments to my relationship with him, reacquainting him with them. Earlier he had pushed his way between them roughly, forcing them apart, but now, in my hand, his cock nuzzles and noses them each in turn. And I am so sensitive, after the vigorous fucking he has given me, that just that barest touch is electric.
I moan, imagining the opening at the head of his cock as a tiny mouth, engulfing and sucking on each ring in turn, a bizarre sort of cunnilingus that, instead of turning me off, as oral sex does at times, instead fuels a sudden resurgence of heat in me. I am suddenly intensely focused on these sensations and this fantasy, and begin stroking myself faster, although the touch is still as feather-light as before. My breath catches, then quickens, and I feel a change in W’s body where it is poised above mine as well, recognize a focused intensity in him, a concurrence of excitement as my own rises.
With an inward sighing, an opening both physical and mental, I pull him towards me and let the head of his cock slip past the sensitive opening of my vulva. He rests there for a moment, just barely inside me, my cunt lips now the mouth, pursed around the ridge of his glans. I imagine myself sucking him in by the cunt…
But he goes no further. Instead he pulls back until his cock is once again only resting against my lips, brushing the sex-wet rings, before pushing back inside.
Still he only goes in as far as the head of his cock, before pulling back out again. He does this, over and over, stroking, caressing and teasing me with his cock until I am hugely excited, panting, making little mewling sounds in my throat, begging him in my mind to please, please fuck me; I want all of him inside me, buried as deep as he will go. I am still grasping the shaft of his cock with one hand and I attempt to facilitate this, pulling him with one hand, the other on his ass, pushing. I open my legs, twist and wriggle, trying to fool him into falling into me, but he’s playing a game with me now; I can almost feel him smiling at my consternation at his thwarting of my desire. I think, at some point, I may actually beg him: “Please!” though I can’t be certain if the word actually leaves my mouth.
I know I won’t come this way, I can’t come this way, and all I want is to come, to throw myself over the edge into sexual bliss. I grasp, I claw, I pull and strain and moan…and he resists and resists me, an especially perverted kind of sadism, the bastard.
But then, just when I am sure I will die if I don’t get there, suddenly I am there, rising rising rising into that sweet oblivion, my orgasm tipping and spreading through me, not as a wave crashes, but as honey pours, slow and sweet and thick. And, as if in reward, he pushes at that moment into me, deeply, a breath coming from him to match my own outward exhalation.
He is home, at last, and so am I.