[True Story]
Author's Note: This is the second chapter in the true story of my first-ever experience as a submissive. The full title was originally "Early Bird Dinner: Hyperrealism, Mundanity, and Sexual Taboo." I hope you enjoy.
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He reaches for my body and pauses.
"I've been trying to practice complete consent," he offers, gazing down into my eyes. "Is it okay if I touch you here?"
His hand reaches to hold my waist. I nod.
"And here?" he asks, moving his hand from my waist to my thigh. His hand is hot through my jeans and my skin tingles beneath his touch. I never realized seeking consent could be such stimulating foreplay.
"You have my consent to touch me there, and all of my other places, too," I say.
He laughs and leans to kiss me again, wrapping his hand around my waist, pulling me to him. His body is lean but muscular. Exploring, ignited, I run my hands over his shoulders as we kiss. Coils of heat rise up through the fabric of his t-shirt. He tugs my blouse up an inch to reveal the pale skin of my stomach. With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he leans and kisses the small constellation of freckles there, traveling slowly upwards. When he has tired of the game, he uses both hands to pull my shirt effortlessly over my head and tosses it to the floor, lost.
He moves to lie fully on top of me. I feel protected, safe, my body small and warm beneath the firmness of his form. His lips move down the steep tilt of my jawbone. As if I were an exotic delicacy, he tastes me, running his tongue teasingly along my skin and then returning to kiss the same spot with care. Barely audible, my half-moans intermingle with my breath. At once, he pulls my hair back, hard, until the whole of my neck is exposed up to him, my head pushed down into the duvet. My moan is full-bodied, audible now. He devours my neck and collarbone without hesitation as his hand reaches down to my jeans, tracing up from my inner knee to the apex of my thighs. He lets out a soft chuckle of appreciation as he feels my heat. I'm warm and wet through the denim. Already I'm overwhelmed by sensation, his hand in my hair, his lips at my chest, his hands between my legs.
He runs his hand from my ass to my clit through my pants. His touch is void of the tentativeness so commonly found among men of my age. He has touched women before, he knows what to do, and I know he knows, and this arouses me intensely, this partner who knows, this partner who can solicit the reaction he wants.
I moan, opening my eyes in my pleasure as he rubs me. He is watching my face, watching the formless vowels escaping my open lips, taking in the tightness in my temples as my face contorts. He is worlds apart from the men who are too focused on their own pleasure to delight in someone else's. He delights in my pleasure because his hands coax it from me, demand it from me, and the moans escaping my lips and tightness contorting my face are his; my body is his canvas, my pleasure his painting.
It's not long before I'm left in just my knee socks and underwear. He removes his own shirt, his pants. I reach to pull my socks off, but his hands hold mine. "I kind of like them. They're cute," he smiles, shrugging. I leave them on.
He pulls me down beneath him and kisses me again. Our skins touch for the first time. He is warm on my cool skin. I feel my breasts pressed against the firmness of his chest. We explore each other slowly. He runs his hands softly but confidently up my sides; I bring my palms flat against his stomach, run my fingers through the hair on his chest, kiss his collarbone gently. He brings his lips to my shoulder, raising goosebumps on my arms. His tongue finds my earlobe and he licks, softly, before tracing my ear completely with his tongue. He brings his lips to lick, then suck, my nipple. He is gentle, and I arch my back and run my hands through his hair, thick and curly between my fingers.
He reaches beneath my underwear and traces me slowly with his finger as he kisses me. His hand feels shocking on my skin. I haven't received a touch this intimate, this intentional and present, in so long. I am positively wet, dripping for him, and he kisses me as he slowly enters me with his finger. I moan softly, feeling every centimeter of him moving inside of me, feeling my tightness around him. He breathes out, moderating his pleasure, and slowly removes and inserts himself again, this time deeply, until his finger is fully inside of me, his hand pressed to me. From within me he pushes firmly and moves his finger back and forth, exploring me and triggering twinges of pleasure and intimate sensation; he is reminding me that my body, my most intimate places, belong to him. I moan and breath into his mouth as his lips cover mine; we share the same breath, the same air.
As I pant, his finger deep inside of me, he brings his other hand to my hair and reaches to the root. He pulls my hair back as his finger moves inside of me and deep, primal shivers exit my spine, up through my sides, my arms. I feel my face contort with pleasure and when I open my eyes, he is watching me, his eyes hungry. He knows his hold on me is complete.
"Your pleasure is beautiful," he says richly in my ear. I feel exquisite, being watched this way - it feels too good to be true, that my pleasure - this simple expression - is enough to arouse him, to please him. These moans come from the core of me. I have never felt more authentic in bed with a man.
He removes his finger from inside of me and brings it, dripping to my lips. I smell the musk on his fingers, Eve liberated from the Garden at last, and keep my wide eyes fixed on his as I open my lips obediently. I welcome his finger into my soft mouth, and he exhales slowly, his eyes nearly golden in the dim light, watching my every move. I wrap my tongue around my own wetness and hold his gaze as I savor every drop, sucking his finger fully until it is buried in my mouth to the hilt.