This happened a few months after I moved into Oliver's apartment. He had wanted it; I hadn't felt very sure. I'd lived as I pleased for several years. In fact, I'd never shared a place with a man. More important, to me, then, domesticity implied dreariness. I didn't think I could stay excited by, or exciting to, a man I woke up with every day. I also worried that my messy personal habits, my habitual lack of foresight, and the emotional chaos I took for normal wouldn't sit well with Oliver's quiet, methodical personality. To me, at that time, being a submissive meant something crammed into a few very intense hours at a time, after which I would flee back to my solitary footloose life. I wasn't at all sure I had what it took to adapt to somebody who wanted someone more durable.
But living with Oliver had gone surprisingly well. Sexually, his tempo was different from mine, to say the least. My fuse burns in minutes if not seconds. His could sometimes smolder for days. I had to learn to trust that my needs would be well and truly met, but only when and how Oliver chose. I missed the excitement of the hunt for a new partner. I missed not being able to masturbate on impulse. I missed the color and drama I had known with some other men. Oliver dressed conventionally. He used bedroom words in the bedroom, but otherwise his speech was educated and courteous. He never raised his voice. He did not use--in fact would not tolerate--drugs. Ditto for pornography. He had no interest in costumes, appliances or toys. He didn't even own a simple flogger. He just used his large hands and thick fingers, his belt, his ties, my underpants, clothespins, kitchen utensils, whatever might be around the apartment. (Once he turned me, arms tightly bound, upside down in the laundry hamper for savage cunnilingus.) He was physically powerful, and when he was good and ready, sexually tireless. There were times I lost count. I always slept deeply afterward. Little by little, I learned to adapt my restlessness to Oliver's slower, steadier, and stronger pace. The longer I had to hold back, the more earth-shattering my release would be. It was the first time in my life I had lived with any kind of sexual discipline and, to my surprise, it had reinforcing as well as frustrating aspects.
Beyond the sex, being Oliver's live-in slave led me to a new kind of pride in myself. I had to remember to pick up after myself and to do the household chores as he wanted them done, but I found I didn't resent this. On the contrary, it made me feel useful to somebody. Up to then, I had never been able to feel that way anywhere in my personal life, only at work. I also discovered a previously-unknown inner reserve of patience. Oliver liked get me very aroused and then leave me tied and kneeling in a corner for two or three hours, "ignoring" me. I started to take a perverse kind of pleasure in it. I remember feeling almost high kneeling there and thinking, "Why, if he wants it, I could go on doing this forever!" It had always been easy for me to excite a man, but keeping a man excited about owning the rather worthless person I felt I was--that was new for me. With Oliver, I felt that my not-so-exciting inner self, which I had consistently fled by seeking excitement, had a place, too. He was the first man I was intimate with who seemed to want to know everything about me, the dull and confused and damaged parts as much as the sexually explosive ones.
I had a regular office job. Oliver worked on contract and he sometimes had substantial periods off, which was the case when this happened. On my working days we got up, I showered and dressed while he made coffee and breakfast, and we ate. Then, often but not always, he used me sexually in some quick, simple way--I'd kneel in the kitchen and blow him, or he'd throw me on the couch and jack himself off between my tits or thighs. That was our version of a "goodbye kiss" for the day. It always happened when I was just about to leave for work. (I allowed time for it). It excited him to make me go out tasting his semen or feeling it in my underclothes. I got to like leaving home that way. Sometimes when I got to the office I'd go to the ladies' room and open my shirt or my skirt just to smell his cum warmed by my skin. I'd want badly to masturbate then, but I needed Oliver's permission for that.
When he wasn't working, Oliver would have a simple dinner ready when I got home. We'd eat, talking casually—he insisted that dinner be relaxed. After dinner came what, again quite unexpectedly, turned into my favorite moment of the day. We called it "confession" just to give it a name, but it wasn't as gothic as that makes it sound. He'd sit, I'd kneel in front of him and put my hands on his knees. With my eyes down, I'd recite my challenges and failings during the day—in fact, any feelings I felt I should share with him. I had never done this kind of thing with a man, and at first it was difficult. I felt so self-conscious and didn't know how to put things in a way he'd think made sense. For me, intimacy had always been physical, not verbal. But then I realized—Oliver never had to say it, it was just in his manner—that was the point: I was
supposed
to feel childlike and vulnerable. I was
supposed
to stumble around and look sort of helpless and trust that he would understand whatever I was trying to articulate. And I began to realize that I liked how I felt at those awkward moments. I liked it a lot. I felt little and protected, and at the same time, very daring. That is the most perfect mixture of feelings there is, and it had been a long time since I'd been able to feel it.
Of course, in confession I had to admit any violation of Oliver's rules or instructions, even any temptations to violate them, but he made clear that I was to stick to facts and never try to use confession to get punishment started. Sometimes he'd punish me for something I confessed. But sometimes he said I was being too hard on myself, and instead of punishment would give me an exercise, like thinking of ten reasons, apart from sex, anybody should like me. That turned out to be better than physical punishment, because it prolonged the wonderful intimacy of kneeling at his feet and telling him whatever came into my head. I'd ummm and giggle and struggle to put into words things I had worried or wondered about. Sometimes, I'd burst into tears, which was (then) another new thing for me. Oliver wouldn't help me with any of this. He'd listen silently (but I never had to look up to know how thoughtfully!—he was always all concentration in anything he did) and let me work it out at my own pace. He never questioned or contradicted or pointed out my inconsistencies. This time was for me. I always felt I'd be letting him down if I didn't try my very best to reach—and to say out loud—the whole truth about myself, however chaotic or pathetic it was. Nobody ever gave me a better gift than that.
Sometimes confession would lead directly to sex, but usually not. That wasn't its purpose. Occasionally, though, when I finished my confession, especially if I was crying, Oliver would ask if I was wet. If I was (and I usually was), he might suggest that I masturbate. It took me a while to understand that he wasn't seeking excitement himself. He didn't feel like sex right then (and he had always been clear that I would never get any charity fucks). He was concerned about me, and wanted to help me unwind. Before Oliver, I had never masturbated in front of a man who wasn't aroused himself and who didn't expect to get in on the action. It took me a while to get used to the idea, but when I did, like so many other things I learned with him, it made me proud that I could let go and do it. A sudden feeling of abandonment to this new kind of intimacy would sweep over me and I'd come quickly—if he permitted, several times. A few times he decided to turn me over and fuck me right there, but usually he'd just smile, tell me to lick my fingers clean, and then go do something else. Whether anything sexual happened or not, confession always made me feel light and restored—I had told Oliver everything, I was still in one piece, and he still wanted me!
One of Oliver's rules, which is relevant to this story, was that I had to treat his cum with great reverence. If he came in my mouth, I was not to swallow unless he gave permission. If he came in my cunt or my ass, it was to leak out, run down my butt and thighs, and dry in place. I was never, ever to wash or wipe it off, or even to touch it with my fingers, without his permission. Sometimes, relaxing after coming, he would scoop it up on his finger and spread it gently on my nipples, or over my lips, like gloss. The first time he did that it took my breath away. I felt we had suddenly tumbled to a whole new level of intimacy, better even than fucking, because it was such an unexpected way for him to share himself. I had always loved the feeling of a man's warm cum, anywhere. Oliver's don't-touch rule only strengthened that pleasure. It made me feel I was being allowed the privilege wearing my lover on my skin.
On the morning it happened, I dressed for work was usual. I wore a black sweater, with a dark red scarf knotted around my neck. Oliver seemed a little preoccupied at breakfast, so I assumed there probably would be no "goodbye kiss" that day. But just as I was putting my hand on the doorknob, he came up behind me. "Kneel down," he said. I did. He pulled out his already stiff cock and began using my mouth. At the last moment he pulled out, stroked himself, and with a gasp sprayed jets of cum all over my face. Oliver was a big man and he came like a stallion. It handed in my hair, splattered over my glasses, hung on my nose, cheeks and lips, and stained my scarf and sweater. A few drops even fell on my purse, which I had set in front of my knees. In all, it was Oliver's usual very thorough job. He had me lick him off. Then he leaned against the wall, breathing a little heavily, and said, "You can go now."
I thought he must be joking. "Like this?" I asked.
"Like that," he said.
I was flabbergasted. While Oliver used me roughly in the bedroom, in any other setting he was a perfect gentleman. When we went out he treated me like a princess. He would have taken a swing at anybody who bothered me. How could he want me to go out in public looking like this?
But he did. "Go," he said.
I was dismayed, and I'm sure my cum-drenched face showed it. If he'd only let me clean myself up, I would have left for work with a singing heart because my lover had just had the pleasure of unloading on me. As it was, either I went out into the building, the elevator, the sidewalk, the subway, looking and feeling like some drunken slut, or I broke Oliver's rule. I got to my feet slowly, stared at him, and when I saw his face was impassive, left the apartment.
On the way down the hall, I suddenly stopped dead. Cloudy patches on my glasses blurred my vision. Cum dripped off my chin.
