Heads and Tails

I know he's not going to be on time, so why am I fretting about being ready? I can't help it. It's just the way I am. I'm built to be punctual. My heart rate increased the minute the clock rolled over to 9 a.m., and every minute afterwards leading up to the estimated 9:30 a.m. arrival time the sound of my heart beating grew louder, until I could hear it literally pounding in my ears.

I'd showered, picked up fruit and pastries for breakfast, used a blow dryer on my hair, put on make up, including bright red lipstick to match my bright red custom corset that I bought a year ago as a reward. I bought it after losing 85 lbs. I'd kept the weight off, which turns out is way harder than losing unfortunately. Underneath the corset was a handful of extra skin over my size 6 hips. It was decorated by stretch marks that were either going to be forever badges of honor from the Battle of the Bulge or will later on be removed surgically. The truth is, I'm not a fan of pain, so I might just keep them and buy outfits like this to cover them.

It was everything he liked. The red corset, the long hair, the big clear blue eyes, the black, short ruffled skirt, the high heels that had thin rope that wrapped up my legs. I'd been listening, noting things down, preparing. It had been almost a year since I last laid eyes on him, and I missed him terribly. Work had been rough on him. The faulting economy makes everyone dig in and work harder and longer for less. It doesn't help that his boss requires a certain amount of propping up. Then there's a home life that you work your ass off for. You care and sweat and do everything in your power to keep it solid and in the right direction, and sometimes, sometimes, it becomes -- overwhelming.

At least, my home life is. I know my role is the glue to holding the whole thing together. I'm the foundation, and I'm not looking for a quick exit. In fact, this entire relationship, which at first I found intolerable, has blossomed into something altogether quite liberating. I'm free to do and say whatever I'd like, and no one goes to bed angry. Anger doesn't get to exist here. Neither does "too tired" or "how about tomorrow?" We get six hours together, sometimes more free than others, depending on work situations, and we try to make the most of them whenever we get them.

This. Is. Fantasy. And it's amazing, and I protect it at all costs. I also try to inspire it at all times, which is easy because as far as fantasy partners go, mine is gorgeous. He's kind, smart and once I get over the fact that he intimidates me intellectually and sexually. I settle into our relationship and his arms quite comfortably.

I stand in the window of the condo waiting and staring down at the people walking by on the sidewalk in the cold, fall rain. It's the perfect day to spend making love. I'm glad I'm wearing the corset, because without it, I'm pretty sure that my heart would beat out of my chest in excitement and bring the butterflies in my stomach with it.

I hear my phone ding in the other room that I have a text. I'd been reading and listening to music in the kitchen in between window lookouts. He's, as usual, an hour late, but he'll be there in 5 minutes. I threaten to remove my corset and get into fleece if he doesn't hurry. He's there in 4 minutes and 20 seconds. I hug him at the greeting but we don't kiss. I'm never sure how to control my nerves in those moments. I'm so excited I can't think straight. I've been waiting for a year to touch him, to talk to him in person, to undo the buttons on his shirt...

We go into the kitchen and make small talk for a bit. His eyes are wandering up and down my body. I look away at the wall self-consciously.

"I'm over here," he says getting my attention.

"I know. I'm just—nervous."

"Why?"

"Because it's you. It's like Christmas morning." There's a pause while he determines what to do next to get the ball rolling and to make me more comfortable.

"Stand up and let me see you," he asks.

I stand, he puts his hands at my sides and runs his hands up and down the sweater I have covering the corset. Then he very carefully begins undoing the three snaps on the sweater. When they're undone, he slides the material off of my shoulders and tosses it onto the floor. He's seen the corset before in photos, but this is the first tactile experience. I try to hold my knees straight so they don't buckle in anticipation underneath me. No man should be this desirable. It's just wrong. Tall, sweet, French, funny... He's taking me in. His breath gets deeper, his hands move faster. "It's a lovely skirt."

"Short and flimsy 'like it might fly up at any minute'," I quoted a text he sent me months ago back to him.

He pulls me closer, runs his hands down and over my ass. I'm starting to feel like I'm stone, like I don't know what to do. His hands sweep over my breastbone, his lips hit my chest. I shut my eyes and try to find my breath. I can feel the wetness begin to pool between my legs. Then I respond by kissing his shoulder, his neck, his ears and his jaw line. My hands run through his short brown hair. I move back and look into his blue eyes. I smile. His whole face smiles back. My efforts have been appreciated. I shut my eyes and kiss his forehead as we embrace and then our cheeks touch as we slowly move to find each other's lips.

His mouth is so much larger, wider than mine. He engulfs me, like he's been starving while he waits for me to get over myself and get into the moment. His hands go under my skirt and over my bare ass. The realization that I'm not wearing panties excites him. He groans in response and his hand movements become more manic. He wants me naked, but he doesn't want me naked. It's like waiting to unwrap a present. You want to tear the paper off, but years of experience have told you it's so much nicer to slow down that impulse.

"I missed you," I whisper.

He kisses me deeper in response. He's seated in a stool and I stand before him. We make out for a long time.

"How do you get you out of this skirt?" he whispers when he's ready to see more.

"Just pull."

"Brilliant."

He pulls the skirt down and I kick my legs to get it off around my shoes. I'm pretty sure he notices I've shaved for him, another item on his list of turn-ons. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his left arm shoot out and his hand run over the top of the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.

"That's weird," I think. But he is a very tactile focused guy.

The music coming from the kitchen radio quickens and I hear, "It was not your fault but mine, and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?"

At the end of the lyric my lover stands, pivots and pushes me back onto the table with some intensity. The table tips forward a bit under my weight. "I'm not sure about this," I say in between mad kisses.

"What's the worst that can happen?" he asks still devouring my mouth.

"I'll break the rental guy's table?"

"We'll be fine."

When I'm centered on it, I feel secure. I lie back and instantly lover's mouth is blowing on my vagina and my clit. I lay back and close my eyes knowing the pleasure that's coming. He doesn't disappoint. His mouth settles on my clit and she's more than happy to receive. His tongue explores my folds and a thumb presses down on my clit. "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes," my brain screams.

His face and hands are everywhere. Fingers pumping into my vagina, finger tips on my g spot, thumb rolling across my clit. I want more, deeper, faster. I can't get any grip in my heels. They're worthless. I'm like a beetle stuck on her back. It's frustrating, but I also don't want to move. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants. And I'm happy to give it to him, whenever, for however long he can keep it up. I give up on my feet and drape them onto his shoulders.

"There you go," he whispers in approval. I come close to coming, and then it backs away. I come close again, and then it backs away. I'm getting frustrated. I put my feet back down and somehow manage to lift my hips. He slides a finger into my ass and pushes harder on my clit, and I realize it won't be long. He has mad, mad skills in this department. I come in short quick bursts and roll to one side to recuperate after it's over. The nerves are quiet and he can tell.

"More relaxed now?"

I nod gratefully.

After getting off the table, he makes an espresso. I get a sip of soda and some grapes. We sit down and talk, and I, of course, with my adorable, neurotic quirkiness make him laugh until coffee comes out of his nose. I laugh in response, grab him some towels and get him cleaned up. As I watch him wipe the table, I think about my daydreams of having him around doing normal every day things like this. I wondered what it was like. Now I know. You'd think in time, I'd become more accustomed to having him around, but I'm not. No matter how much I see him, talk to him, have him -- I still want more.

We move into the living room with the open windows. I'm completely naked, but he's still fully dressed. I'm sure the folks across the street can get a good view, and I don't care.

It's now pouring outside, and the warmth of my orgasm has left. I'm starting to shiver, so I sit in his lap and unbutton his shirt and run my hands over his broad chest. I put my arms around him and put my head on his chest. He wraps his arms around me and I start to warm up.

"You falling asleep there?" he asks gently moving my hair off of the back of my neck and running his fingers over one of my favorite sensitive spots. "No," I whisper back kissing him on the cheek. "I've just really missed you touching me like this."

"I've missed it, too." He responds, verbal confirmation of reciprocal feelings.

I close my eyes. "I'm freezing. May I please wear your shirt?"

He takes it off and hands it to me. I slip it on. It's giant on me. He straightens the front of it for me, and suddenly, I want to stay in it forever. He pulls me onto his chest again for another embrace and he runs his fingers under his shirt and over my back. The afternoon couldn't get more perfect.

And then work interferes with a conference call. At this point, I don't care. I promise to be quiet. I even practice kissing quietly. He gets a kick out of this, but I honestly don't want to sit there for an hour listening to his call. I put my hand on his buckle and start to undo it. He doesn't stop me, so I smile and continue. I see the overpriced underwear he's wearing and try to contain my giggle. They're from a company that he knows I kind of abhor. He smiles in response. That was his planned costuming for our afternoon. I lean forward and untie his shoes and pull them off. Then I pull off his pants and nestle between his warm, muscular legs.

His penis is becoming less of a complete mystery to me. His penis likes my mouth, adores it. It responds to me like my tongue is laced in Viagra, but my vagina, not so much. I'll get around to asking why, it just takes me some time. Because here's the thing, he's larger than I'm used to. And when he goes in erect, my eyes nearly bulge out of my head in excitement. But it's his turn, and I like that he responds to me regardless of which orifice his body apparently prefers. I notice, his breath getting louder and deeper. So I stop, smile at him and whisper in his ear a warning about his breathing heavy on his call. They made a mute button for a reason, right? I escape to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for some more fruit. I return and start again.

I'm getting frustrated on my knees, so I move the coffee table and indicate for him to lie down on the very fuzzy warm rug on the floor. He obliges moving his phone to the side. I want to turn around and put my pussy in his face as I suck him, but I figure there's no way one can do that quietly, and then concentrate on a call that might require him to turn off the mute button should he be called on to talk. Such a situation would probably fry his brain, so I stay down low. I notice he's getting hard and close to orgasm, so I climb on top and manage to get myself off riding him, squeezing him with my pelvic muscles in an effort to keep him inside as his erection subsides and rubbing my clit while he stimulates my nipples. I'm pretty sure this is his most favorite conference call ever.

When I'm done, I get between his legs and go at him with doubled efforts. I feel his head against the back of my throat. I lick him from bottom to top. I circle around the head and kiss him before engulfing him again. I gently touch his balls and kiss them. He's ready again. I notice he's directing me toward the sofa. I nod and move closer to the couch bent over to allow him rear entry.

He throws the phone and ear buds on the couch, and says, "I can't believe I'm doing this." I'm not sure if he means having sex while on the conference call or having sex with me. I'm pretty sure it's the former. God, I hope it's the former.

He gets behind me and pushes himself into me full force. I grip onto the sofa and curse. He fills me completely. If we ever fget this erection thing figured out, I'm in trouble, and he's got to know it. Not only that, but outside of his fingers and some solo experimenting, I've never had any kind of anal play. I'm curious, and I think he'd be happy to explore that curiosity, especially if there's a particular outcome.

When I masturbate with toys, I squirt. A lot. I've only done it a couple of times with a partner, usually because my nerves run a bit high and most of the guys I've been with aren't as adept as my current lover at coaxing orgasms out of me. Coax isn't the right word. He demands, but he's still waiting for me to squirt in front of him and not over video. And, of course, I had to record it for him... because I have too much performance anxiety during a live viewing. It's a nice change. I've had other men actually stop stimulating me in fear of getting wet. Now I wonder if it's because they weren't good swimmers.

He's clearly getting frustrated with himself, so I move onto the carpet, to give him a better angle. Still nothing. He sits on the couch looking defeated but I'm so not giving up. I go down on him orally again, instant response. Ten minutes later, he's vocalizing his pleasure as he comes into my mouth. I love it.

I nestle into him, and we talk forever. He checks the clock. We have time left. We talk more and more. The conversation does nothing but make me adore him more. We talk friends, work, desires, life craziness. When he checks the time again, it's late. We've talked too long. I hand him his overpriced underwear so he can start to get dressed.

"I thought you'd like those."

"Very funny."

I hand him his socks and pants and shoes.

"You know I'm going to need the shirt back."

I clutch it to me for a moment not wanting to part with it. I want to keep a part of him for myself. I take a deep breath hoping to remember his smell forever, then I slowly unbutton it and stand naked in my living room while he puts it on.

"It smells like you now," he says.

I smile. Inside, I'm sad, but it's been another glorious afternoon of happy memories.

I walk him to the door. We embrace. We kiss. I tell him I love him. His blue eyes meet mine, and he smiles and looks kind of surprised that I said the three words out loud. It's the first time I've said them to him. I have to let him go. I have to be okay with it. The fact that I'm standing naked in the doorway will keep me from running down the street after him. No movie-like ending this time.

The invisible big girl panties are on. I've got to let him go, and hope like hell he comes back to me.

TAILS

I have a confession. I think I'm made of some kind of Teflon. Don't laugh. A more sinister and conniving personality might revel in that kind of mutation or defect, but I like to think that I'm a relatively kind and gentle person. These characteristics might actually contribute to the Teflon issues though. So, maybe I'd be better off if I was a little colder and a lot less of a romantic idealist.

Men, for example, are a problem. There haven't been that many of them in my life, and even after surviving heated sexual collisions, neglect, abandonment and irreconcilable differences, I still don't understand them any better, and as you read this, you're going to realize that I'm dumb -- I am after all human -- but I'm not an idiot.

So here I lay, flat on my back in the middle of the kitchen table with a generous man between my legs licking, finger fucking and otherwise driving me mad, as I try to keep balance on 5" platform heels that I can't get flat onto the table to allow me to move. Nor can I keep my breath which has disappeared somewhere in my custom-made boned corset.

It was hot, the kitchen table idea, and the man who thought of it, I love him more than I should. Not just because he knows how to pleasure me -- that's not it. I'm not that shallow. I love him because of what he's doing with his other hand. That hand, the one I love, is now pushed flat against the top of my right foot, keeping it in place so it doesn't slide out beneath me on the wooden table in a rented kitchen. It allows me to lift my hips, to move, to get closer to orgasm -- and probably keeps him safe from getting stabbed in the rib cage. Of course, when I lift my hips, he somehow manages to slip a finger into my ass, too. Okay, maybe I am that shallow, because I immediately go from panting to moaning. He is amazingly adept at touching me.

At the same time, I'm letting my mind wander. I'm listening to the music playing in the room. "If you give me all your attention, I've got deep desire, and it needs quenching. I think that's pretty plain for you to see," Griffin House sings. Great. No help there. Thanks, Griffin.

It's harder than you'd imagine, denying an orgasm, particularly one you desperately want to have. So why the effort? It's my lame attempt to make the moment last longer. I know time with him is limited. I'm going to have to let him go out the door in a few hours, and I'm going to have to get back to being me. And in that perfect moment, when I realize I could try to hold out forever and he'd still have to leave at 3 p.m., that I am being selfish. I could spend hours on that table having orgasm after orgasm, as long as I didn't pass out from the corset. On the other hand, he'd probably really like his turn. And I like giving more than receiving. He doesn't have the cornerstone on generosity in this relationship. It's one of the many reasons why we get along so well.

What I think I figured out when our relationship started was that it wasn't about sex for him. It wasn't about love either. It was about escapism, and maybe a little bit about variety. But for me it has always been about connection. And I know in my head, you can't force something like that. It just works or it doesn't no matter how many letters, phone calls, e-mails, etc., are sent out. And even though he's often unresponsive, I put forth the effort to connect when I can. Why? See the line above where I admit that I'm more into him than I should be. Multiply that by the fact that the last time I was in a newish relationship I was a teenager (almost two decades ago) and have no idea what I'm doing and then divide by the fact that my imagination has a history of running away from reality. I don't live in the World of Denial. But I visit it from time to time. I have to. My mother has a condo there. No, I'm steering the boat purely on dumb girl instinct. The day he decides he's tired of me and doesn't at least direct me around the major dangers ahead is the day I hit the dreaded iceberg.

Anyway, the connection issue started when we sat down to dinner, once upon a time, and he managed to ask all the right questions. Now, what I wonder, is if it was just that he asked me any questions at all. People don't ask Teflon questions. They use it to cook their meals, wash it and put it away to use it again. Sometimes though, the bastards are stupid and bust out the steel wool. Then you know it's all over, and there's nothing you can do about it. You're toast.