Tilting My Head Over the Bed

I wake to the sound of the shower and the feeling of desire. I knew he would be back in the bedroom soon. I am eager to satisfy the story I am crafting or continue whatever dream I came out of: his hands careening around my breasts, his cock in my face, and a vibrator on my clit. I want all of it at the same time. I slide sideways across the bed, one foot still under the covers. I gently run the back of my fingers along my chest--not to pleasure myself, I am saving that for him--but to reassure myself that I am not imagining my desire and that it would not abide as I awake.

I keep my eyes closed. I want to be in a soothing and safe place of abandonment. I fear that if I am too awake, too present, too responsible, or critical, I will not allow the sexual hunger inside of me to rise up, grind, grab, and bite.

When he comes back into the room, I am sprawled across the bed, my bent knee slowly waving back and forth, a sign of agitation and invitation: approach me, touch me, and play with my body.

He groans at my silent request and walks over, considering his approach as if I were something to assemble or deconstruct. When he touches my shoulders, I ignite. The flat pressure of his hands on my collarbone, though, steadies my response and asserts that his move comes first. I shimmy my way up to the edge of the bed and let my head drop over. I look up at him, asking him and telling him I intended to make my own moves. His hand moves from my collarbone to my large breast, resting there. I wrap my hands around the back of his legs; I can feel the strength of his thighs and the softness of his ass. I love to squeeze on all the different depths of him.

I felt errant drops of water in the middle of his back and the warmth that walked with him from the shower. My body is alight, my skin feels cool outside the warm bedding, and I am anxious for his treatment. I lift his cock so I can more easily get to his balls. I lick one, then the other. I suck them inside my mouth, popping them in and slowly pushing them out, never losing contact. My tongue traces up his shaft to the tip of his cock. I lean back further and put him entirely in my mouth. He inhales deeply at this warm embrace. He is not hard but well aware that pleasure is in the air.

He is watching me come on to him and I want him to. My mouth is on his cock, my face nestled in his crotch--deep enough that his balls are resting against my nose and periodically making it hard to breathe. I am furiously consuming him. I want him to witness the desire flowing out of my chest: a wave of vibrant cobalt blue, cranberry red, and bright highlights of sunflower yellow. The colors shimmer and pop. I think this is uninhibited sexual synesthesia.

His response is exactly what I hope for. Both hands are on my chest and he starts to pinch and twist my nipples. My hips dance around--I want this so badly--and I arch my back. It's a good pull. He gets lost in it, though, to the point where it hurts. I squeal and he backs off. He circles out to gently explore the irregular landscape of my areola. He ramps up to kneading my breasts as if grabbing onto something he fears losing. I take his cock out of my mouth and hold him in my hand. I want to pay close attention to this switch between barely touching and deeply needing me.

I am teaching myself to listen in lovemaking. Certainly, simultaneous pleasure can be otherworldly. But there comes a point when tending to him disallows my capacity to feel what I am being given. Before taking this man as my lover, partner, and friend, I was ignorant of the fact that pleasure is primary, delicious, and a righteous expression of myself as a woman. I was convinced--by whom or what, I don't know--that my worth as a sexual partner came from his success. It has become clear, though, through my evolution and a giving partner who worships my body, that my pleasure is the priority. I ache for it and it gets him off.

When he comes at me with a magic wand, I lay back and take it. I assume a position that makes it easy for him to manipulate me. I have rarely, if ever, denied this toy. I am open to its tortuous turn-on, and if I am feeling resistant, I come around. Somedays, I ask for it. Other days, I challenge him to, "just try me." Right now, I eagerly "take it and like it." In the end, I win.

He rounds the bed, grabs my ankles, and pulls me to the opposite side of the bed. I am forced to rest my feet on his shoulders. I know he wants to continue to tease me and make me wiggle around, but he is impatient now to be inside of me. The first moment of penetration is wildly satisfying. I welcome him home. Only I can provide this soft, safe, nurturing space that is all his own. It is a profound expression of our union.

The force of his hips moves me entirely. I grab his arms to steady myself and push back. Tender touching is over. My gaze locks onto him and I curl up to put my hands on his strong belly. He is muscular, not "ripped" from weights, but fortified by hard work in the country: cutting trees, splitting logs, stacking, and stowing firewood. He provides for me.

My hands can only roam as far as I can curl up. Eventually, I just lay back, enjoying his show of strength. He rams into me over and over. I am so open to this aggressive penetration. Then he is out of breath and tells me, "Just the tip." He barely moves in and out, slow and steady, with the irregular deep thrust. His head is tilted; he studies my face and appreciates my body. "You are an amazing lover," he says graciously. Well, I am inspired to be so! It comes from trusting each other enough to ask for what we want. I understand that he wants to mark my breasts to remind me, for weeks at a time, that he owns my body. He needs to suckle (although he has never used this term). In an ideal world, I am in nude pantyhose every day of the week. And I admit to my kinks: I want to be spanked, denied, and submit to him. Every so often, I want him in my ass. And I get it. Of course, I am a good lover. So is he.

"You should ride your cock."

With my weight on top of him, I can feel him deeply and completely. He fits perfectly inside of me and the pressure is satisfying. He can push on parts of me that I cannot reach. I grind in desperation. "Can you feel me growing?" he asks. I feel a change, but perhaps not as much as he can. What I relish is the combination of his head tilting back, his quick whimpers, and his eyes closing in anticipation of giving himself to me. He grunts in a primal state of release. Then he exhales deeply and his regular breathing returns. His eyes roll back into focus. He withdraws slowly. It's over.

I lay there while he dresses for work. I want to absorb everything. I cherish this moment, completely relaxed and sprawled across his bed. I want my photo taken, to remind him of the way he has treated me.