Intimacy, But Not Sex.

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Intimacy, But Not Sex.

You know, I quite liked fucking your pretty little mouth last night. 

Sometimes, Bear says the most explicit of things at the most innocent of times. Like when I’m the kitchen making chips. Homemade chips. I can’t stand oven chips. I make my own, first peeling them, then boiling them for exactly 8 minutes, straining them and slightly fluffing them up a bit in the colander so that they have that lovely crispiness around the edges. Then I toss them in oil mixed with some salt and pepper, maybe some herbs and other stuff if I’m feeling particularly experimental. Throw them in the oven at 200 degrees for however long it takes to go crispy and golden brown and you have the best goddamn chips you’ve ever tasted in your life.

Enough of the cooking lesson though, it was during the spud-peeling that he dropped today’s particular bombshell.

You know, I quite liked fucking your pretty little mouth last night. 

I giggled as I looked around, making sure his son wasn’t lingering around in that oh-so-silent way he does that creeps us all out. If I ever stop blogging one day (for longer than a few weeks), I’ve probably been murdered by my very own odd little Michael Myers over here.

*I’m kidding, he’s delightful. He’s just a super creepy little dude at times. 

It wasn’t just Bear who enjoyed the mouth-fucking last night though. I did. Very much so. He’s never really done that before; just grabbed my face and shoved his cock down my throat. I kept promising him a blowjob that never seemed to happen. He kept telling me he missed the way my mouth felt around his cock. I did too, but we’d found ourselves back in that weird little place again. You know the one — I want to be all over him, but I’d rather he didn’t touch me back. He thinks I’ve gone off him. I haven’t. I’ve just gone off ME again. It’s a weird roundabout we have right now. A sex roundabout. I have a little open window of one week, usually right before my period arrives, where I’m super frisky and want to fuck everything that moves. (Not strictly true. I just want Bear to touch me and plenty of alone time so that I can wank myself into a frenzy.)

But, that’s how I felt last night. I didn’t want to be touched but I very much wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel all of him. To taste all of him. Well, all of his cock. The whole length of it, tasting it, tickling the tip with my tongue and letting my fingers grasp around his balls. I didn’t want him to touch me though, and when I’m the thing that gets him going, getting him to keep his hands to himself is a fucking nightmare.

I wanted something. Intimacy, I think? But not sex. Tasting, but not fucking. Teasing, but not entering. Something like when I laid right down in front of him, wearing just his pants, letting the light from the TV at the bottom of our bed illuminate the contours of my body. I let him slide his hands all over me, starting at my collarbone, down over my nipples, but barely touching them at all, caressing over my hip bones and lightly grazing his fingertips over the warm, damp fabric of the grey cotton between my legs.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going tropical,” he said. Our little ‘code’ for intimacy, but not sex.

Kissing the back of my neck, he rolled me over onto my side so that I was facing away from him, giving him direct access to my ass. We were both a little stoned. That makes him more dominant than he’d otherwise be. And more playful too. I think I made him believe I was more submissive than I actually am, back when we first started dating. He’s too scared to push his dominant side too much now. My libido is fragile, a bit like my self-esteem. One wrong move and the entire mood has gone. Poof. Bye. For how long? No one knows. It could be hours. Might even be days. Probably weeks though. I have no idea where my little inner submissive went. Poof. Bye.

I could tell he was gingerly proceeding forward, lightly gliding his hands over the skin of my hips, my thighs, my ass, and then going a little bit harder, using a bit more force, occasionally giving my flesh a playful slap. A little groan escaping my throat gave him the green light to carry on, and he moved closer, thrusting his cock towards the small of my back. I reached my arm behind, clasping my hand around the length of him, delighted to feel the veins pulsating against my fingers.

He didn’t need to tell me to push my hands under the fabric of my pants. Well, his pants. The grey ones with the white elastic waistband that sits high on my hip. They’re a bit Calvin Klein-esque. More like Primark, but still. They make me feel hella hot when I’m wearing them, and I felt hella hot wearing them as he made his way to where my head was laying on the pillow. As he pushed his hard cock towards my face, I reached between my legs to feel how wet I’d become. A little for my benefit, but mostly for his, slowly and deliberately stroking my lips with exaggerated movements for him to see. If the bedroom light had been on, he’d probably have seen that wetness dampening and darkening the cotton. He didn’t need the lights on to feel it though, which he did as I positioned myself to allow his cock to slide all the way down my throat. Almost a little too far, his movements not shallow enough to stop me from gagging. I really love it when he makes me gag. I think he likes it too, but he pretends that he doesn’t. He acts all concerned, but I see the secret smugness hiding behind his eyes. That smugness he feels when his cock is so hard, I physically can’t take any more of it down my throat.

There’s something about the way he gently holds my head with his hands as he forces his cock into my mouth. It’s like the most beautiful juxtaposition, one part of his body — his hands — capable of the most tender of touches, another part of him incapable of anything other than angry thrust-fucking. He never does it for very long, but I think that’s because it turns him on so much. Just a few moments of watching his own dick sliding all the way down into my mouth and then back out again is enough to finish him off. I love that I have that power over him sometimes. That my mouth can bring him to his knees in moments. The act makes me feel powerful. Powerless and powerful. It’s a strange and yet heady combination.

We had sex in the end, even though I didn’t even think I wanted to, right after my fingers got me off the first time. We came at the same time when he fucked me too. It’s funny what happens when you take sex off the menu. Occasionally, it hops right back on it again.

Y’know, intimacy, but not sex. 

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