Is he for real?
I close my eyes at the question, because how many times in the last eighteen or so hours have I asked myself that? And every time, he’s very, very serious.
Crave spunk?
I’d like to say I don’t think so, but I’m not sure if I have a choice.
The way he’s talking is doing something to my insides. I don’t like the subject matter, the male version of lumpy crème anglaise served right from the source, but there’s a deeper meaning to his words. A devotion that has my heart fluttering in my chest.
It’s weird, I know I can back away, say my safe word or run out of the room and back to my own. But if I do that, that’s it. Game over. And as odd as it is, as freaky as it’s going to get, I don’t want this to end.
If I’m honest, I want to cum. Badly. But I can’t. Yet. Maybe if I do this, if I swallow, he’ll let me.
The idea has merit, even if I know that isn’t the point behind this exercise. A girl can always hope though, can’t she?
“Now, put your mouth on me, Marina.”
“Yes, Nate.”
His eyes contain a smile and God; it feels good to bathe in his warmth again. He settles back into his armchair, head tilted back at an angle of relaxation but all the time, his gaze is on me. Those pale orbs are taking in every single thing I do and my insides feel hot and shivery at his attention.
He’s focused on me. I’m not just some chick giving him a blowjob. I’m Marina and he knows that. He wants Marina to swallow his cum. He wants her to suck his cock. And whatever the reason may be, the very idea is so empowering I begin to nuzzle his dick against my mouth.
Pressing kisses to the glans, I intersperse darting licks, gently whipping the shaft with my tongue. I flicker and flutter the tensile muscle up and down. Suck the skin, press it against my teeth. Lift his shaft so it’s flat against his belly and run my lips down the thick, throbbing vein. By the time I reach his balls and lick and moisten the skin with my tongue, I’m breathing heavily and my nipples are beaded. Desperately in need of a hard suck or a pinch. Just the idea of being touched, of those hard points being caressed has me shuddering as I work one moist ball into my mouth. I palpitate it against the side of mouth, suck and release until he’s groaning.
My eyes flicker upwards and I can see the thin slivers of his own are almost glittering with the force of his arousal. He’s controlling me, ordering me to suck him, commanding me to swallow, but I’m in control of him. At this minute, his climax belongs to me.
The high of the moment flutters through my brain, I release his testicle, and return to the glans of his cock by way of nipping the thick veins that pulse and cord around his shaft. Stretching my mouth wide, I take Nate’s cock inside, then retreat. His thickness hurts the corners of my lips and I know, by the end of this, my jaw will kill. Now, the high makes me forget why I practically never give Nate a blowjob ̶ not out of selfishness, just practicality ̶ and I begin to nibble on the glans. Gently, but with enough of a threat that he hisses and grabs me to him, cupping the side of my face with a warning hand. I accept the advice and cease to tease, returning him to the hot cavern of my mouth. With my lips spread wide around his shaft, I smile and he groans.
Feeling hot and bothered, I lave his cock with my tongue, wet it, make it slippery with spit and then move my head up and down until my mouth is gliding on his cock. With one hand, I grab his balls and roll them around my palm, gently pushing together and massaging.
He hasn’t moved his hand away and it merely tightens as I start to suck him in earnest. Pulling him hard into my mouth, licking, fucking him with my lips, teeth and tongue. His fingers dig into my hair to the point of pain, but I don’t let him stop me and as his lower body lifts an inch or two from the seat, forcing his cock partway down my throat, I can feel cum jetting down his throbbing shaft and down into my mouth.
I gag. There’s no pretty way of describing the sound, but it isn’t from the hot liquid pouring from his dick, it’s the fact that for the first time in my life, I’m actually deep throating a guy.
Unintentionally.
I don’t know whether to be pissed off or proud of myself. As it is, I guess I’m just happy that I’ve done a good job. From the sounds tearing free from him, I’d say I passed with flying colors.
Thank fuck for that.
His hips thrust jerkily, almost as though he’s ringing every drop of pleasure from this experience. I let him, forcing myself to stay calm, to not panic, to breathe slowly as he uses my throat for his own good. When his hand brushes my hair from my face, gentle sweeps that have me tingling with the display of tenderness, he gradually works himself out of my mouth, a thin strand of cum or spit ̶ I’m not sure which ̶ unites the pair of us.
I look up at him and he looks at me. Our eyes, his cock and my mouth connected in the simplest of ways and at that moment, I know he’s right about me.
I can’t say I’m like Rosalie. That into BDSM, I could become a professional submissive. But it’s there. For this man, I have submissive tendencies.
I don’t understand it, can’t explain it, eventually I might be able to brazenly state, ‘I’m a sub.’ As it is, for the moment, a tendency is a revelation in itself.
His hand caresses my mouth, gently probing the corners of my sore lips, where they’ve strained at his thickness and he whispers, “You did very well, Marina.”
I want to ask if I did well enough to cum, but I don’t. I hold my tongue.
“You swallowed every drop. You took it like the gift it was. Just for you. Nobody else.” He sucks in a breath and as he exhales, smiles. “It’s time to get ready for the rest of the day.”
His pointed look reminds me of something he said last night. “May I shower, Nate?”
Another smile. He’s looking beatific at my fabulous memory. And considering I want nothing more than to cum, fabulous is an understatement. It’s a wonder I can talk, wonder I’m even coherent.
“Yes, the bathroom is all yours.”
I nod and stagger to my feet. My pussy is so hot, it’s on fire. I’ve never understood that statement before, but by God, I do now. I feel as though I could hump his leg and cum. One touch, a brush of his fingers against my clit and BAM! That would be it. Arousal, heavy and as insidious as a snake, wends its ways through my belly, sinking lower and lower until my legs feel like lead with every step I take.
Just one little touch. One stroke.
That’s all I’d need.
Temptation beckons, I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to withstand the lesson, because that’s undoubtedly what this is. A deterrent example, urging me to learn that my body no longer belongs to me but is his.
Fuck, that thought blows my mind.
In twelve hours, I’ve gone from a slightly-subdued version of Marina Denison, to... property?
With the bathroom door behind me, I fall against it and use it as a prop. It’s too much. The very idea of not even having control over washing myself, of having to consider each and every word before I speak, to do as he says or face the consequences… I’m freaked out. Submissive overload. But that doesn’t stop my treacherous pussy from weeping cream or moistening my inner thighs or craving Nate’s cock.
And that, says it all.
****
The idea of having to walk around the commune wetting my panties with cream, talking to people I’ve known most of my life and being introduced to the new additions to the commune, all while my body was on a slow burn... well, it was an intolerable idea.
Nobody could withstand it. Nobody. Moreover, no one should expect it of another person. How can I focus, concentrate on the task at hand, when I could spontaneously combust at any second? Because as disturbed as I am by the introduction of discipline and power play into our relationship, my cunt isn’t.
I. Need. To. Cum.
The instant the water poured overhead in Nate’s bathroom, I wanted to slide my fingers down, down. Touch myself, bring myself to orgasm. I thought about it.
A lot. I just stood there, letting the water pound on my head as I contemplated my next move.
The ache between my thighs was compounded by the ache at my butt. The two seemed to work together, in tangent to torture me, to tempt. He hadn’t said I couldn’t make myself cum. But at the same time, he hadn’t said I could. I’m not stupid. I know this kind of relationship isn’t based on minute, conversational discrepancies. Black and white; I’m to shower.
So why did my fingers begin the crawl to my pussy? And why, almost as though he knew what thoughts were going through my head, did the door to the shower fly open at the exact same time as I caved in to temptation?
Perhaps he’d known my intention, waited just long enough to catch me in the act, but as it was, I hadn’t actually been doing anything. He looked at me for a moment, his eyes drifting down my body, probably measuring the distance from my hand to my cunt, and then said, “Remember, you belong to me. Every part of you. Even your orgasms.”
With that, he’d shut the door and left me to my shower.
Even now, washed and drying myself off with a towel, I realize the length of that internal discussion saved me from punishment. But strangely enough, I don’t find pleasure in that. Weird, or what?
I should be filled with glee, self-congratulating myself for winning that round. Instead, I feel guilty. It was sheer luck that he didn’t catch me. Five seconds later and I would have been doing exactly what he suspected. How can I be pleased about deceiving him? When I’ve promised him, I wouldn’t.
Where these sudden morals have come from, I don’t know. Can I say I’m glad they’ve appeared? Not exactly.
Returning to the bedroom, in the bright light of day, I can see my cases and Nate’s have been stacked against the dresser. With my towel tucked between my breasts, I heave my own on to the bed, because Nate’s nowhere in sight and I couldn’t ask him to lift my heavy cases in his condition anyway. Picking out some clothes and underwear, I place them on the bed. Almost as if that was a cue, Nate appears.
“Do you want me to put my stuff in here with you, Nate?” I ask, hearing the betraying quiver of guilt in my voice even if he doesn’t.
He nods and turns to the armchair. I don’t know where he’s been, nor do I ask. I just watch as he takes a seat and watches me unpack. Without asking, like a good ‘little woman’ I unpack his stuff too.
It doesn’t take long. Nate’s a light traveler and even though I brought a lot of stuff with me, it was mostly objects not clothes. Things I couldn’t leave in Manhattan just in case the mob thought about torching my building too. A photo frame with my grandparents posing on their wedding day, my first glass sculpture, the ring box housing Jimmy’s and my own wedding rings. Stuff that counted.
“You’ll need to go into Sheridan soon to pick up some more clothes. You can’t walk around like a corporate attorney every day. You’ll make people nervous.”
Irritated, because he isn’t telling me anything I don’t know, I just nod and go about opening drawers and filling them like an automaton.
By the time I’m on his last shirt, my hands are gripping the sides as guilt tears into me. With my back to him, I clench my fingers until they knot with pain and I lower my head as shame floods me.
Shame isn’t something I’m accustomed to feeling. But with Nate, it’s becoming an everyday occurrence.
“I was going to, Nate. I was going to masturbate. You caught me in time.”
“I know.”
I spin around to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough. But, you admitted it. Instead of the three punishments, you’ll get just the one tonight. What rules were you about to break, Marina?”
I stare at him, at his concerned but controlled face and whisper, “I was about to touch myself without your permission. I was about to cum without your say-so. And I guess I was defying you too.”
I hope I’m right. I’ve always had an attentive memory, but I was tired and upset last night. The rules are there, floating like ghostly apparitions at the back of my mind. I guess I’ll need to beat them in there. Carve them on to my synapses like a name on a headstone.
Christ, what a thought!
“Good. You’re learning. I expect you to make mistakes, Marina. The more you learn, the more rules you’ll be taught. It’s the way it works. That isn’t to say I don’t demand perfection. Because I do. And every time you fail me, you’ll be punished. But more than that, you’ll feel bad about not doing your best for me. That you felt it so early on, as soon as this morning is very pleasing. I’m proud of you, Marina. Very, very proud.”
Tears burst into my eyes like a shattering cloud showering the countryside with rain. That guilt, that horrible emptiness inside that came from knowing I’d deceived him, broken his rules disappears. And it’s a wonderful feeling. That and the acknowledgment that he’s proud of me? I feel like I’m floating.
It doesn’t escape my notice that a week ago, the notion of Nate being proud of me would have made me smile, grin a little and be smug that my man was proud to have me on his arm. But this, now, I’m walking on air.
I don’t understand it. Maybe I never will, but it could be something I’m not supposed to understand. Nate said my submissiveness was buried deep down, so entrenched in my nature that only being with him exposed it.
I’ve never believed in fate before, or karma, but he’s right.
God help me, he’s right.
****
The weird guilt/shame trip bubbled through me all day, spoiling the tour of the commune in a way I can’t even describe, because I don’t understand it myself. I should have enjoyed seeing the new addition to the laboratories and the extension to the art studios that now have two walls made from glass to improve the quality of light in the atrium. I should have felt pleasure in knowing that these additions and improvements occurred under my distant leadership, because these things went with my say so. I even had architects draw up the plans in Manhattan and had a local builder and tradesmen carry out the work. Instead, I wasn’t interested.
Every part of my focus was turned inward, to what I’d done that morning. And the worst part was knowing only the punishment would release me from the bubble of shame growing inside me.
Feeling this way isn’t my thing. I’m a live and let live person. Do or die. Shame is for people who like to wear hair shirts for daring to live a little. That isn’t me.
So, making the introductions to new folk and greeting those I’ve known since childhood occurred under a rather strange cloud. I’d say the majority of people who’ve known me a long time were probably wondering what the hell was the matter with me. Had life in the big city managed to separate me from a personality?
No, a night in Nate’s bedroom has done that.
Or, it has for the moment, at any rate.
It’s strange, because I was kind of dreading reconnecting with all these people, but with my mind focused elsewhere, it wasn’t the challenge I imagined. I’ve too much to think about at the moment. What with this Thoroughbred stabling issue… and even in the Twilight Zone, I haven’t failed to notice Uncle Sam or Jase are nowhere to be seen ̶ they’re definitely ducking out of the spotlight. Ha! As if their absence will stop my righteous fury at what Sam has done. I want to tackle Nate over this idea, but with this new dynamic between us, I daren’t. Things have turned so complicated, I feel like I’m living in a maze and at the moment, I’m very lost and I don’t want to lose myself even further.
These things can be dealt with tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. The commune can wait, for as always, it’s running like clockwork. The people here are too intelligent to let the place that nurtures them fall into disrepair, even if Nate has been away for a month.
I’ve chatted, smiled and greeted most of the people here. Over the coming weeks, I’ll have to talk with each of them and make sure they realize I’m here on a permanent basis. But as it is, my mind is focused on one thing only. Nate.
I don’t und
erstand how things have careered so swiftly down this path. Don’t things like this take time? Instead, not even a day after Nate made his proclamation and I accepted his terms, I’m already feeling like a different person inside.
A part of me is wailing, wondering if Nate doesn’t like me for who I am. It’s always the height of folly to go into any relationship thinking you can change your partner. And this isn’t just change. This is a categoric annihilation of who I am as a person.
Isn’t it?
The question sends droplets of acid down my soul and I know I’ll have to ask him, before I let this wound fester away. As it is, we’re in the mess eating lunch, hardly the time or place for soul-searching debates, even though tons of questions sit on the tip of my tongue.
The mess is like a medieval great hall, where everyone eats, drinks and is merry. Here missing links to formulae are debated, inspiration for art is discovered and conversation reigns supreme amongst the commune’s population. The size of three Olympic swimming pools sat side to side, it’s packed to the brim. Everybody comes here every day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then, when work is over, they return here and sit en masse. Some sit in silence, reading a book in a quiet corner, others participate.
As with any part of the commune, it’s all managed in house. Everyone is on a schedule. Some days, it’s your turn to clean, another to cook in the communal kitchen. Sometimes you’ll be out on the ranch mending fences and others; you might be working in the vegetable and herb gardens. The ranch is self-sufficient and every member here makes it that way.
Nate and I are seated in relative seclusion in two armchairs with a high table in front of us. Every seat doubles as a place to sit and relax as well as a place to eat. It’s as informal as you can get; something that hasn’t changed since my childhood. Only my parents didn’t eat here and neither did I. They broke custom to eat in their own home and have a housekeeper who kept the place clean for them as well as prepare their own meals. It wasn’t a popular decision and for me, I missed out on the social aspect of the commune. Another way I didn’t fit in, thanks to dear old mom and dad.
Just A Woman (Marina: Part Two: Naughty Nookie Series) Page 8