“Tell me what you’re thinking about?”
“Thinking about finding out what happens when I tie an anal hook to a strict neck line and see how many times you can cum tied to my bed.”
A snippet of a drunk conversation from weeks ago that I hardly expect him to remember. It’s one of many we’ve had, a bit of banter here, a tease there. Nothing makes this stand out more than any other, so when he drops the steel hook on the bed with a wicked smile, my brain simultaneously freezes and starts spinning on overdrive, and I bury my face in the pillows to keep the myriad of expressions to myself.
Want. Nervousness. A “yes, please,” so vehement that I have no idea how to sink into that level of desire. I want to run away from the overwhelming sensations, from wanting so strongly, from feeling completely exposed and vulnerable and unsure.
“Whatcha doing there?” he asks.
Muffled, lips against the pillow. “Hiding,” I respond.
Getting me to sit still is no easy feat. Movement is in my blood, and stillness has never come easily. My reflexive reaction to pleasure is to shift away from it.
Not shift; scramble. I put my feet anywhere they can find purchase and propel myself away from whatever the stimulus is. Fucking me is a bit of a chase; I’ve made it halfway up the wall without realizing it on more than one occasion.
So when the cool metal hits my skin, I move without thinking, my face still buried wherever I can find solace. Laughing. Intermittent gasps. I’m still squirming, but reached some point where my mind lost its filter and words are pouring from me like waterfalls. So as I’m moving, twisting, writhing, I’m still laughing. Gritting my teeth but answering.
“Where ya going?” he asks.
Groans, whimpers, laughs. “You’ve been fucking me for six months; you know I can’t sit still.”
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, leaning forward so his breath hits the back of my neck, hot and full of desire. The pressure eases, and I clench up again, desperate for him to keep going.
“No, please, don’t…” I whimper, hiding deeper in the pillow and blankets and curtain of hair cascading across my face.
“Then you should probably sit still and relax…”
Sit still. How do people sit still with so many thoughts spinning around at hyperspeed? Want. So much desire, and I worry that my skin is going to split from holding it. It’s pouring out of me in movement, in laughter, in words, delirious and chaotic sounds erupting from my throat, my face burning red, my legs twitching and shifting as he strokes my cunt while pressing the hook against my ass. Sit still? How the fuck am I ever going to be able to sit still?
A chuckle. “Will you if I ask nicely?”
“I think you already have.”
“What if I tell you to?”
I don’t play with power exchange much. Most of my play, most of my sex is organic, and power exchange often feels contrived in a way that I don’t know how to sink into. Besides which, I am nothing all of the time; I am a switch and feel most fulfilled in relationships where I am able to fluidly switch within those dynamics. These things don’t lend themselves well to power exchange for me.
“You don’t play with power exchange that way. Neither of us do.” The steel isn’t cold anymore, and I can feel it pressing against me as I squirm, willing myself to relax, unsure how to keep my muscles from clenching.
“No…” he says. “Not usually. But you seem pretty open to it…”
My primary kink is connection. If power exchange hasn’t often emerged in my relationships, it is a form of connection that comes up sometimes. He’s not wrong. If he told me to sit still in this moment, I would.
Gasp as he presses into me. My fingers gripping the pillow smothering my face and dampening the words that come tumbling out.
“MaybeIamopentoit.” All one word. “Maybe. Why do I say maybe when what I mean is yes?”
A final clench and I relax. “I don’t know,” he says, and pushes the hook deep inside of me. I rock back into the feeling, sensory overload wiping out whatever coherency I’ve managed to hold onto.
Rope line around my neck, the tingle in my fingertips and stars behind my vision. He pulls it taut, forcing me to my knees. Rocks me back and forth with a minor amount of force, the neck rope pulling me back into him, the hook pushing me forward and away.
“Oh, that’s convenient,” he says, and I can feel his smirk between my shoulders, his cock hard against me and I am seconds away from begging.
“You seem very pleased with yourself,” I growl in response, forcing the words out between gasps as I move in motion with his hand.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” he says, pulling me hard against him and pressing deep into me. My vision blurs, an explosion of sensation overwhelming my skin, and I lose whatever sense of shame that kept me buried in his pillow. I glance over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of his eyes, a sharp edge cutting through the playful banter and surrender into sensation without another thought.