Erotica: Spring Awakening (Part 13)

I am being sucked into something that confuses me. On the one hand, I am going with the flow. On the other, I am feeling myself drawing close to familiar waters that scare me. Where once, I was happy to see my lover without making any plans for when we will see each other again, I am finding myself increasingly drawn to simply being with him. I am endlessly fascinated by him – and my cunt pulses in echo of his touch: remembering his words as much as our bodies.

Words have power. Some have more than others. A mutter that I am, ‘Dirty,’ a whispered crude confession, an insight showing he has not just listened to me but though about and researched a response. All have their own strength, from bouncing round my mind until I have no option but to get my Doxy and bring myself to orgasm in an attempt to regain focus; to mentally sparking new ideas whether lewd or intellectual.

It is the most intense head-fuck I have ever experienced: one minute we are engaged in discussion about the impact of globalisation, the next his fist is in my cunt while his tongue laps at my clit and my head explodes with an overload of images and sensations.

His mind makes my cunt wet. His body stretches mine, if not yet to its limits at least enough to leave a pleasing ache reminding me of his touch. My mind is stimulated and my body tingles and fizzes, even in his absence, set alive by stroking and pinching, caressing and violating.

The violation is more-than-willing. He knows exactly how far to push me and I relinquish my body to him because he plays it more skilfully than I do. Another’s touch is always more compelling than your own when it comes to the kinkier side of play. There is an element of surprise that you are unable to give yourself. Perhaps this is why I value it more highly than ‘normal’ sex – though he and I are yet to have ‘normal’ sex. Every experience has been new. I have been in my body for the first time. And he has taken control of it through his sensuality and willingness to experiment.

There is something oddly compelling about the way in which he takes in each new experience, plays, questions, researches and returns full of new tricks – many of which surprise me. It shows an attention to detail that suggests he may value sex as highly as I do: as something to be appreciated and savoured, slowly turned over and examined from every angle to find new and unexplored joys. He shows an innate skill for power play that many seasoned fetishists would admire. We flip from role to role without planning, with little more than the shift of a hip, a mild pressure from the thighs, a glint in the eye.

I enjoy dressing up for him. I have always loved dressing up – not for fashion. That bores me – the idea that everyone must wear certain clothes to conform with a uniform ideal. But I have recently discovered the joys of using my clothes to express my mood, from flirty summer dresses to sprayed-on leather and long lace-up boots. It is an easy way to shorthand my selves. My clothes simplify explaining that I am feeling a need to be ravaged or a desire to take charge. They help me embrace my different aspects. In floral net-skirted girliness, I feel frivolous and flirtatious, open to ideas but wide-eyed and innocent. In skin tight shiny jeans and an under-bust corset that lifts my breasts up presenting my nipples to suck and bite, I feel mischievous and dominant, sexy and demanding. I do not know whether the clothes inspire me to embrace my ‘role’ or my mood makes me choose appropriate attire. But I know that it makes my lover’s cock hard. In turn, this makes my cunt wet as I dress, imagining his reaction.

The first time he texted me telling me what to wear, politely and with an inbuilt compliment, I felt a surge of outrage that converted to a pulse in my cunt before it had a chance to reach my brain. I had confessed my submissive side. He was starting to play. That idea overwhelmed all else and I got wetter by the second as I chose the perfect outfit to suit his request.

I have never put so much care and attention into what I wear for a lover before. It is not about pleasing him as indulging both of us. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered by his instantly hard cock and intake of breath when he sees me in something ‘sexy’. He is clear in his appreciation: actions speak louder than words and his are deafening. Even now, hours after he has left me, my pussy is spasming. My pelvis aches pleasantly yet my cunt still wants more: surprising as he brought me to one of the hardest orgasms of my life shortly before he left.

I have never experienced living in the now to the extent that I do with him. Time passes in a whirl, whether we are talking or fucking, eating or kissing. Afterwards, I am shell-shocked. Each time we see each other brings so many new experiences and ideas that my brain does not have time to log what is happening. I try to recall what we have done but it is a blur of kissing and conversation, hands wandering and bodies pressing. Keeping even a loose chronology of the sex is hard as each time pushes different boundaries whether physical, emotional or both. It is hard to keep track of what’s going on when you’re too busy coming.

I am learning to open up. It is not without its struggle. I am trying to take my own pleasure for the first time but it is hard to fight ingrained patterns. Just as I fight my urge for constant contact, knowing that way is a perilous route doomed to failure, and is a sure-fire way to kill the passion we share, so I have to fight my learned response of making the right noises to please a partner and using technology to fill the gaps in my desire; or simply putting my own orgasm on the back seat.

He enjoys making me come. And I enjoy letting him tease and pleasure me. He is so skilful that I never know what is coming next: particularly as he clearly enjoys surprising me. There is a glint in his eyes that adds a level of danger, the perfect balance to his everyday compassion and empathy; a flash of darkness that keeps things interesting.

I am certain I cannot predict what he will do if he has me tied up. And that just makes me want to relinquish control all the more. At root, I know I can trust him. But I also trust he will push my limits. He has already shown hints that this may be the case.

The longer I know him, the more confused I become. I want him with a hunger that is animal and raw: seeing him makes me want to straddle him and kiss him deeply, feeling his cock rise as I grind against him; or softly and sensually kiss him until we lose all sense of where we are and our bodies start to rock together; or be pinned against a wall by him, arms above my head and slowly but firmly kissed while his thigh parts my own and presses hard against my clit, and his cock hardens in anticipation of all the things he’s going to make me do. He sparks my imagination in too many directions to even keep a clear narrative when I’m wanking about him. Which I am doing a lot.

It does not help that he knows how to use my wand more skilfully than I do – though I am learning from his example. I always went for the hard and fast option but he has opened my eyes to the joys of more leisurely exploration, less direct contact, more teasing – and having someone else in charge.

I fight hard for control of my life but I relax when he makes me submit sexually. It took me a while to convince him that he really could do so: that I meant the filthy things I whispered when I was high on delayed gratification, horny-honest. It goes two ways, of course. I find equal joy in having him at my mercy – particularly when I see the sparkle in his eyes.

Knowing he wants me is intoxicating. It is not about satisfying neediness – though I did consider whether that might be at play. But I do not seek his validation. I want to turn him on because it turns me on: and because his aroused response turns me on even more. I want to fully rouse his inner darkness and feel it bend my body to his will – knowing full well that he will take as much as he gives.

My head is a blur. My thoughts are not straight. I want him but I am scared of slipping into mundanity. I do not want to kill the desire with relationship talk and reality: but I do not want to have fun purely on the fantasy plane. It would be easy to let sex subsume all that we share: my cunt is demanding enough that I could happily spend hours with our bodies entwined and connected – not least because he makes me wait for my pleasure. The anticipation tightens my pelvis and fires my cunt. Even when sated, the heat still lingers because he spends so long building it. I have never felt so much of my body engaged in sex before. I have never felt so alive afterwards.

Actions are easy. Words less so. I am feeling a building pressure to talk about ‘the relationship’, ‘feelings’, the conversations that all too often suck the life out of a pairing and formalise it in a way that kills all passion. Expectations feel as if they are lurking in the wings but I do not want to add pressure to what we have by tying it down with sloppy language. A condom with the words, ‘Love me’ written (I think, inappropriately) on its wrapper raised the issue – or rather, stopped it from rising. I hadn’t explained the condom beforehand, hoping it would pass unnoticed in the heat of passion. It had almost been enough to stop me from buying the pack but they were cheap and it’s always best to be prepared. I do not want to get into conversations about love. It is too loose a term to be meaningful and too loaded a term not to inspire baggage.

I do not want to define what we share as I do not understand what is happening. There is too much to comprehend, too much to fantasise about. I am avoiding thinking about the situation, outside my writing. I am indulging my fantasies 3, 4, 5 times per day. I am loath to label it a honeymoon period, such are the connotations with marriage, but I am curious as to how long it will last. He is sexually interesting enough to spark my imagination in a way that I doubt will lose its charm. How much of it is mere curiosity to him remains to be seen.

I know how powerful a force sex can be. I enjoy exploring with him too much to stop it, no matter how much it may cloud reality. He is more pragmatic, less sexually-driven than I am. I am yet to discover whether this is his, ‘walk on the wild side’, taking advantage of a rare opportunity to fully indulge any filthy inclinations he has; or whether there is more appeal beyond the sex. I am yet to discover whether his desires run deep or are simply backed-up fantasies that, once realised, will become mundane to him.

It is obvious he values his independence. It is also obvious that he enjoys my company. Even before the sex we were spending more time with each other than I was with anyone else. And I also value my independence, though it is currently hard not to subsume myself into being nothing more than my lovers’ lover, so intense is my desire. I do not want to become someone’s adjunct. But I find myself enjoying having shared plans and mutual desires, sexually and otherwise. I am drawn to stability but I do not trust it. I need to be careful not to introduce instability in order to make it feel familiar. I do not want to push this away.

I can feel him taking a step back, even as we step into greater sexual intimacy. I would be lying if I said this doesn’t raise any alarms, but I am determined not to make my usual mistake and fall prey to anxieties. Whatever happens, happens. The situation is complex. It is taking me time to understand and absorb what is going on, and I am far from confident that I have a grasp on it even now. Knowing he is not simply plunging headlong into the situation without thought and consideration is oddly reassuring.

Of course, finding commitmentphobia compelling highlights my own issues. But I am rapidly realising that, while I have no desire for trite declarations and labels, or ‘traditional’ markers of involvement, I do enjoy being with him. And I would like to do it some more.

Read Part One of Spring Awakening
Read Part Two of Spring Awakening
Read Part Three of Spring Awakening
Read Part Four of Spring Awakening
Read Part Five of Spring Awakening
Read Part Six of Spring Awakening
Read Part Seven of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eight of Spring Awakening
Read Part Nine of Spring Awakening
Read Part Ten of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eleven of Spring Awakening
Read Part Twelve of Spring Awakening
Read Part Fourteen of Spring Awakening

Posted in Cliterati Magazine

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