Sipping Ivy

I had to pee during a meeting. There were maybe twenty people present. One of them, Ivy, I want to fuck. Well, not actually: I want to fill her mouth with my cock and, more than that, I want to feel her thighs press against my cheek, to feel my tongue press against her clit as my fingers probe deep inside of her. She (thinks she?) wants something else, but that’s a story for another day.

So the question raises itself: why do I want to feel her thighs press against my cheek? Why do I want to taste her cunt? To feel her quiver with pleasure? To hear her moan? To extract from her, collect from her, orgasm after orgasm? (Even though that’s not what she wants from me.)

Why is this what I want?

I’ve thought a lot about this in the past. About why I want what I want. Both generically and specifically. But it’s time for me to revisit it.

I’ll try to do it systematically:

What I want

I want to see her thighs open for me. Ideally, I want her to be wearing panties, initially. I want to breathe on, to breathe in, her cunt, through her panties. To feel the heat of her pussy through the fabric. Maybe to feel the wetness of her pussy through the fabric. In short, I want her vulnerability (her thighs open to, for, me), my privilege (her thighs open for me), her arousal (her heat, wetness, at my hand, mouth), and, ultimately, I want her to need me. I want her to feel a desperation. To plead with me to relieve the ache in her cunt with my mouth and my fingers.

What I don’t (particularly) want

I don’t (particularly) want to fuck her. She wants me to fuck her, and it’s not that I wouldn’t, that I won’t. But it’s not what I want. I don’t feel any particular hunger to satisfy her with my cock.


That’s not quite right.

I do want to feed her my cock. To satisfy her oral hunger with my cock. I want to feed her my cock, to feed her my cum. To collect her devotion with her mouth. I want her to need my cock in her mouth, to be hungry for me. But that’s the hunger I want from her.

What I want to FEEL

When I imagine her thighs quivering as my tongue flicks her clit, as my finger, my fingers, drive deep into her cunt, I imagine feeling powerful. Somehow, her size – she’s not small – enhances this sensation for me. My type is, generally, small: small women enable me to feel powerful differently. But larger women, their thighs open for me, their cunts splayed for me, their legs vibrating against my ears, make me feel particularly powerful in my ability to conjure pleasure from their bodies.

Surely, this hunger on my part to feel powerful, in this way, reflects a deeply felt sense of impotence, of vulnerability. No doubt.

Here, now, though, I’m not in touch with that sense of impotence. I’m imagining it erased by her arousal, by her desire, by her need. By her wetness, by her vibration. Maybe, maybe, by her screaming.

This need on my part also must reflect a sense of not being needed, not being desired. If she wants me, then that counters my deeply held sense of un-desirability.

And finally…. there’s something about acceptance. There’s something about her allowing me to have from her something other than what she wants to give me, about her needing to please me, above, in spite of, her own wishes and needs: that tells me, somehow, that my desires, my hungers, are valid, reasonable, ok. That medicates what surely must be a deeply felt sense that they’re not, that I’m bad, somehow, guilty, wrong, shameful, for wanting what I want.


No need to worry.

I want what I want, but I don’t always get it. In this case, it seems, I won’t.

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