Jude gives me what I want

Mostly.

“Edge for me,” I say. “Show me your thighs and cunt, first. When you’re done, show me your pretty face.”

A few minutes, or a few hours, later, my phone vibrates with a text containing her muscular thighs, her swollen pussy, in her lycra shorts. “I’m starting,” she says.

And a minute or two later, “I’m stopping,” accompanied by a shot of her pretty face, her eyes sleepy, happy, hungry.

“Again, please,” I write. “This time, open your thighs wider. Put your fingers on the edge of your shorts. Or press against your clit.”

Almost instantly, her thighs are splayed before me. Her finger presses her clit. “Starting….” And, moments later, her face again. “Stopping.”

When we started this little game, over a week ago, I thought it would be a few days before she asked, or begged, to come. But Jude is oppositional. Defiant. She enjoys this tease at least as much as I do. She enjoys the frustration, the anticipation. She enjoys seeing the power she wields over my cock, over my attention.

She doesn’t communicate very much. Doesn’t tell me she’s aching, or dying to come. The closest she’ll come to that is to answer, “Abused!” to my, “How’s your pussy doing?”

Of course, Jude holds all the power here. She could come the moment she chooses. (She may have done so already, though I doubt that.) She could tell me she’s through with my abuse, with my hunger, with my withholding.

She hasn’t done those things. I don’t think she will.

When Jude has sex with men (or boys, as she calls them), she never, ever comes. They don’t know what they’re doing, it seems. I’ve heard this a lot from younger women. It baffles me. To my mind, if a man (a boy) doesn’t get you off, you should either get yourself off using him or show him the fuck how to do it.

But we humans find sex, communication about sex, fraught. We want to be pleased perfectly, and not to (have to) articulate our desires, our needs. We want them simply to be known, anticipated, met, wordlessly.

In my experience, this simply isn’t how sex works. Good sex (and it seems most sex isn’t good) requires communication in 20 different registers. With words, breaths, sighs. Bucks, winces, leanings. Curses and moans. Pushes and pulls. Instructions, directions, requests, pleas. Hands gripping, flailing, stroking, slapping, punching, pressing.

A woman sucking my cock may hear a torrent of curses and instructions from me. I may push her head down, pull it up. I may wrap her hair around my fist to make her head an extension of my arm. Or I may simply lie back, relaxed, and allow her to take from, to give to, my cock what she wishes.

What I need.

My cock aches as I imagine Jude’s cunt, wet, puffy, needy. She’s far away, and there’s no telling that if she weren’t, things would be different. But I like to imagine her giving me the opportunity to test her hypothesis that men don’t, can’t, get her off.

And, in the meantime, I collect her generous images of her lovely, muscular thighs, of her not so sweet, but definitely tasty, face. Of her thick, strong ass and her smallish, round breasts.

I don’t know that Jude will beg for me to ask her to come for me, to give her permission to release the pent-up pressure building in her abdomen, and lower.

But I hope she will.

I’m ready.