Serena, tiny, wore a tan Zara bodysuit. Her nipples – as excited as the rest of her – poked through eagerly. Her smile was shy, anxious. I pressed her hard against the wall, my hand on her throat, and I kissed her.
I tossed her down, plugged in the magic wand. I flipped the switch on, and pressed it against her cunt – already visibly wet through the fabric. “Don’t come,” I commanded. Before I even started speaking, she told me to take the wand away. She was, already, close to orgasm.
Over the next ten or fifteen minutes, as I intermittently brought her to the edge of orgasm and then pulled back, I lectured Serena. Serena has told me a bunch of lies. Well, not lies exactly, so much as “self-deceptions.”
“This is a fake therapy session,” I said, “but one in which the ‘therapist’ does all the talking.”
“You’re not,” I said, “bad at texting.” I explained that when she’s clear about something, when she isn’t conflicted, she texts well. She protested a little. I cross-examined her. Her protest didn’t survive cross-examination. I’m correct. She’s fine at texting, except when there’s ambivalence, internal conflict.
“You’re not,” I said, “bad at managing your time.” I pointed out that she juggles three or four jobs. That she has a really fucking complicated schedule. And that she does so pretty optimally. “No,” I said, “You’re committed to not making time for anything that complicates your current ambitions.” That’s different. She didn’t argue with me so much on this one. She manages her time exquisitely well, balancing all those jobs, multiple relationships – relationships that are familial, that are social, that are sexual. I don’t know if she uses Google Calendar or what, but she has a complicated schedule, and she. is. on. top. of. it.
No, I explained to her. What she’s bad at, when it comes to managing her time, is allowing herself to engage with people in ways that complicate the psychic work she has to do to permit her to work as hard as she’s working. And engaging with me complicates that psychic work. In spades.
Serena relies heavily on dissociation. We all do to greater or lesser extents, when we work demanding jobs. Serena’s at the far end of this. She really can’t live her current life and reflect on it at the same time.
And I represent a challenge: not the time involved in seeing me (although, of course, I would love to consume enough of her time to present that sort of challenge). No – we barely have seen one another. The challenge I represent is the thinking involved in seeing me, the feelings involved in seeing me. It’s engaging with the fact that I’m a human, that she likes me, that she likes spending time with me. That when we interact, I see her, I hear her. I listen to her, pay attention to her, make her feel good – and not only do I make her feel good, but I do so in ways that extend beyond her clit.
All that? Not so convenient for her in the current moment.
I don’t know if we’ll be able to make it work, if we’ll be able to thread the needle of her needs and mine.
Anyway – I told her all this, or something to that effect. I basically said, look, don’t tell me you don’t text well, don’t tell me you don’t manage your time well. Tell me you’re struggling to figure out whether, where, to fit me into your life. I can handle that.
And, I added…. we’ve alternated, for the most part, between your construction of how we should be and my construction. And I didn’t say this, but it’s true: we really haven’t come anywhere near my preferred construction. Because I would love to cage Serena, to have her be my girlfriend, to have her submit to me not just in the bedroom, but across the week. This is nowhere near possible, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. So anyway: we’ve alternated, I said, and that, I think, is probably where any future for us lies – in alternation, in blending. Not in our doing it her way, not in our doing it my way. But in our navigating to some path that lies somewhere in between.
With the wand against her clit, with an orgasm near, Serena agreed. The words I’d spoken were true, and we were on the same page. We would try a sort of hybrid alternation.
Ok, I said. Now it’s my turn.
I lay down. I told her I wasn’t at all certain that she would be having an orgasm that day. I told her it was one hundred percent certain that I would not be going down on her. (In one of my fantasies of how the day would go, I imagined simply directing her to do nothing other than give me a lengthy handjob. In another, I imagined demanding we replace the planned sex date with a simple cup of coffee.)
I’m not going to write out all the details of the sex itself. Suffice it to say, Serena did come – and she came enough, and hard enough, that she had a problem having drenched her bodysuit. I came, too, deep in her mouth, as I pressed the wand against her cunt. And in between, we had a ton of fun. I made a video of her getting herself off with the wand, using her phone. I don’t have that video. 🙁
I made three audio recordings. One, of her getting herself off. One, of me getting her off. And one, of the final climax, in which we both came. FUCK are they all hot.
Anyway: we have another plan. A few days from now. This one, fully, on my terms.