Saya and I met at 3pm, so not exactly a nooner. She told me that, apart from bona fide boyfriends, this was the first time she’d ever had sex in the middle of the day. Then she corrected herself: the first time sober. Saya is something of a party girl. She was dressed, as I had requested, in jeans and a nipply white tank top. The jeans weren’t that low-waisted (my request), but she told me it’s been years since she’s even worn pants, that in a skirt or dress she feels powerful, and to dress in pants is to forsake some of her feminine power. This is news to me, but I can’t say it surprises me, either about Saya or about the world. She referred to what she was wearing as “a model’s off-duty fit,” and she certainly could pass for an off-duty model, her smooth caramel skin highlighted by the white cotton through which her nipples cheerfully tried to escape.
We met in the bar of one of my favorite hotels, but the bar itself was closed. The bartender was busy distributing tea lights and the like to the various tables, and a sign on the bar announced, “We’ll be open at four.”
“Shall we go upstairs?” I asked Saya. Sure, she said, but not before showing me a picture of a flamboyantly dressed, silver-haired friend of hers. And by silver, I don’t mean silver the color that my hair would be if I had hair. I mean silver the color of my grandmother’s table lighter.
We went to room 305.
We kissed.
I pinched her right nipple hard enough to elicit a protest, and I took out the wand I had brought. At about the same moment, she took out the mini-wand I had bought her, a while back whose condition of purchase she had post facto rejected. “I’m returning your wand to you,” she said. I’ve accepted a wand or two back in my life, and commanded the destruction of another one or two – it seems I don’t easily give up the hope that a woman will accept a wand for me and comply with my demanding, restrictive conditions. And to be fair, more than a few women have complied, have given me one or two or dozens of orgasms.
My condition is usually the same: For as long as we’re involved, I own the orgasms produced by this vibrator. Whether that means I get the audio, or I get the video, or I have to give permission, or I simply have to be told, some combination of these has characterized every wand gift I’ve given. Every vibrator gift I’ve given.
Saya has complied partially. She’s had a couple of orgasms without my okay, and without my hearing or seeing. So, that’s non-compliance. But she’s also come for me three times now on Zoom. As long as that’s available to me, I’m feeling okay. I’ll take it. So “No,” I said, “don’t return the wand. Just keep it. And feel a little guilty if you have an orgasm without sharing it with me.”
And then, pretty soon, she checked her phone. Saya works during the day from home. Technically, she was working now. She had an email from her boss who wanted something from her. “Go ahead,” I said. “It’s okay with me if you do a little work.” I pressed the wand against her pussy through her jeans. “How long do you think it will take?” She moaned, let out a sigh, and said something I didn’t quite hear. “What?”
“A few minutes,” she said.
“Two? Ten? Twenty? More?”
She said maybe two.
I lay her down on the bed, still wearing her jeans and her nipply white tank top. As she typed on her iPhone, (I don’t understand people typing – swiping clearly is superior) I took out a paddle and started swatting at her ass. I positioned the big wand under her pussy, pressing up against her clit. I took the second wand, the mini wand, and pressed it against her asshole through her jeans.
She writhed a little. She writhed some more. It didn’t take her long to realize, or conclude, that the task her boss had asked her to perform was somehow not possible. Later she explained to me how and why it was not possible (its impossibility didn’t involve my ministrations). But for the time being, she somewhat dramatically flung her phone on the shelf at the foot of the bed. I lifted her legs, placed her feet on my shoulders so her knees were bent, and pressed the wand against her once again, against her jeans. This was a good position. It gave me a good angle. I had good leverage. I snapped a few pictures.
Saya has an ambivalent relationship to my photography. She lets me do it. And she likes looking at the pictures I take. But she also protests, saying she doesn’t let anyone take pictures of her, and she doesn’t want her face in any pictures. I scrupulously comply. I avoid her face as much as I can. And then, even while we were still together, even while she was sucking my cock, I scrolled through some of the photos I’d taken, identifying a couple in which her face was vaguely visible, slightly, and deleted them.
After a bit of the wand against her jeans, I pulled her jeans off, and we repeated a bit with her black bikini panties. At some point, I had her take off her shirt, revealing her delicious b-cup [my audio transcription rendered this as “beef cut”] breasts. She agrees with me that they’re delicious. When she’s turned on, she cranes her neck down far to lick her nipple. It seems always her left nipple, or at least that’s the only one I’ve seen her lick. I took her panties off soon enough, and now it was time for my tongue.
For thirty minutes, I feasted on her pussy, experimenting with lightly tickling her clit, pressing more firmly, sticking one and two fingers in, curling my fingers, making a come here motion, and pressing up against the roof of her pussy, pulling toward me. Her first orgasm did not take that long. At least, it didn’t feel like it took that long. I believe it was about twenty minutes. “Time for you to suck my cock,” I said, after we snuggled and she bathed, she said, in oxytocin.
She pulled my jeans off, completely inverting them inside out. She pulled my black cotton boxers off, and lowered her face onto me. For the next twenty minutes or so, Saya sucked. That’s not a complaint, or a criticism. It’s a description. Humbly, expertly, she licked and slurped and sucked. After about ten minutes, she sort of shyly looked up at me and said, “Do you want to fuck?”
I know that Saya likes fucking. I know that Saya likes fucking me. I know she likes the feel of my cock inside of her. And, me being me, that’s just not something that has been a big feature of any of our time together. Today, it was. Or, at least by N standards, it was. I didn’t immediately accede to her question, her suggestion, her request phrased as a question. But soon enough, I did. I grabbed a condom and had her sit herself on my cock.
And for the next stretch of minutes – ten, fifteen, twenty? – she rode me. I drove her, my hands on her thighs, my hands on her hips, my thumb on her clit, my hand pressing one of the wands against her clit while she rode me, a hand choking her, a hand pulling her by her ass back and forth on me. I stayed hard longer than I have in a long time while fucking. Truth be told, it’s really been a couple of years since fucking was regularly part of my sexual landscape. And it’s been since Trump one that I was capable of doing it in any meaningful way for any length of time.
And, of course, fucking never has been my favorite. Today, though, as I said, at least in N terms, there was a shit ton of fucking. I did lose my hard-on at a certain point, pushed her off of me, went down on her some more, collected another orgasm, had her suck my cock some more, as well as having her model some of the clothing I had brought for her, some sexy stockings and tights, a slinky bodycon dress. And then it was time for another round of fucking. This round was longer, and it featured more playfulness.
There had been a fair amount of play in the first go-round. What with Saya dancing to the music on my cock, with our moving together in ways that were simply comic, and so on. At one point, she chuckled, “We’re playing!” I agreed. We were playing. And it was fun. I wanded her for a while as she rode my cock, and then, inevitably, though forgivably given how long it had been in this go-round, my cock softened a bit and slipped out. It wasn’t hard enough to go back in. I repositioned her, and put my mouth between her legs once more.
I think I might have double-counted one of the orgasms. My memory is that there were two, not three. So maybe I’m positioning one of them in the wrong place in this story. But regardless, she came again, and told me this was unusual for her. That’s more orgasms than normal. We took one more break, I took some more photos. She looked delicious in that slinky bodycon dress, and the black polka dot stockings I’d gotten her.
“Are you ready to drain my cock?” I asked. “I won’t make you work hard, or long.”
She said, “The question isn’t am I ready, the question is are you ready?”
“I am,” I said. “You know I can go forever, but I’m ready.”
Saya lowered her mouth onto me one last time, and I was ready. Good and ready. About a minute after she started, I thrusted up. “I’m about to give you my cum,”* I said. And then I did, shooting a surprisingly large load into her mouth. A load so large, that a fair amount of it exploded back onto me.
Or so I thought for a moment. “I think I just threw up on you,” she said. And when I looked down, I saw that she was right.
“That’s hot,” I said.
She said, “No it’s not!”
I said, “Yeah it is.”
She cleaned me up a little, with a pillowcase. I said, “Don’t worry about it, I’m going to shower.”
We chatted for a few minutes longer. She dressed, I didn’t. And she left me, to clean myself off in the shower.
* When I started this blog, I wrote the word “cum” all the time. After a while, I decided “come” is a verb and “cum” is a noun. I haven’t written “cum“ in forever, and, writing it now, I don’t like it. 🙁