So, if you’ve read my latest blog post, the first one ever written by my beautiful partner Crush (and if you haven’t, do, this will make slightly more sense), you’ll have realised that I found myself entering a singularly unusual sexy situation just the other evening. I came home and up the stairs to Crush’s room, opening the door to a strange, but undoubtedly erotic, sight. Sprawled on the bed was Crush, strapped by his ankles and wrists to the under-the-bed restraints, wearing his sexy green shirt open to reveal his chest. He was wearing his jeans, but they were pushed down to his knees. He was bare from his knees right up to his neck.
But I didn’t get to see everything. Oh, no. His head was covered by what turned out to be a cider box, it’s side covered in white paper on which was drawn a head with a question mark for a face. Covering his cock was a homemade cardboard “Censored” bar that obscured what I assumed was his erection. A new vase of flowers stood on the chest of drawers and four red ones had been plucked from it and draped across his legs artfully. The computer screen showed a fantastic, and sarcastic, mini-essay about gender and objectification. Crush’s words explain this whole set-up best.
Nonetheless, a picture does speak a thousand words…
I was… well, flabbergasted. I’m not often lost for words of any kind. This left me speechless in surprise, shock… I was assailed by both the fact that Crush had planned something elaborate and thoughtful for me but also by the absolute absurdity and weirdness of the situation. I flailed helplessly for a moment before Crush drew my attention to my camera sat on his desk. I knew I had to take advantage of the situation. I stripped off my clothes and spent a few minutes restraining myself from touching him, taking photos of his beautiful body and his strange… art installation? I knew that once we really got started, none of this would go back the way it was.
Putting the camera down, I removed the flowers from Crush’s legs and put all but one of them back in the vase. I sat down next to him on the bed, naked, and began to run the petals of the flower head over his exposed skin. I trailed the flower over his chest, his arms, his thighs, then excruciatingly slowly up the length of his cock from base to tip. He sighed and I took to varying the sensations over his body: the edge of the petals, the face of the flower, the tip of the stalk. Each of them trailed over his flesh and teased his nerve endings. He couldn’t see except for a crack at the base of his head-box, which helped magnify the strange sensations.
I was peppering my exploration of his body with frequent spluttering cries of “You are actually mad, you know that?”, “I love you!” and “What on Earth possessed you?”. He explained a bit more of his thinking behind it all and mentioned in passing that the particular feminist he’d been reading had said something along the lines of that it was possible for women to objectify men but that it meant that they were basically really men and vice versa. My gender-bending kink pricked its ears up at this point.
“So, that means I’m a guy….” I said.
I know that genderfuck doesn’t really do it for Crush and that he still finds the whole idea a bit out of his comfort zone, but I was pleased to hear him reply so positively. Then he said a word that sent an honest-to-God jolt through my pussy and up into my brain.
“Master,” he called me.
I couldn’t even tell you why that did it for me or why that thought still does it for me. It’s something I feel rather than think. I like to analyse my kinks, of course, because it’s interesting; I’m just not very good at it.
Nonetheless, the word “Master” coursed through my body in a way it never has when I’ve said it in submission to a man. It was true arousal, devoid of thought, a direct line to my body. I grinned and he said it again. The rest of the evening, in fact, was spattered with it.
I removed his homemade “Censored” bar and took him in my mouth. I might have been nominally in control, Crush might have been wanting me to take the lead, but I still wanted to give him pleasure. That and the fact that he’d done this all for me, the fact that chemistry was powering my mostly-a-sub body more than intellect or emotion, meant that I was finding it hard to be anything other than pliant and grateful. But I love to suck him. His cock tastes beautiful, feels wonderful in my mouth and smells so good to me. His come, I’ll be honest, I can take or leave. But his cock…
Not too long in, I had a better idea. Sucking Crush’s cock was fun, but I wanted to tease and torture him at the same time. I straddled his chest facing his feet, took my beloved Tango vibrator from the bedside and placed it, buzzing, between my pussy lips. It nestled helpfully between my body and his, pinned by his taut chest and my folds, as I leant forward to suck him again.
It wasn’t the easiest of positions, let me tell you. I was awkwardly placed to keep hold of his cock as I needed my hands to prop my body up on all fours. When I shifted position, the Tango would sometimes move about and once made a beeline up Crush’s chest to rumble by his collarbone. But it was worth it when I moaned hard around his cock and came, shuddering, on top of him, my pussy mere inches from his obscured face.
I wanted him inside me and he readily agreed. He suggested I stay facing his feet and give reverse cowgirl a go, something we’ve never tried before. Again, it turned out not to be the easiest task, but to be worth it. I falteringly guided him inside me as I straddled him around the hips and called him my bitch. My slut. He called me his Master.
He could still peek out of the bottom of his box and I wondered briefly what the view, if really any, was like for him. It was a much more awkward position for me and for the ease of thrusting/riding than the usual girl-on-top, but the novelty (and the vibrator I held to my clit) made up for that. Adventure, after all, is exciting. Trying something new together, whether a resounding success or just a new sensation, is a wonderful experience. Whilst it’s not a position we’ll go back to regularly, the discovery was wonderful.
I dismounted and turned to face him, adding some lube to his cock for an effortless re-entry. This time, I’d go for “normal” cowgirl. It was just too hard to let go and come when I was in the other, more awkward, position. When it suited me, I pulled the cardboard box from his head, leaving him blinking up at me in the bright light of the bedroom. I know he loves to see me anew after being deprived. He started to up the frequency of his dirty comments to me and I lapped them up, asking for more, more, more. I bounced on his cock and he thrust up into me, making himself mine with every one of his utterances, giving himself to me with his body. Before long I was asking from one phrase and one phrase only, on repeat, as I climbed towards my summit.
“Please come, Master.”
He begged, he pleaded with those words. I shook, the Tango still at my clit, the sweat coating my skin, my knees weak with exertion. And I came. I came perhaps as hard as I’ve ever come. I talk big sometimes with metaphors and similes and rhetoric, I write my orgasms as storms and bullies and destruction. This was cataclysm. When it finished, I could barely speak, barely move, barely think. My body could support myself no longer and I let myself tumble sideways from Crush’s body. I fumbled, dumb, a zombie, at his nearest wrist strap, releasing him from his bonds and told him to fuck me again. I demanded that he take me as I recovered on my back.
And he did. His cock slid inside my honestly quite battered pussy, my pleasure-weakened body. This fuck was for him. His time to come. I told him as much and he certainly didn’t hold back. His Master spoke firmly to her little slut, goading him, urging him on until he too came hard, gasping, panting.
He collapsed onto me and we athletes rested our tired, hot, sticky bodies in each others’ arms. And I’ll tell you something: as they say “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.”
And Crush’s exhibition was certainly a resounding, earth-shattering, love-tempering success. ♦
