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I don’t know where to start. I never know where to start. Day, night? There is no beginning. So let’s start in the evening.

It’s dark outside and you’re sitting at your computer again. That wretched little thing stealing hours and hours of your time. (When you sit at the computer I sulk. But I don’t tell you). I don’t do much of anything. I don’t want to engage with the world. Even reading or watching movies is too much of an intrusion. I blend out the outside and my world ends with the circle of light that the lamp throws in the dark. I’m glad about the darkness, I don’t want to see or hear from the outside. (You’re reading the news).

I want to walk over, again, and squeeze in between you and the screen and sit on your lap. Look at me. Hold me. Tell me all the sweet things you say. Fuck me. But I do that too often, so I stay on the sofa, sulking secretly.

Finally, after a long time and too much waiting, you get up: “Is it time for bed?” You always ask. Like I might object, as if I might say “No, not yet” (That’s your line). You turn away from me to walk towards the bathroom and I scramble to catch you before you reach the door. It may only be 10 minutes until we’re in bed, until you’re fucking me, but I need you to hold me now. I need your hands to give me shape, hold me together and stop me from melting down in a puddle of soft, tender nothing.

Your voice is always gentle, when you tell me what you want. They’re questions, suggestions, not orders. Sometimes I’m tempted to wait and see what happens if I don’t do it. Sometimes I try, but don’t last long. Knowing what you want compels me. (Like now. You wanted me to write. So here I am, writing). Sometimes I try to resist, but I fail, did you know that? When I hesitate for a moment, maybe not even long enough to notice. Every time I wonder: “Will I…?” And before I have time to answer my question, I do.

Except that one time. I took my mouth off your cock and looked at you. You said “more”, twice, but I didn’t move. Then you reached for my hair and I was back on your cock before I even really felt your hand. I ache for you to hurt me. Sometimes I want to provoke you, but I can’t. Not even when I try. If I try to resist what you want, my body takes over and there we are.

There we are, in bed, you hug me tight with your head on my chest. It makes me slightly uncomfortable, looking down at you feels wrong. I should be looking up at you.

You bite my breasts. The bruises you leave are shallow, soft edged. I want to keep them, but they fade so fast, green, yellow, gone. (Even that accidental bruise on my pinky from having my hand in the wrong place when you slammed the trunk shut. It’s almost grown out now). The fading reminds me of how far away you are too much of the time. I want something permanent, but it’s too soon. It’s too soon for so many of the things we say. We say them anyhow, and then we say “after May” or “next year”.

I dread that moment when you put your finger to my lips, every time I’m scared that some part of me will rebel, will block me, will get in the way. But it doesn’t happen. It never happens. I slide down and curl up at the bottom of the bed. I never quite know what to do. Not because I don’t know, but I want to do everything at once.

I love feeling you grow in my mouth. At the same time I’m impatient. I can’t wait for you to fuck me. But I also don’t want to stop. Bit by bit I let the other thoughts go and focus on your cock. Teased and pleased. If my world ended with the circle of light the lamp throws around us before, it now shrinks even further. When you tell me to touch myself it’s an interruption, unwelcome. I don’t want to get distracted. I want your cock to be the center of my attention, I’m single minded that way. There’s no space for anything but pleasing you, I want to lose myself and not be reminded of me.

Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I take my mouth off your cock to tell you that, to plead: “please don’t make me”. But usually, you insist. If you tell me to touch myself, you want me to edge. As fast and close as possible. It’s not that easy though. I’m still single minded. I forget my fingers on my clit. I have to remind myself, tear my attention away from your cock, force myself to keep moving my fingers and pay attention to my clit.

I’m always glad if you help me with this: If you put your hand on my head and start fucking my mouth. It’s easier than splitting my attention. And my clit reacts to your hand on the back of my head, to you setting the pace. (I can’t tell if you’re holding back sometimes. Sometimes I wish you were just a bit more forceful and helped me take you in deeper).

When you tell me to touch myself you want me to edge hard and fast. What I don’t tell you is that it would be harder and faster if you would keep talking to me. I don’t tell you because I don’t know if it would make me come. And I don’t want to come. I never want to come when I’m with you. You make me though, no matter how much I ask you not to. At the beginning of the night I tell you: “I don’t want to come. Please don’t make me come tonight.” And you promise, but too often you break that promise. I hold on for as long as I can and I last longer than I thought I would. Sometimes, instead of asking you to stop, I move through the orgasms, folding them back onto themselves. Each one has a different colour, taste and vibrance. I collect the orgasms I don’t have. I’d like to have a scrapbook and paste them in carefully so I can leaf back later and think “The blue is pretty” or “It smells like wet earth on a spring morning”.

But we’re not there yet. I’m still curled up, with my hand between my legs and my mouth locked onto your cock. I want to stay there. In the beginning, when I was getting close, sometimes I would stop too soon. I didn’t want to risk going over. Sometimes I would worry I took too long. But I learned to judge better and get closer. Every time I get close I want to come. I want to feel it, not only anticipate it. I try to last longer before I stop, to taste more, less worried to go over the edge now. Each time, for a split second the thought: “What if I don’t stop? I could just continue. I WANT to go on.” But I don’t, and your cock in my mouth soothes the crash, softens the edge.

But still, the crash makes me want to slump over with the loss and sudden emptiness (When you’re not here, I usually kneel to edge and my body follows the crash down, and I press my forehead against the ground until I have calmed down). But now I don’t do any of this, I restrain myself and make sure that I don’t take my mouth off your cock.

I always wait for you to tell me “more” but you rarely do. I always want more, I want to get lost, I want to lose myself and I would if you let me. I always want more and sometimes I ask: “Can I…?” (I hate having to take my mouth off your cock to talk, if only for a couple of words. I have a dialogue with myself: What do I want more?)

I love the nights when, as I’m crashing, you grip my head and fuck my mouth until you come. I feel like I should be able to tell when you’re close, but I can’t and when your cock starts pulsating I’m never expecting it. I lick you clean and I want to say: “Again!” Instead I say “Thank you.”

But not tonight, not yet. You pull me up and grab a condom. I hate that moment when I’m on my back and you’re between my legs, almost there but I can’t feel you yet. It takes too long, you’re too far away. You’re too far away most of the time, even when you’re so close.

Here is a new reason why I like to edge, why I don’t want to come, and why I need to edge more than you will let me: The tension makes my pussy tight, so tight it hurts when you push into me. I want to be even tighter for you and I wish the pain would last longer, it would hurt more. And every time you make me come you take that away.

On my back, I raise my leg and you lay down half besides and half on top of me. One leg beneath you, held down by your weight, you trap the other one under yours and I’m pinned down, with not much more space for movement than a bit of wiggling.

"Whose pussy is that?" You ask
“Yours” I say.
“What is it for?”
“Your pleasure”
“Does my pussy come?”
“No”
“Never” I want to say, and sometimes I do.