Desire

Desire–what fuels it and feeds it, fans its flames or dampens it, drives us mad with lust or turns us cold–is a strange thing.  Fickle or demanding, imperious at times, ephemeral and fleeting at others. I myself have odd, disjointed fantasies, many of which I’d not care to share with anyone that didn’t understand that they are just fantasies, not something I’d ever want to do for real.

Or would I? I wonder how many of the really “edgy” fantasies I would actually allow to play out. How many would I encourage, or even ask for, if I could find the words, if I could voice them?

Better, perhaps, that they live in my head.

And it is in our heads that desires lives, that it is born and flourishes, spawning the elaborate (or not-so-elaborate) fantasies that drive us to the peak and over into orgasm. W shares some of his with me, even the most perverted ones–or what seem the most perverted to me, anyway, even as they excite me.

Sometimes, though, desire can seem much simpler. A scent or look, a setting.  Something small and delicate that unexpectedly sends desire spiraling up and up until we are overwhelmed by it, and it overtakes us, willingly or not.

I have mentioned that W seldom allows himself to come in my mouth. Indeed, he told me early on that it was not even so much that he doesn’t allow himself to do it, but that, after years of denying himself that release, he simply can’t orgasm that way.  And that I shouldn’t feel bad about not being able to make it happen.  I am glad that he told me that, because yes, I would have felt inadequate after awhile, unskilled and incompetent in an area in which I had always felt highly confident, and at something which I very much enjoy doing. Knowing that I probably wouldn’t be able to make him come freed me to simply enjoy the experience, which was lovely, but I can’t deny wanting, desperately, to feel that loss of control in him, to know that I had caused it, to taste him, to feel the orgasm shudder through him and his cock twitching in my mouth.

And, eventually, it happened. Several times, in fact–well, exactly four.  That’s right, each time is so precious to me that I can remember each and every time.  Remember them and use them to fuel my own masturbatory fantasies, as I lay in bed alone, touching myself, and reaching for the one thing that will send my own desire spiraling out of control.

I have learned, very specifically, how to make Ad come with my mouth.  Occasionally he will vary it a little, a hand shoving me down harder than usual onto his cock, or a fist wrapped in my hair, forcing me into a different rhythm than the one that I know will usually send him into his own orgasm. I lick and stroke and suck his cock like it was my own, knowing every nuance of this dance–my mouth, his cock–feeling every infinitesimal change in him and adjusting my movements and pressure and timing to push him, drive him, exactly there, to that point at which he has lost control, and, unable to help himself, shudders and spends his seed in my mouth.

I have not learned exactly what makes W come when he does. And indeed, it is my suspicion that it actually may not be anything that I, specifically, do.  I have come to believe that what it is that finally drives him to the edge has less to do with me, and more to do with the mysterious forces and whims of desire.  That there is some ephemeral kismet that happened, each of those times that pushed him over. I don’t live in his head, I don’t experience it with him as I do Ad–in fact each time I have been surprised by it, usually only realizing in the seconds before he explodes that he is going to.

Who can say what combination of things contribute to that final, so-dearly-anticipated, so-very-sought-after result? There seems to be no common denominator of time, place or event. The first time he and I lay in his bed, while Ad and the ex-gf lay on either side of us.  The next two–both within an hour of each other–were during intense scenes. This last time…

Ah, well, perhaps I should describe this last time.

It was late afternoon when I got to his house. We took drinks upstairs, to the deck at the front of his house, a favorite place to sit and unwind, to talk about unimportant things, to watch the sky change and people go by.  We especially love it there when storms kick up.  Watching the clouds roil as the storm builds, feeling the wind when it finally reaches us, and finally being able to watch the storm actually hit, the trees whipped into a frenzy, lightening cracking across the sky, making it look like shards of glass.

This time was no exception.

We talked, and drank, and the storm began to build around us. It grew darker, the clouds bunched and towered over us, lightening scratched its way across the sky in a spectacular show just for us.  At some point I went inside and my pants fell off and I returned to the deck in only my panties and a white tank top.  As the wind began to whip around us, W began to think of other things to do than talk.  Soon, out on his porch, in full view of anyone that had been out in the dark, in the storm, and looked up at his second floor balcony, I was riding him, fucking myself on him.

I am not sure how I ended up on my knees between his legs.  I do know it was before the storm actually hit, because it wasn’t raining yet.  And I remember the cement of the deck grinding into my knees and the feel of his hand on my head, and the taste of his cock in my mouth.  And then, the feel of the first raindrops on the back of my neck and shoulders.

I stopped then, and looked up at him. “Don’t stop,” was all he said, his voice hoarse and hard to hear over the sound of the storm.  I think I knew it then, that he was going to come in my mouth this time.  His cock was so hard, so thick and rigid as I bent my mouth back down to him, ignoring my screaming knees and the cold rain splashing down.

And he did.  Skewering me between his hand and his cock, he thrust up into my mouth convulsively and filled it, only moments later, with his semen.

And the rain fell, and we both laughed and ran inside; desire, at least for a time, sated.

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