So there we were, giggling madly inside the tent as the actual cowgirl rode away in her truck. The clamps on my nipples had done their job, and Lil Sister was wide awake and throbbing. I made to turn over, to get up to get ready for our ride, but K lowered himself down next to me and ran one hand up the inside of my bare thighs. I immediately went still.
He slipped the fingers of his hand between my legs and stroked my nether lips. I shivered, despite the heat. He pushed my thighs apart a little more and slowly, oh-so-slowly pushed one finger inside my already-wet cunt.
A deep, full-bodied sigh moved through me.
It had been quite some time since I’d felt his hands on me, his fingers inside of me. Life being what it was, the last few weeks had been ones of comfort, of gentle, loving touches, not of ardor. This too was as necessary to loving each other as all the rest, but I had been missing passion. Desire. Carnality.
I have a healthy relationship with my body. I know what makes it work, and I can make it work quite well. I appreciate my femaleness, my sexual power, the deep sensuality inside. But I would be lying to myself if I denied that the depth of my sexuality is exposed only by someone else, and that – nine times out of ten – is a dominant male partner. I need someone to want me. To desire me. To want to take and fuck and possess and control me. To order me around, to make me do all those things I want to do. To see the slut in me, the bitch in heat, the carnal, rapacious, animal inside. I know she’s there, but I can’t bring her out on my own.
There’s another self that lives there, too, waiting to be seen. She is vulnerable, needy, insecure. Needing outside validation, words of affirmation. “He wants me, he thinks I am beautiful, he thinks I am sexy, therefore I must be.” I know, I shouldn’t admit that, but it is what it is. At this stage of my Iife, I can accept who and what I am, and be okay with that.
And I was getting all that. He was touching me, and teasing me, and looking at me like he wanted to devour me. He pushed his fingers into me and did that “come hither” motion on my g-spot (at least I assume that’s what it is – if it’s a different motion, I don’t know and I don’t care.) All I know is that it makes me wet, and makes me pant, and makes me gyrate my hips against his hand, or in this case pump myself up and down against the bedding, as I was still face down on my belly and he was pushing into me from behind.
Oh, it felt dirty and wanton and lewd, to be doing this in a tent in the middle of the day. I moaned and pressed my face against the pillows, trying to muffle the sounds. He stroked me to the edge of an orgasm, then backed down, teasing me; pushed me again to the edge and back down again several times. Finally, driven halfway out of my head with wanting to cum, I twisted around and pressed myself full length against him, grinding my cunt against his hand and against his thigh.
“Please, please please may I cum for you, Sir?” I panted into his neck.
“Not yet,” he said. I could feel his grin against my hair.
A few more helpless, blindly thrusting moments went by. I pushed, wanting more; I tried to get away, knowing if I didn’t I would tip over into an orgasm without his permission. And that’s when he switched it up, and instead of his fingers in my cunt, he grabbed the flesh around my clit and pinched.
Hard.
I gasped, spun off balance by the sharp, biting, pain, even as my pussy throbbed on the edge of orgasm. I panted, I cried out softly. And he pinched and pulled. And the pain swirled up into a blinding, aching pleasure. I couldn’t think, couldn’t articulate the words to ask for permission.
But then there were his words in my ear. “Cum for me now,” he said, “cum for me, you fucked-up little bitch…” And I did, digging my nails into his arms, muffling my cries against his throat.
So maybe “fucked-up bitch” is my new validation.
We both lay there for a few minutes, me in a happy orgasmic haze, as my breathing slowed. Then I tipped my head back in the crook of his arm and peered up at him. “So…I’m thinking when we get back from riding…we’ll be all horse-smelly.”
He nodded. “Yeah…”
“And, there’s no way to get a shower…”
“Okay…”
“But I really like horse smell. And man-sweat smell.”
He chuckled. “Right…”
“So. I’m thinking I want to get some cowboy in my mouth when we get back.”
He laughed outright. (I don’t think he believes me that I love to sniff him when he’s sweaty and dirty, lol.) “You can do that, if you really really want to,” he said.
I grinned and squirmed a little against his side. “Yes! I do. But I’m thinking…” I stroked my hand over his chest, down his belly. “I’m thinking just in case I can’t have your cock in my mouth when we get back…you know, if we’re too tired or something…that I should suck your cock now. Just in case.”
Now he was truly laughing. “Oh, is that what you think.”
“Well yes! I wouldn’t want to miss out on having your cock in my mouth this weekend. So – just in case – I’m pretty sure I should suck it now. Not that I’m being greedy or anything. Just conscientious. Considerate of my man.”
Apparently he thought this was very good reasoning, because I soon had my (hot, sweaty, but not-a-cowboy-yet) boyfriend’s cock in my mouth. And soon his hands were cupped around my head and he was holding me down as he pumped his semen into my mouth.
And – let me tell you – thank goodness I was so forward-thinking! Because it ended up that I didn’t get my cowboy in my mouth after all – we were both too tired and hot to play after we got back!
