20. Back and Forth or Simple Past vs. Past Perfect

(Two posts in one? - Oh, the confusion! Almost like I did it on purpose...)

     I was already wet. No surprise I suppose, I’ve been wet for two weeks. We weren’t doing anything really. We were just binge watching Battlestar Galactica again. But I was wet. I was wet enough that I had to take off my panties. That might have been what started it, I guess. Wandering hands, sneaky fingers… Then the casual turned serious, fast. I think it felt so serious because it was done silently. He didn’t say anything, he just took me and physically turned me over – ass up, face in the mattress. He didn’t have to tell me I wasn’t to move. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his fingers on my pussy again. The last time we’d had sex it had started with his fingers there – on my pussy, not in. He had slow played me then, teasy and external, drawing me out, under him (I’d been on my back, that time). When he had finally put his mouth on me, I’d been halfway to orgasm already, but he’d stretched it out even further, patient and wet. He always knows exactly what’s going to make me react how, and when. He knows when to barely touch me with his tongue, until I’m arching to meet his mouth. He knows when to lick my clit, stroke it until it pinks and plumps. He knows just when to turn to suction and how hard, rhythmically or constant, when to lick my ass, when to incorporate his fingers, when to incorporate mine. (There’s something utterly lovely about putting my own fingers in my husband’s mouth and on my own pussy, at the same time. Just gently touching us both in the warm wet of mouth and pussy, tongue, labia, lip, clit… It almost becomes indistinguishable to the fingers, and it does beautiful things to my insides.) That night he’d brought me along so languidly, completely ignoring my ass until I was so, so close, and then he’d just touched it with one finger – a half knuckle of in and out, and I’d had one of those loooong, slow clitoral orgasms that make you throw your head back and stretch. But this night wasn’t that night.
     This night it seemed he wasn’t in it for the long game, he was going to make me come right then and there. All the physical contact I’d been so desperate for that getting it hadn’t quenched my need, was concentrated all at once on my pussy alone. Once he’d positioned me as he desired, he didn’t touch any other part of me. It was a whirlwind of every trick he knew, every kind of touch, soft pads of fingers, strong, grabbing fingers, long, stroking fingers, pinching fingers, thrusting fingers, circling fingers, and I knew he was watching, because he didn’t touch me with his mouth. He was watching and with my face in the mattress, I could only imagine his expression. I was pulling the sheet up in the grip of my fingers, taking the last breath before the orgasm broke in me, when he stopped. Just stopped. And there was nothing. Only my gasping and falling back to earth. Still, I knew better than to move a muscle.
     The last time, I had sprung up immediately like it was my turn on the swing. I’d wanted to lose control all over his cock, but he’d left his jeans on and only allowed me access to the tip. I have a thing for being naked while he fucks me fully clothed. (I have another thing for being naked together, skin on skin, and another thing for stripping off clothing bit by bit as the night goes on, and another thing for dressing up in something wanton, so it’s kind of hard to go wrong. The only thing that doesn’t usually move me is staying fully clothed myself, while he strips. Funny that that’s the one with the most available porn.) Anyway, it was a good twist that he hadn’t let me all over him. It was a nice compliment to the slow play he’d just perpetrated on me, and oh, how I love to take on that kind of a challenge: What are all the things you can do, with just the top two or three inches of a cock? Think I can’t put you over the edge with only that? Yeah, we’ll see about that. I’d played many of the same tricks on him, that he’d played on me. I’d played with different amounts of suction, from just barely to almost too much. I’d played with rhythmic versus constant pressure. I’d alternated between the squeeze of teeth wrapped safely in lips and a total lack of any pressure at all. (I call this “kitten mouth.” You use every available surface of lip, tongue and cheek all at the same time and all in constant motion, but only with the very softest, wettest, often slowest caress. There is no compression, no tension, only a wet, smooth version of the way rabbit fur is so soft you almost can’t feel it at all. A rigid cock can feel it though, make no mistake.) I’d played with speed, of course, and angle, direction of the tongue stroke, I had tried to cover every possible combination of actions, and even made up a new trick that I don’t yet have a name for. It involves turning sideways and actually sucking the frenulum between your lips or your upper lip and your tongue, then you turn back and forth, slide side to side, almost like you’re licking an envelope over and over again. That night I had brought him to the edge repeatedly, wanting it to last as long as he had drawn out mine. Sometimes when he had been just at the brink of coming, I’d simply stopped and held completely still, instead of letting go of him completely, and waited for the episode to pass with his cock held warm and wet but sealed motionless in my mouth. I don’t know how many times he’d almost come that night. Maybe he was getting back at me for it, now.
     This night, when my near-seizure passed and I was still ass-up, waiting for my heart rate to slow and my muscles to unclench, I heard him reach over to his bedside table. The next thing I felt was lube. An unreasonable amount of it, being pumped directly onto me, from the bottle. He didn’t touch it for a long time. In fact, he grabbed his beer and sat there drinking it, watching copious amounts of my favorite come-looking lotion cream slide down my pussy from my raised ass to my swollen clit. At this point, without the distraction of the visual stimulation (interesting to be blind to it all without being blindfolded – I could see, I just couldn’t see anything but the sheets and the headboard), the changes in temperature began to command my attention. The lube untouched on the open air was cool and wet, chilly, then it warmed as his began to spread it around. When he reached inside me, the wetness there felt a thousand times hotter than the wetness outside, and he brought it out on his fingers and rubbed it over my clit, my labia, my ass. When I almost came again, he stopped and drank his beer some more, while I quivered. When he touched me again, his hands and fingers were cold from the bottle. He leaned over me from above then, and I felt hot spit fall onto me with the truly amazing accuracy that never seems to fail him. Every way he touched me worked, and every time it did, he stopped. Over and over again. Eventually he flipped me onto my back, but it was only another position for the continuation of the divine torture.
     It was the opposite of that other night, when I’d been torturing him. When he’d decided he wasn’t going to let me get away with it any longer, he had sent me to refill our drinks, knowing that I’d walk to the kitchen completely overwhelmed by the wetness of my pussy sliding against itself. By the time I got back, I was only too happy to let him have his turn at this game of oral-pong we’d been playing. He had taken that turn with his tongue in my ass, and I’d felt his hand underneath me, directing me up into the position he had just taken me out of, tonight. Tonight, on my back, he was spinning me up further and further, and the time it took him to bring me to the edge of orgasm was shorter and shorter. This is when he started alternating which orgasm he was bringing me to. All along it had been clitoral – the good and faithful #1. Now he switched me to the g-spot – the easy #3. But every time, he stopped me right before I got there. Finally, the time between cresting waves was almost non-existent. When it got to practically immediate, and I thought there was no way he was going to be able to hold me off any longer, he dropped all speed to the slowest of slow motion. Evil genius. In reality, I’d guess he’d been playing with me like this for a little over a half an hour. At the time, it felt like – well it felt like there was no such thing as time. Finally, in the climbing spike of this super-slow rise, he gave me verbal permission to come. He was on the clitoral side of the cycle, and like that other night, the orgasm was long and slow to match the motion of his attentions. This night though, before it ended, he switched to the other side of his back and forth: As the last waves were still running through me, he slid his fingers back into me and started a g-spot orgasm on top of the first. Then he did it again. Both of them. Orgasm #1 is the one I can almost never get two in a row of. My clit is so sensitive after I come that way, that another one is usually out of the question. He made it happen anyway.
     When I had made him come that previous night, I guess I had been as insistent. He had tried to hold me off. Maybe he’d wanted another turn at that back and forth. Maybe he’d wanted to win at oral-pong, as if he hadn’t already. Remember how I can’t focus on more than one thing at a time? He‘d tried to use that against me. I’d been playing with him hand and mouth, but I was sideways, so I was in his reach. He’d taken my nipples in his fingers and squeezed them hard enough to make me take my mouth off his cock and cry out. It had backfired though. I had lifted my head, but not my hand, and when he’d heard me howl, I’d felt his cock twitch, stiffen even further in my hand, at the sound. He’d tried to exert his command over me, but only shown that the command that night had been mine. Which I’d proceeded to prove, all over his stomach.
     This night, that was not the case. He sent me on another slippery beer run to the kitchen, and when I returned I was instructed to sit on his hand. I did so, sitting on my spread knees like a kindergartener at rug time, with his fingers back in my pussy and he proceeded to hit me with one g-spot orgasm after another. Repeated 3s until I had come all over my own feet. Then he stopped, but he didn’t remove his hand. Like I had done to him that other night, he just held still. But he wasn’t going to let me stop coming, not a chance of that. Instead, he told me I was to do it myself. Grind against his hand until I got the girl-cum. His fingers were inside me, it was up to me to make them make me come. I went from not believing it would be possible to full blown orgasm in about ten seconds. For that I was rewarded with finally getting to suck his cock. He didn’t give me free reign though. He held his own cock at the base, preventing me from falling back on the deep throat. Once again I had to prove my skill. This time however, my face was pressed down close to his hand… And his hand was slick with my secretions and bodily fluids. Sucking his cock, I could only smell my own pussy. This is one thing when I’ve been fucked and get to taste it, too. This was another. It was like being partially deprived of a sense. His cock didn’t taste like my pussy. It was similar to the seeing sightlessness of earlier in the night. If I could have torn myself away from his cock, I would have sucked his fingers.
     Again he made me sit on his hand. Again he made me use it to make myself girl-cum. Again I thought I wouldn’t be able to. Again I was wrong. He was wet to his inner elbow.
     I went back to my blow job and every little method I’ve got a name for in my head, including the new envelope move that had proven so effective. (I guess it has a name now!) Apparently its potency was still compelling, because it wasn’t long before he was telling me out loud that he wanted his cock in my pussy, my pussy on his cock. Yes, yes, yes. I slid onto him and started playing with angles and sliding that slide that had given me two at a time, a few weeks before. This resulted in another long, drawn out orgasm, but a vaginal #2 this time. I was still playing with varieties though, down on my knees grinding versus up on my feet lifting and lowering, lean forward and raise the ass up and down, speed up, slow down, I don’t know what I was up to when I started coming again. They were 3s, a couple of them, and then a 2 again. It was like the early evening, when he’d been alternating me from 1s to 3s, but now it was g-spot vs. vaginal. Which is without question better. He let me choose where I wanted him to come, and I chose pussy. It was so good by then that there was no way I was going to let him out of me, no matter where else he might have gone. His orgasm was long, too. So much so that I was able to hang on for one final #3, just to insure that the mattress would be irreparably soaked. I went to sleep in the wet that night, and when I woke in the dark hours later with my hand in between my legs, my pussy was still full of his cum.

(One side vs. the other - more fun than retaliatory.)