The Restless Libido
By day I'm a mild-mannered reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper who pays his taxes and helps his landlady carry out her trash. This blog covers the rest of the time.
I didn’t hire her because she looks good in a minidress.
I hired her because she’s bright and funny, cunning and charming, because she’s the best person for the job than anyone else, by an order of magnitude.
She’s also more than a little dangerous, this one.
And that is why she wears the minidress.
What? she asks innocently. They’re just boots.
But she knows that’s not true. They’re not just boots, not to you, and, as a result, not for her.
She straightens the comforter, puttering and tidying, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to catch your eyes. You are watching. How could you possibly not? She controls you in this moment, completely.
This makes her smile. This makes them not just boots to her.
She ticks her tongue against her teeth.
Are you sure about that? she says.
She tilts her head ever so slightly to one side, invoking a comment I made once, about women doing that to diminish themselves, to adopt a submissive posture.
Her nipples are as hard as I’ve ever known them to be. And I swear it’s the act of doing so, of setting herself in that pose, in this context, that has made them that way.
It’s all stretch lace, the outfit they’ve given her to wear, a gauzy curtain to obscure her body, to hype and tease it to the captive audience, not protect it or hide it away.
She demonstrates how it stretches, yielding the flesh captive beneath with little more than the modest tug of a finger.
She straddles one of them, her skirt rolling itself accommodatingly up over her hips with the motion.
What can I do? Nothing.
There’s nothing I can do that will counter what she can do.
She is too skilled, knows me too well, wants it more. The game is over long before it starts.
I resist her. I have to, out of pride, honor, respect. She responds in kind, a swift mercy that leaves no doubt in either of our minds.
She pulls them on for him, the tiny, shiny hotpants, the snug sports bra that holds her close.
She dresses for him, then takes a step back to look at herself the mirror, transformed by his hand.
Her skin is smooth and tanned, cut into segments by the glistening fabric stretched glossy and tight. Not a wrinkle or fold.
She would never wear this herself, ordinarily, voluntarily. It’s not her style, too flashy and bold. She wears it for him because she wants to be the woman he thinks she is, to live up to her.
She dresses the part and feels herself grow into it more with each passing moment.
This is who I’m going to be, she thinks, turning around to look at the mirror over her shoulder. This is who I am.
She lays beside him and worships, whispering mysterious secrets too soft to hear, not daring to take him in her mouth, humble, devoted.
He feels like a stranger, a voyeur, an outside observer permitted to bear witness to the intimacy between two lovers, between a supplicant and her God.
The rules are in place and we both understand them.
She readies herself, adjusting the modest uniform she’s chosen, and considers her plan of attack.
I am distracted by how the afternoon light shadows the contours of her body, the deceptive softness of her flesh, the loose semi-smile she wears on her face. In her mind, she’s already won.
She’s not wrong.
She put up an impressive struggle, landing one good kick and a couple of slaps, making him fight and pay for everything he’s gained so far but she knows there’s no recovering from this point.
His ropes are snug around her, holding her fast, biting into her flesh as she tries to fill her lungs. She feels it growing within her, the weakening of her resolve to continue resisting him, the warming desire to serve…
When she sees the gag in his hand she knows that the fight is over, that he’s conquered her, that she will give herself to him as his prize, that when he moves his hand away her mouth will be open.
She’s cute but shy and a little mousy. She scarcely speaks when I say hello to her in the hallway, which I do out of politeness as opposed to any ulterior motive.
Okay, so that’s not quite true.
I have a gift. I can see inside people, past the shell they put up, the façade, the public image. I can see them for who they really are, once you get to know them, when they are free to be themselves.
The next time I see her I mention a Halloween party. I suggest she should come. I tell her I’d like to see her there.
She blushes crimson. It’ll be fun, I tell her. Lots of people from the office are going. Well, the fun ones anyway.
How should I dress? she asks. I think for a moment.
Imagine that instead of dressing up for Halloween, I say, what you wear every day is the costume.
It is late in the evening when I step out into the courtyard for a breath of air and see her. She arches one eyebrow and says nothing.
She unwraps her gift.
He is a wall of man, rippled with muscles, thick, dark hairs down his forearms. A bull. A buck.
His cock is bright red with blood, his balls big beneath it. She takes him delicately between the fingers of one hand, cupping his ass with the other. Her nipples are hard. I can smell how wet she is from where I lie.
Do you like your birthday present? I ask her.
She smiles, blushing, and nods.
I fit the collar around her neck, adjust the buckle, and close the lock. She’s forced to bend over, as the chain is not long enough for her to sit up.
We sit there, have a glass of wine, as she gets used to it, as she decides if she wants to stop her or continue.
We both know what she’s going to say but I’m in no rush.
I refill her glass as she stares at her feel, in heels, leather cuff dark against her skin.
She struggles with self-confidence and worries that some other girl is going to bat her lashes at him and off he’ll go.
She’s not being unreasonable. His eyes do wander. He does want to fuck just about everything that moves. Including her, he thinks to himself as he sits in his boxers on the edge of the bed.
In her hand is the cage. When she is older she will learn she doesn’t need to rely on such things, that firm instructions, communicated clearly and with confidence, are much more powerful than any cage, but that won’t be for a few years yet. For now she wants some tangible sense of control, of power, of calm in this situation.
He takes it from her and dutifully slides himself inside the cold metal. He’s unclear on why she wants this so badly but he stopped questioning things the moment she emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a sheer slip dress and stockings. He thinks this will lead to sex somehow and that’s all he really cares about.
She hands him the lock. She thought about locking it herself but she decided that it would mean more to both of them if he did it himself. He fits the lock into the cage and she stops him right before he clicks it shut.
By doing this you are giving your cock to me, she says. You’re entrusting me with the power to decide when you fuck, and who. You know that, right?
He nods, not really understanding any of it, getting mildly impatient for the sex part. He closes the lock with a click, tugs on it to make sure it’s secure. Now what? he asks.
She looks confused. What do you mean?
When do we fuck? he asks. And how?
She smiles, cuddles herself to him, one hand around his captive cock.
Oh baby, no, she says. We don’t.
She is on her phone, typing away, not even distracted by my familiarity.
She is wet through her panties so I know she’s paying attention.
The sliver of silver covers the curve of her pussy and shimmers over the shadow of her ass.
Her cheeks are tight but she pulls them apart regardless. It’s important to her that I see all of it, the bikini I just selected and that she’s trying on.
She turns around and presents the front, the silver smooth down between her thighs, interrupted only where it adopts the cleft of her pussy beneath.
I concede it fits her perfectly.
She slips on her sandals and walks out of the dressing room, right out of the store, across the walkway and down onto the beach, leaving me to collect her clothing and hastily pay. By the time I get there, she’s already made a few friends.
The rain is coming down hard on the car rooftop. She tugs at the handcuff but there is nothing to be done.
He will be back soon, to retrieve her, to do with her what she dared not even imagine.
She would find out, soon enough.
Big strong man, she says. Well, look at you now. She twists his cock harshly and he bares his teeth in pain.
Open your fucking mouth, she says. He pulls his lips back but his jaw remains clamped down. She releases his cock, adjusts her hand around the base of his balls, then tightens again. Did you not hear what I said?
She grips his chin with her hand, pressing in on his cheeks, just like when the dog had something in its mouth it shouldn’t. Gradually his teeth parted, her fingers having pressed them into crimson inside his mouth.
Good, she said. Now open your eyes.
He complied, right as the white glob rounded at her lips and dropped. He hand cinched up on his balls.
She’s already milked him once tonight, teasing him into a hard fucking in the middle of the living room.
But she’s trying for a baby. She doesn’t want to take chances. She needs another dose.
So she cooks him a steak, rare, and flirts with him from across the table. When he’s finished, when he’s wiping the last of the shallots and juices from his plate, she slips under the table and gets him hard in her mouth.
Give it to me again, she whispers up at him. Give everything you have to me.
I can see myself doing it.
I know how I got here, can trace the steps, one to the next, from that first innocent email that appeared unbidden on my girlfriend’s phone.
His hand is on my shoulder as I wet his cock with my mouth. I know all of these things and yet…and yet I do nothing.
I watch from inside, as he wraps his hand around my girlfriend’s head and pulls her to his mouth, as he guides his cock to my mouth. My mouth opens. I don’t know why — it doesn’t seem like me doing it — and yet.
She’s moaning now, my girlfriend. She begging him to fuck her. Not yet, he says and the words he speaks seem to have lines of color around them. I want him to speak again, to say anything, to me, to tell me how to please him.
His hand burns on my shoulder. He slides it over to my neck, touches my ear fondly and my cock is hard. Why? I don’t know. I know. I don’t want to know. I know.
A simple email, a challenge, a video to watch. She loves these things, challenges from strangers, so she does it without thinking, waits until it’s quiet, gets herself comfortable, puts on good headphones and presses play.
His voice, lines of color around the words, compelling her. But I have a boyfriend, she says, her eyes spirals in the webcam feed on his laptop.
I know, he says in response, calmly, evenly, never missing a beat, all-powerful, all-knowing. You want to introduce him to me, don’t you. You want to show him the amazing video I made for you, don’t you. Don’t you.
She does, suddenly, desperately.
And that’s how I wound up in that same chair, with the same headphones on my head, the same spirals in my eyes in the webcam window on his laptop. There’s no point in trying to resist, is there, he’s saying to me, and there isn’t. There just isn’t, ever, anywhere.
He sends another, just for me. I feel a strange tickle of pleasure in the attention from one so powerful, so mysterious and strong.
But I’ll need both of your help, his voice echoes in my mind. So easy to just do what he says, like following a recipe. Just do what I say. I’ll tell you what to do.
And now her lips are on me. I look down, a thousand miles away and she is at my feet, my cock in her mouth, white earbuds in her ears, connected to her phone, with a number I seem to remember watching myself dial. She strokes and sucks no cumming until i say so his voice in both our heads now press play and i do
Longer this time, longer and overpowering. His voice, a thousand images a second or so it seems, hidden messages, then less so, then obvious but undeniable. And her lips on me, compelling me, forcing me to agree. He was strong enough but the two of them are impossible to resist, to ignore, to fight off.
His hand is at the back of my head now. His cock is pulsing, his balls cinch up underneath him. He is close now. She is so wet, she wants in inside her body like he’s inside her mind.
Show me who wants it more he says.
They are all dressed the same, in a uniform of shiny hot pants and thigh socks, knotted tight t-shirts bearing the club’s logo and neon pink sweatbands, Chuck Taylors in the same glistening magenta lamé, hair jet black in bangs low over their charcoal eyes.
They are secreted into the building through a side door, ushered into through crimson curtains to a dressing room ringed with lighted mirrors. There they shed their selves, strip to bare, oiled skin, and transform. There they are made uniform. There they become a pleasure girl, like all the rest.
No rings, no boyfriends, no thoughts of outside inside. It all is taken off and hung in a locker, along with jackets and shoes and purses.
I am one of the things that is left behind. I am one of the things she takes off, that she removes from herself and locks away. She woke up in my bed this morning, where she spent the night. She slides inside smelling of my skin, of sex in sunlit sheet and coffee brewed slowly.
No matter. All they know is that even though she smells like another man, she’s with them now.
She wears these to get a reaction from me, to get my attention and keep it, for as long as she wants.
She wears these to control me.
And it works. There’s no use in denying it. I can hear her pulling them on, the swish of the leather sliding up her freshly-shaven legs, the modest sound of the zipper sealing her in.
I am in my office, concentrating on something obscure, when the steady click of heels comes down the hallway, the hushing of her legs as they scythe together.
My pulse taps at my temples. I close my eyes and imagine her ass, the torturous folds that appear and vanish with each step.
She walks past my closed door, not stopping. She leaves it to me to discover how she’s dressed. She enjoys that too, the idea of setting a trap and waiting.
She has the patience of a hunter.
She watches him as he warms up, stretching and bending, his face focused, his mind occupied with the match ahead.
He is tall and lean, sharp, intense. She imagines him sinking inside her, seeing that focus waiver as he feels how hot she is for him, how wet he’s made her, how ready and yielding and willing she’s become.
He stands on his mark, tugs at his swimsuit. She flushes and looks away. Her own suit rubs between her thighs distractingly. She shifts in her seat, clenches her thighs together.
He would start slowly, slow where every man before has been fast, achingly slow, agonizingly, torturously, cruelly slow. He would fuck her, where all those before had merely masturbated with their bodies together.
The sound of stretching neoprene, his fingers pulling her suit aside as he pushed his down, his cock hardening fast. He would dig his fingers in under her suit to pull it aside and brush her pussy with his knuckles, accidentally, unintentionally. He would swear to himself, then pull, hard.
He would lift her, she thought, pick me up off the floor and pin me to the wall with his cock. She bit her lip and groaned under her breath.
The starting whistle blew and the air was loud with cheering and splashing water.
They play with me, ignoring me entirely.
I can’t tell if it’s all an act for my benefit or if I have faded into the shadows in their eyes, my role to put the two of them together before vanishing.
She doesn’t want this. In her mind and soul she hates it, the golden chain, the soft gold leather handle.
She is strong and brilliant and capable. She can lead and listen and learn and innovate. She is comfortable with command, with making decisions that affect people’s lives.
She doesn’t need anyone telling her what to do, helping her, particularly not some man who’s been raised since birth to think of himself as the center of the universe.
He holds it out to her. She can smell his cologne, the perfume of money and entitlement and power. She thinks of her company, of her employees, of their lives and families. She looks at it, at this thing he extends to her, ignoring the man beyond. Her pride tells her to slap his hand away, to tell him to take his money and fuck off.
She knows this is not the wisest choice, not what she has to do. But she permits herself to follow that thought to its logical conclusion, to enjoy it.
She thinks of bills and hopes and pensions, of promises she made to her employees, to her shareholders, to the world in an earnest but naïve mission statement.
She knows what she has to do.
She takes the chain from his hand. It is light and finely-made. At the other end is a collar of the same buttery gold leather as the handle, with a simple buckle and a single grommet. He had it made especially for her, the bastard.
She loops it around her neck and buckles it. Perfect fit, of course. She takes the handle in her hands and, raising her eyes for the first time to look into his, offers it to him.
They will both cum this way, if she doesn’t stop them.
It’s not as pleasurable for them as sex the regular way, him inside of her, their hands on each other’s flesh, pumping and fucking together, but it’s enough, particularly for two as starved as they are.
She watches them thrust, listens to their breathing, to the wet sounds of motion coming from between them, waits for her moment to speak.
A word from her and they will stop, instantly. They know better, have learned better. A word from her and they will separate, a thin strand still connecting them, stretching from the tip of his cock between her thighs. They will gasp and bite their lips and want, until the blood drains from his cock, until her pussy cools, until the wetness between them dries. But they will stop.
A word from her and they will be reminded that all of this is a gift, one as easily given as taken away.
She thinks she knows something about me.
She thinks she’s made a discovery, a weak spot in the armor, a vulnerability. So she decides to test it.
A lunch meeting, innocent enough. To go over her résumé and help her organize her prospects for the future.
A scheduling conflict with lunch — that she should have known about, handling my schedule — but no matter, a simple push from lunch to dinner.
She leaves early, to run some errands before we meet. Train delay. I’m going to be a little late. I am midway through my second cocktail when she finally arrives, the leather swishing against her stockings as the sun fades from the sky, and immediately the ruse is up.
There’s no résumé forthcoming. We will talk about the future but not in terms of employment.
When we catch sight of each other, she stops, tilts her head, and blows me a kiss, before bursting out in a bright smile. She unzips her jacket and lets it fall to her elbows, does a spin then straightens up, tugging the hem of her skirt down.
It’s new, she says. You like?
She has a special closet, just for him.
Each seemed impossibly out of reach at the time she first learned of it, handmade, crafted, sculpted, out of linen and lace and satin and leather.
Strangers’ hands bound her briefly with fabric measuring tapes to learn her complexities, to bring them back to their darkened workshops and needles and fine, wicked scissors.
Each came into her reality through a curtain of tissue paper, within a fiberboard box stamped with a European origin.
Each conjured from inside her a her she’d never known. The moment she put it on she was transformed, made whole over and over and over.
Each carries with it memories of how it came to be hers, welts in his flesh, tears on his cheeks, the weakening and eventual collapse of his resolve, his thin voice, strangled in his throat under her slender heel, begging for breath, for release, gasping his thanks.
He was our hero, our warrior, the one who was going to topple the tyrants and free us all.
Now he’s the one in chains, bound, at their feet, enslaved.
Not broken yet. They will take their time with that. In the meantime he hides his eyes behind a curtain of hair.
They make sure we all see him like this, as a warning.
She’s there for them to look at.
She was hired specifically for this, to serve as bait, to use her smile and eyes and body and hair to lure the men in, to get them to visit this booth, to look at the motorcycles and imaging riding them, with her on the back, her arms around their waist, her breasts against their back.
She arrives early, to try on and change into whatever the client has chosen for her. Tight top, cinched to push her breasts up and together, leather leggings, booties. No panties, the client tells her as he indicates a bathroom where she can change, and after she tugs the leggings on and smooths them into place she understands why.
Men want to pose with her, feel their arm around her waist. Some let their hands slide down until they are cupping her ass. Some are discreet, some are handsy and obvious.
All of them disgust her.
All of it turns her on.
Being forced to dress up, to show herself off, having no choice in what to wear or how to do her makeup. Having to sell herself, for money. Feeling their hands on her, their fingertips leaving marks on the leather. She is a plaything for them, the suited men with their cameras and sweaty brows. They want to fuck her but can’t so they touch her, they press up against her, they photograph her and lust for her.
She is in servitude. She has to endure, to smile and beckon them in, to pose with them and suffer their groping.
She does it all, hoping he will show up and see her so enslaved, see what she’s willing to do for him.
He stops, right before the moment where he goes over the edge and loses himself.
They are both completely still in that moment, stopped, frozen, the air solid in their lungs, both of their mouths open, gasping.
Then his muscles contract and he pumps his cum into her, until she’s full, until she’s overflowing, until his filth runs wet and slick and sticky out of her, over her thighs, into the sheets below.
She plays furious, when he explains what he’s done, when she sees the outfit he chose for her to wear.
She slaps his face and shouts but she is wet from the moment he opens his mouth. She gestures at the catsuit, where it hangs revealed in the closet, and its fluttering response stops the words in her mouth.
She dresses alone, to torment him, to retreat in supposed humiliation, to hide her pleasure from him, and when she feels how perfectly it fits her she permits herself a hasty and hurried hand between her thighs. She thinks it will steady her hands but the moment after she opens her eyes after the orgasm her heart is still racing, her hands still shaking, worse than before.
She needs him for the back zip. She watches herself in the mirror, as he seals her inside, as she becomes a whole she never knew before but recognizes immediately.
She buckles his collar, in matching rubber, one notch too far. She lifts his chin, to look him in the eyes. For keeping this from me, she says, and slaps him again.
Time to go. The sellers are waiting.
The bright colors, the tight fabric sheer over her hard nipples, the smell of her perfume and hot skin and wet pussy — it’s done the job.
She looks into his eyes and sees nothing of the day’s troubles, the long-term goals, worries and concerns, nothing except a reflection of her own pink mouth and tongue on teeth.
He’s gone, the personality, the mind, the history. She’s caged it all, silenced it, emptied him of it.
She’s bitten off his head and left his body, hard and horny and strong.
He is a vacuum now. He fills himself with fucking, with pleasures, with lust.
This isn’t about him.
He gets to enjoy it, certainly, like a rollercoaster or a sunset. A passenger. An observer.
This is between the two of them, her and his cock. She doesn’t suck as much as flirt with this part of him. She has earned her own dialogue, her own secret language.
Her lips move like two people in love whispering secrets to each other through coffee steam.
This is the only time he dares to raise his eyes, while her back is turned and her piercing eyes focused on some other unfortunate thing.
She shifts her weight, from one leg to the other, and the wrinkles that appear and vanish beneath the shape of her ass force his teeth together in a pained grimace.
He has a panicked thought that she’s not distracted with anything at all, that this is entrapment, a temptation on which to prove he’s unworthy. He closes his eyes instantly, daring open them only when directed safely back at the ground.
A smile insinuates itself in her cold features. He will never see it.
Gently insert two fingers, repeatedly make a ‘come here’ gesture, and he’ll forget what year it is.
No truer statement has been made.
He’s only been asleep for an hour when the sensation of her hand smoothing the shape of his cock through his boxers brings him back to groggy consciousness.
She is crouching over him, in private conference with his erection, a wet spot at the tip evidence of the time she’s already invested.
He blinks the sleep away and notices she’s changed out of her worn and familiar cotton nighty, into a satin bra and panties that barely contain her.
He lays there, the pleasure washing over him, unsure of what to do.
Close your eyes, she whispers, or else I’ll stop.
We pass cruelty back and forth between us.
Earlier today a package arrived for her at work. I made sure it was delivered on a busy day, when I knew there would be lots going on, her phone ringing, everyone wanting her attention.
She didn’t recognize the address so she pulled the tab on the side and slid her hand inside with three of her employees standing around her, mid-discussion about an upcoming project.
The first thing she touched was tissue paper and the next was soft leather, riven with a cold zipper. She tucked the box under her desk, blushing violently and waited until the meeting was over to look inside, in the privacy of a bathroom stall.
Instructions, written in ink. She’d gone to work today in a trenchcoat. That was the only item of clothing she would be permitted to retain. It should provide sufficient coverage for the rest, which I’d provided for her within.
The corset was achingly soft and fit her with a snugness that revealed the skill of the hand that had made it, specifically for her. She had to breathe in in order to zip it closed. The straps had one grommet each, precisely where they needed to be.
A pair of leather hot pants, similarly snug, with a matching zipper to draw them closed.
A pair of leather bracelets that fastened with a buckle to her wrists.
The bathroom was busy at that time of the day, people getting ready to head home, chatting at the mirror, reapplying lipstick. She dressed, slid her feet into the short, steep booties, donned her trench, and waited for the absence of voices.
The gag would come later, forcing her mouth open to me, conjuring a tendril of drool from her chin to her chest and down beneath, between the leather and her skin.
She endured and planned her response.
She tests the cuffs, tugging and shifting her hands.
The steel is cold and hard. The link connecting the two makes a click.
She is bound.
The next move is his.
She expected him to try to fuck her.
She dressed the part — black satin minidress, stockings, wicked black stilettos, stab of red lipstick. And she was ready to perform her role, the helpless naïf seduced by the bigger, stronger, richer, more powerful man.
She was ready for him, or so she thought.
But she was not ready for this.
His stubble rubbed agonizingly against her bare thighs. His hands gripped her waist. And his tongue —
She gasped anew and clenched her ass to push up against his face but he moved expertly and torturously away. Then back, his mouth hot and wet and everywhere and nowhere.
Now she had no idea where this was going. Now she no longer cared.
If it seems too good to be true — well, you know what they say.
She flattens her tongue, nice and broad, and licks the precum off the tip of my cock. It’s in this moment, me looking down at her, looking up at me, when I first notice that the blue of her eyes is much too intense to be real. She is wearing colored contact lenses. I find myself wondering why.
She notices my distraction and wraps her lips around me and sucks hard. I don’t know and I decide, as she starts stroking and sucking, stroking and sucking, ever watchful, that I don’t care.
I should have cared. But warning signs seldom appear in their true form.
She had other secrets, this beautiful girl on her hands and knees, other secrets I would discover soon enough.
The spotlight is harsh.
The room is warm from bodies that sit in suits in the darkness and watch.
A hand reaches out from beside her and pulls roughly on the knot holding the two halves of her dress together. The sides fall away and her breasts are bared. Looking down she can see the first sparkle of perspiration forming between them, from the spotlight, from the air, hot with sex, from her own humiliation.
Voices call out from the darkness, coarse and loud.
She wants to run, to be anywhere but here, to make a distance memory of the impulse in her that agreed to come here in the first place.
But her body doesn’t lie. Her nipples are hard and red against her pale skin. She is wet down each thigh with waiting.
She wants to leave but not as much as she wants to stay.
It wasn’t part of her original plan, letting him cum.
But after what he just went through, and thinking of everything he (under duress) agreed to, she found herself taking pity on him.
She’ll have to work on that.
She leaves me notes, this friend of my girlfriend Max.
In the dark, curtained corner of a subterranean bar somewhere, just into the start of the third smoky cocktail, the pen will come out. She’ll just leave it on the table at first, her opening gambit, signaling her intentions.
They smile at each other, close enough to taste the liquor on each other’s breath. It’s always like the first time, slow and uncertain, taking nothing for granted, savoring everything, stretching every moment into torment. Her hand on Max’s bare knee and nothing more, for an eternity. Then inch by inch, sliding slowly up her flesh, to the hem of her skirt, then pushing under the leather, gently, accepting every indulgence as the gift it is.
From both of us.
They decide together where it will go, her initials surrounded by a heart, her mark, claiming Max for her own, for the night.
I twist the evening away at home, in my own spectacular agony, until I finally succumb to a fitful sleep.
Max tries to be silent, as she slips into bed beside me. But every tendon and muscle has been loosened from her release. She is a puddle of satisfaction and breathing heavily, aslumber, moments after laying down.
I wait until the first light to begin my search.
She has had a long week at work.
She is a powerful woman, with dozens doing her bidding and multiple deadlines on which to keep a handle.
She works very hard not to bring work home with her most of the days of the week.
On Friday, I give her a hand.
As long as he keeps pumping, so will she.
If he can make it to 100 he can even cum.
He hasn’t made it yet.