Mama Knows Best

“No, keep it on please.”

Your hands slide up my ribs, fingernails pushing into the satin of my bra. I arch my back and roll my hips over your pelvic bones, thighs saddling over yours. Your tongue curls over your teeth, eyes desirous and half-closed.

“I love how your skin looks in red” you croon. I lean forward, full white cleavage spilling over red fabric, undulating inches from your face. Your hips respond and thrust upwards, slowly, wanting. Your mouth, open just enough, waiting and eager. With one quick motion, I free one breast, nipple protruding over satin. It disappears in your hungry mouth, your eyes closed as if praying, your suckles rhythmic and primal. That face you make sucking my tits makes my pussy spasms, making the most innocence of connections deeply erotic.

“Mmm, such a hungry baby boy. Eat. Baby eat. Show mama how big boys eat”

And you moan, tits nearly suffocating you, desperate to signal approval, desperate to show your arousal. You are a mama’s boy, the best boy, and mama is the only one who can see how far you roam, the only one who’s disapproval matters to your endlessly curious ears.

Mama’s is the only love you need to survive.

The night unfolds and mama demands the confessions of your wandering hands, the truth of your allegiance when you’re out of mama’s gaze. Mama sucks you clean while you tell her about the tight pussy from Monday night. Mama gets you so close to the madness of orgasm, overstimulated with your confession and Mama’s approval. But then Mama meets your honesty with abrupt objection: teeth across your raging cock, palms pummeling your flesh, with denial to enter her wet, scolding hot pussy. Mama makes you wait, your cock aching and untouched, while she plunges a black cock in and out of her pussy. Mama says you’re not big enough, not man enough, too little to fill her needs. Mama makes you wait, fully erect and aroused with punishment.

Mama makes you wait.

Mama makes you watch as she bends over and slides her fingers into her asshole, her pussy glistening below. And then she says “Come, come here baby. Go slow, baby, go slow.”

But there is no slow. You are in completely with one thrust; Mama’s already too prepared for her big boy.

“Am I in your ass Mama? Really Mama?” Your voice is guttural, charged with long lost youth.

“Yes, but baby, be you. No more mama. Be you.”

I say your name.

I say it again and again as the room distorted with pleasure, as you abandon your little boy and step back into the grown man of my dreams. My spine rattles, my flesh bounces, everything a reverberation of your thrusts.

“Fuck. Pull my hair!”

The words are shaken out of my body, frenzied from your jostling. One hand scoops my hair, the other wraps around my throat, growing progressively tighter as the seconds pass. My body explodes endorphins, turns hot pink in response. My ass clenches around your throbbing cock, your thrusts shortened and hurried from pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

I still my body as you cum, let you buck, free and wild. Your hands clutch all over my body, knuckles on ribs, nails on hips. You groan like an animal, like the manliest of men, like you are so severely fueled by testosterone that you will cry. You bite my shoulder and then my neck, your noises gruff and thankful.

I am steady, spine arched, ass receptive and full of your cum. I am steady as you unravel. You bite me again, as if I am precious, as if I am the only woman who will ever be able to extract that kind of cum.

In all the fantastical lying of our sex, perhaps that’s the deepest truth.

Baby steps with baby boy

“Oh god! Fuck…. fuck. Wait… wait…!”

All of him is constricted. Every blessed inch. His cum has split, all over his belly. His hips are still locked up, pulsing off the couch, contorted with deep pleasure.
My face is close to his open thighs. My cheek grazes the insides of one and all of his body surges again and bucks.

“Wait! …Wait…” he pants.

And I wait, letting nothing of me touch his body, even though my instincts are to scoop him up and kiss him clean. He breathes unevenly and exhales loudly.
“Fuck… fuck, I don’t even know how to describe what just happened…” he says as his body sinks back into the cushions. “God… I need a glass of water”

I get him a glass of water and bring him a warm towel to clean up the cum. When I come back into the room, he is sitting up right, looking more like his regular self. More composed. He gulps the water, audibly and when he’s has his fill he exhales dramatically, this time with satisfaction.

“Fuck. I feel like a raw nerve” he says through a sheepish smile.

Nothing has ever sounded so beautiful to my ears. I’ve accomplished the impossible: I’ve overwhelmed the man of iron nerves.

“Where you in my asshole? Like your tongue was in my ass?” he says this with a mostly giddy tone.

“Ha, no. I was just on the outside. You were too tight baby. You’re still not relaxed enough. It would have hurt if I pushed in.”

“But what were you doing? It felt like you were inside! Were you around it or on it?”

“I was right over it, licking all around. I could tell you weren’t completely relaxed, so I stayed right on the outside, and applied pressure all around it”

He balls up his index finger and his thumb and makes a mock asshole in his fist. “Wait, show me. pretend this is my asshole. What did you do with your tongue?”

I undulate over his hand, tongue broad and fluttering. As soon as my mouth meets his fist he exclaims “Oh fuck yeah, that’s what that was!”

We laugh and touch, ankles rubbing, knees knotting.

“I guess it’s like when I finger your pussy and you ask me what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Yeah, it’s exactly like that. You’re playing with a part I can’t ever see and I have no idea how you make those sensations happen.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But fuck, wow, I’m exhausted. That just took so much out of me.” He lays down, motioning for me to snuggle by his side.

“You liked it though?” I say, lips brushing against his chest hair.

“Yeah. Fuck. Loved it. You know it’s all so new to me. I’ve never done this with anyone else.”

“Well yeah, me too.”

He shifts upwards, meets his gaze with mine “Wait, really?”

“Yeah duh. Who the hell's asshole do you think I’ve ever wanted to fuck as bad as yours?”

“Wait… but really, I thought you had so much experience. Wait... can we just forget you said that. I like thinking you have a lot of experience.”

“Ha, fine. Okay” I say through a laugh as I wrap my arms around him.

We float in noiseless lull between his orgasm and mine. And what I am really thinking ferments, unsaid, on the tip of my tongue:

Such a sweet little boy. He doesn’t understand that even if I’ve never owned a man’s asshole before it doesn’t render me inexperienced. I am the master student of bottoming sex—and oh, precious baby boy, now is my time to teach.

One day, that asshole will be mine.

One day, beautiful boy, you will beg for it to be mine.

How my deviance works

At the bottom of my lingerie drawer, there is a ball gag. It is rubber and dense, opaque and black. An old lover bought it for my birthday, when I craved muteness and a deluge of saliva. We never used it and I’m not sure why. In the past few years my curiosity for it has nearly disappeared. So now, it just sits, in a tangle of panties, at the bottom of my lingerie drawer.

Today, while putting away laundry I saw its black curve poking out beneath the thongs, saying hello. And I thought:

I want to wrap that ball gag I never used in pretty pink paper, nestle that bundle in a tiny gift bag. I want to give it to my current lover. I want to tell him to use it on his other lovers, but of course, that he is free to use it as he wishes, that he can enjoy it or store in his underwear drawer, untouched, if that suits him too. 

But really, what I really want is for him to use on her.

I want her mouth wide, tongue curved behind the gag, cheeks taut underneath the straps. I want her eyes vigilant, skin heightened in its sensitivity. I want her hair free and wild, the bulkiest part of her unleashed like an oil spill on the bed.

I want her almost naked, splayed like the letter x, wearing only the gag that was wrapped in pretty pink paper. I want her waiting for his touch, mouth agape and full, mute with want.

Mute with lust.

Mute with what could have been mine.

I want her to put that gag on willingly, excitedly, because he gave it to her, simply with a smile and a small phrase “I thought you’d like to try something new”.

I want her to put it on to please him, wet from the assumption that this gift was solely his idea. I want her toxically aroused, oblivious to the symbolism, pussy drenched with how much she trusts him.

I want the hush of his bedroom air circulating the liquid of her lips. I want his eyes locked on hers, his patience chipping away her resolve. I want her body to squirm, hips rising, trying to expedite the contact of his tongue between her legs.

And I want it to be implausibly slow. A slow standoff between their eyes. A slow silence between their lips. A slow spread of his palms. A slow spread of her pussy. A slow whine fumbling from behind the blockade of her mouth.

A slow slather of tongue on a muted pussy, confounded on the bed. A slow trickle of spit, sliding down her face, the sloppiest reaction, thick and urgent, cascading down her neck, pooling in her clavicle.

I want it to be delirious, feral, charmed. I want her expansive when it’s over; I want him hallowed when it’s done.

I want it to be all the things that it will never be sitting in my underwear drawer.