The Rival Game

“I like feeling inadequate” he whispers from behind as his cock slowly glides in and out my pussy. “I don’t know why, I just do. I like feeling inadequate. Like I can’t please you.”

We’ve played this game before. The imaginary rival game. We steal the names of my past lovers and make them come alive which each of his thrusts. I tell him that their cocks are better and more resilient; that they could fuck me all night long. He asks repeatedly to tell me about all the times other men have been able to fuck my ass. And I don’t give details as much as I give him my lust-struck face, riddled with the memory of all those past orgasms. He struggles in response, cock constricted with jealousy. Then I tell him why he’s not allowed to fuck my ass at all.

And then he comes.

He tells me after that he would never be able to bear it if I was really fucking another man. That the jealousy would eat him alive. And I tell him that there will never be another man.

We’ve played this game the other way around. The real rival game. We borrow the real names of his other loves and let them metaphorically lay down next to me while he fingers my cunt.

“I’m sorry I get in the way so often” I croon, his knuckles digging into my wet flesh.

“You’re sorry you get in the way of what?” he says, eliciting the secrets that build up under my skin.

“I’m sorry I get in the way of your other relationship”.

“Whose?” he’s says, pumping deeper into my pussy.

I say her name with his fingers burrowing deeper, consumed with all my wet arousal. She is a real person and they have present day commitments. This is not ancient history, the way it is when we play this game the other way around. I say her name and tell him that sometimes I just get jealous, that is why I get in the way.

He fingers my cunt and tells me of his other loves. He tells me what they do. If I were to say those things to him about my other loves he would shot his load under the fantasy of his inadequacy.

But that is not how I cum when we play this real game the other way around.

I cum under the reality that my lover is a wanted man.

A quality man, woven from empathy and compassion. He has other lovers because he can build depth and build safety and it’s natural for other women to want to get as close as possible to him. It’s natural to want to touch something so refined. It’s natural to want to maintain a serious relationship with such a man and so it’s natural that each of his lovers is not a casual one-night stand.

When we play the rival game when I’m pitted against the potentials of all his present day lovers, I never orgasm to a feeling of inadequacy. I cum under the delicious reality that my lover is beautiful and that the presence of other women just confirms that reality.

The rivals do not make me feel worthless. Instead, they magnify his worth.

And so I cum like a lunatic, thinking of him with his other lovers, because I intuitively understand he’s a man with a lot of love to give, and even if sometimes I can feel jealousy it doesn’t erode my ability to access how incredible luckily I am to have sex with a man who’s attention is so coveted.

When we play the rival game, I don’t enjoy feeling inadequate the way he does.
I enjoy experiencing who he is and all the intensely explosive emotions that go with it.

Daddy & Julie

“You’ll say it, princess, when you’re coming.”

He swept the hair out of her eyes and cupped her already lifted chin. She was invariably willful and he smiled at her stoicism. Even now, with her naked limbs stretched wide across the bed, she was stubbornly engaged. Her eyes gleamed fire and she pursed her lips when their gazes met.

“Tell me you’ll say it, Julie” he said forcefully.

“Fine, daddy. Fine, I’ll say it.”

She rotated her hips upwards, a fidget made of pure arousal. The lips between her legs were alive and she offered herself like a skilled toreador. Her body was unaware of its restraints, her focus single-minded and obsessive for his attention. Her mouth opened and silently screamed for touch, her eyebrows perked in infatuation. He studied the curves of her breasts, the way her breathe undulated from her hair to her toes, the tumble of soft blonde fur near her navel. She was such a woman, bound and yet so active, and he loved how easily she could abandon herself and leave only the most well-worn characteristic behind: neediness, impatience, desire.  

He smiled at her exquisiteness and affectionately stroked her belly. She wiggled her pelvis towards his fingers.

“Such a little whore for your daddy”.

The tender words lingered in the atmosphere as his belt sliced through the bedroom and seared a near-immediate welt to Julie’s inner thigh.

“Oooooppph” she murmured.

But her skin drank the injury and it spread his adoring contradiction throughout each cell of her body. Again and again the belt met her flesh, making bands of purple and pink on her abdomen, thighs, chest. Julie sang with each strike but her steadied her limbs for his next advance. He loved the vigor of her body, its indomitable robustness. As if her body was built solely to withstand the inhumanity of his love.

“That’s my good girl” he whispered as the belt fell quiet again by his side.

With glossed eyes, she craned her neck off the mattress, sweat mingling along her hair line. “Daddy…” she crooned. He knew that sultry tone, knew the temptation and innocence she tried to mask in it; the tone she always used to dissuade him from abuse. He kneeled next to her face and knotted his hand through her hair.

“Baby wants daddy to be nice?”

Before she could answer, he thrust his tongue into her open mouth. She met his lips with fury and urgency and moaned each time she exhaled. When he broke their kiss, he looped the belt around her neck and pulled tight, until her eyes woke to a world with less oxygen.

The leather band twisted into his fist and his free hand traveled to the warm markings on her thighs. She flinched instinctual under his investigation.

“No. Don’t move! Let daddy see what he’s done to you.”

Her animation surrendered itself as his free hand spread her pussy lips, revealing a watery invitation between. He rubbed two fingers between the inner and outer labia, his fingers engulfed with her fluid. He held her pussy open and stared into her eyes.

 “Why are you so wet, baby?”

This was where she struggled. It was not the metal chains or the impossible positions he bound her to. It was not the beatings or the impossible waiting. It was finding words when he had stripped her of her intelligence.

 “…Because…” she started “…. Because…"

“Because why baby?”

“….because…. you’re… touching me, daddy”

“And you like that, baby? You like daddy coming into your room, ripping off your jammies, holding open your dripping cunt, like you’re an animal, like you’re a whore who can’t control her own desire? You like that daddy leaves you alone all day and strangles you awake at night?”

Julie’s mouth pouted open, all of her expression flooded in stimulation. “Yes… daddy…yes…”

“And you like it when daddy treats your pussy like this?”

She sharply inhaled as he flicked the end of his belt onto her defenseless cunt. Each whack made her entire body wince and yield a galaxy of whimpers. His aim was general but with every bullseye to her clit Julie bucked with shock. She could not decide if his violence was pleasurable or painful and her facial expression short-circuited from the indecision. To confuse her further, he drove his fingers into her hole and he inwardly smiled when her noises drop several decibels, a hallmark of her deep arousal.

“There’s a good girl,” he said lovingly as he jerked the belt around her neck.

Her eyes whipped and her whole body erupted fuchsia. He rhythmically pumped two fingers in and out of her pussy and kept the belt taut in his other hand.  Instinctively her pussy clenched and released with his fingers’ movement and a deluge cascaded out of her. As he felt her gspot swell and lower itself, he loosened the snare of the belt. 

“Oh, look. There’s baby’s spot. Right there. Who’s spot is this baby?” He tapped his fingers to emphasize his question. Her eyes transfixed towards the ceiling, her soul captivated by his command. She loved him for touching a fragment of her body that she could never touch or see herself.  

“…it’s yours….” she whispered.

“Who’s?” His fingers coiled upwards and rooted into her swelling.

“Fuck. Daddy’s! It’s yours. It’s daddy’s spot!” The words came out in a tornado of relief. It was daddy’s spot. It was and would always be daddy’s spot no matter how long he left her alone.

“That’s a good girl, Julie. Daddy’s going to unchain your arms now. Touch your pussy. Show daddy how you rub your clitty.”

She didn’t feel the pain that the red marks around her wrist implied. Dutifully, she plied her pussy apart and easily found her clit, soaked and awake. Her fingers circled around the outer edges and he slipped his fingers through the grooves of her pussy. Her hips pulsated and her feet pulled against the remaining restraints, the endorphins completely vanquishing the tension around her ankles. He watched as her nipples rose and deepened in color, announced the approaching of her orgasm.

“Someone’s close to cumming, baby.” He maintained steady assault on her pussy even though she slowed the circling of her clit.

“No, keep going baby. You’re going to come and you’re going to say it” he said matter-of-factly.

Julie mouth twitched in discomfort, the most genuine tell of vulnerability she had shown all evening. Her hands obeyed and spun in pace with his cues, while she hesitated with her mouth.

“You’re going to say Julie. Right as you’re coming. Do you hear me!” He yanked his hand out of pussy and let down a flurry of smacks on her open gaping hole.

“…Yes! … Daddy! Please. Yes! I’ll say it!” Julie panted her words, her whole face flush with deliberation.

He slammed his hand back up against her gspot and she screeched. With his other hand he slid his cock outside of his boxers and dragged his palm across his girth. Julie’s want amplified when she saw the glisten head.

“Good little slut. Keep rubbing your clit.” He kissed the insides of her thighs as he methodically pumped her pussy. He kissed the bruises on her belly and the sucked each nipple affectionately. He kissed up to her ear and let the warmth of his breath caress her face.

“I know you’re close baby” he said sweetly “You’re going to say it. If you don’t, no more fuckies for you for the next week.”

Julie’s body reared at the threat as the avalanche of her orgasm threatening to suffocate her. She would say it. She would have to. He fingered her faster and her eyes dilated in desire.  

“Besides, you love daddy” he whispered “and you want to show daddy that you’re his best girl.”

The words hurled her over the edge.

“Thank you daddy!” she began as her pussy clenched around his fingers, her limbs constricted in ecstasy.

“Thank you what, daddy?” he said with a smirk.

“Thank you for fucking her before fucking me!”, she screamed, her shame completely evaporated, her body thrashing under her orgasm.

 “Thank you daddy for fucking her before me!” she moaned again, her syllables softened with lust.

“That’s a good girl!” he snarled as he buried his cock deep inside her pussy. 

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.

Husband socks

The hallway is where straggler clothing loiter before finding their way to the hamper. There’s no sense in overcoming this habit of disorganization; it just feel so natural to surrender pieces onto the hardwood as I strip for the shower. So there is always a smattering of clothing parallel to the bathroom, like tumble weeds made out of poly blends and cotton. Like old snow that turns ashen with each passing day. This time, when I round the corner, a small patch of electric blue screams from the floor and catches my eye. A lone athletic sock, wadded into a ball, leaning against the molding stares up at me. For reasons too slippery for my tongue, when my sight absorbed my domestic negligence my brain labels the carelessness with “my husband’s sock”.

What the hell is that?

Because that is not my husband’s sock. I have no husband. I have a lover who loans me socks when I show up to teach classes in his gym without any of my own. I have a friend who listens to the victories and insecurities engraved on my cells; a priest who offers absolution just by stomaching my self-indulgent confessions. I have a companion who compassionately feeds me dinner and volleys back inquiry about any subject under the sun. I have a soul mate who tongues my mouth and cunt with equally engaged passion; a comrade to fondle flesh with as a means of resurrecting god.

I have a rare thing, an ingenuous thing, a thing so difficult it shreds my soul bare.

But I do not have a husband and I never will. He is not my husband and he will never be.

Then why does my mind apply words with a complete disregard for their meaning? Why is that ball of black and blue “my husband sock’s”?

I want to tell you it’s because “husband’s socks” makes it easy. That you would immediately understand the significance of this relationship if I could summarize it with just one word. I want to be like everyone else in the universe and use a language that is succinct and fulfilling; a language capable of highlighting the importance and the need for protection of a relationship that stands singular to all else.

I want to tell you, that like everything else in my life, I wish it was easier. I wish I could make you understand the burdens of that come with mind. I wish I could just say he was my husband even if I’m not built to withstand the monotony of being a wife. Husband and wife aren’t titles can handle the gravity of our relentless honesty; they aren’t labels with enough elasticity for the feelings we inspire in each other. But still, I wish I could say husband and you would know that this is about a meeting of mind; the purpose behind evolution, the fluke of sheer luck that we have made it this far.

This is not about shared property and rigid gender roles. Not about limiting the range of our independent explorations. Not about grand gestures in front of a superficial audience just to prove we’ve lived and made uninspired noise.

But this is about sickness and health. This is until death do us part but understanding that vast time and spaces away from each other is not the same as death. This is about letting love move in the way that love sees most fit.

None of that makes it easy but so much of that makes it magical. I pick up his lone sock and inhale; it still smells so much like him even if I dragged it through 60 minutes of intense sweating. There is so much of him inside my head, woven in the never-ending prattle of my subconscious. This is not my husband’s sock but I wish for some way to explain that this sock defies too many physical laws. How the fuck did this sock get here in the first place?

There are 8,420 days between our birthdays and 5,317 miles between our birthplaces. We were incubated in nonconsecutive generations, seeped in vastly different culture. How did we ever manage to have a conversation, let alone share garments? And yet here is his sock sauntering up against my dirty laundry; weird evidence of love’s lack of concern about logical prerequisites for its unfettered manifestation. And here is more evidence amassed in unpredictable fashion, over weeks and months and tear-soaked years. Here are the bruises from his kisses sometimes violent undertows, turning yellow like overripe fruit, mottling my thighs. Here is the poetry scrapped from our gums after a million small moments of emotion jostled our individual souls bare. Here is a story encrypted into my maneuvering of my veins; an impetus swirling behind my blood’s flow. Here is him crying in my arms over love lost, over his broken vows for a woman who was once the reason he rose out of bed. Here is me coddling the most tender facets of his psyche, spoon-feeding him perspective and chicken soup. Here is he cradling my insecurities and salvaging the sharp edges of my bravery from a depressive monsoon that swears I am a bad mom. Here is us listening to music in the back of an outdoor café at 11 pm on a Wednesday; here is us laughing too loud in downpour while we pluck sushi from square plates.

Here is us when we are beautiful: naked, glowing, open. So much electricity in our salvia and in our syllables. Here is us as immortals, male and female, vulnerable and oscillating, one into the other. The meaning of everything in motion.

But here is us when we are brutal: sterile, insensitive, cold, so full of rage the only color in our universe is red. Here is us as demons, selfish and explosive. Here is me erupting rage when he permits his other lover too close to my force field. Here is him stubbornly resolute about not caring about the outcomes of his actions. Here is us submerged in metallic silence. Here is us creating hell on earth.

We’re capable of forfeiting reality and creating either fantastical extreme: heaven on a Tuesday afternoon, Hell rattling off its slumber at the most unexpected of places. In the upheaval of either universe, emotive thought dilutes my blood, oxygenates me as if for the first time. How did we get here? How does anybody ever get to either of these places when they still have these lumbering mortal feet?

It can be jarring at times, to have a love like that. To be worn down the demands of this love’s honesty and passion. But we persist, throughout all the endless reasons to cease the connection. It is not about the intercourse; it has always been about the discourse. There is something cyclical and essential in how we speak to each other; something divinely inspired that heals wounds that each of us has housed way before we ever met. There is something restorative about heading to heaven only to fall back down to hell. We do not catch each other. We do not make promises about paradise forever upheld between our flesh.

We just tell each other of the journey and wet each other’s skin with our laughing tears.

He is not my husband and I am not his wife. I am just a woman who lets him be himself and he offers me the exact same privilege in return. I have no insurance if this relationship tanks; you would never be able to offer condolences the way one would if there was a divorce. If this ends badly, I suspect the damage would be much more complicated than a divorce. We share part brain and part heart. It seems so much easier to split a bank account.

I guess when my brain slips and says “my husband’s sock”, what it’s really trying to say is: I wish it were simpler. I wish I could make you understand what the risks are and why we take them.

Sometimes, I wish I were simpler, that he was simpler. Maybe then there’d be a better label for his dirty sock.  

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.