Game Face
By brewt.blacklistMay 2012THIS HAD gone on long enough. We had the time, and there was nothing going on or pressing. I stood and crossed the room, and took my lover’s hand, inducing a puzzled look. I tugged and reluctantly was followed to the bedroom.
Our bedroom had become a quiet place over the last months. It’s not supposed to be that way. No, not tonight, I’m not in the mood, I don’t think I can, is this all you think of me, tell you what I’ll come get you when I want that to happen. Nothing to argue about, nothing to negotiate, our bed was lonely, quiet, full of despair. Made me think we were going to go our separate ways, which is what we had both said was not what we wanted to happen. But there had simply been no way to reconnect here. Sleep, yes. Fold laundry on the bed, yes. Sex...no. Intimacy had evaporated; gone were the casual kisses, the relief of a hug, the effort to touch, and it was killing me. I loathed it. We were growing old.
“What are you doing?”
“Exactly what it looks like I’m doing. I’m making a pass at you.”
“This is not going to work out, you know. I really don’t think anything is going to happen.”
“Then nothing will happen. But it isn’t going to be because of a lack of trying.”
“That will embarrass me, you know. Won’t make anything any better.”
“If nothing happens, then nothing happens, and it will be alright. Indulge me.”
“You know I haven’t felt very good about this for a very long time.”
“And I’m trying to make it up to you. I swear on all that you know I think is holy, there is no judgment here. I’m trying to give you something here, not take something.”
“This is a bad idea. I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Come on. Let’s try.”
Four deep breaths later, with a dipping of at least one of our heads, our robes came off, and we lay on the bed together. Naked. For the first time since I couldn’t remember when.
“Wh-what are you wanting to do?”
“You lay there and try to relax. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll do all the work. If something occurs to you, though, do speak up.”
I started nuzzling, little kisses on the neck, nothing too insistent, and my hands started their practiced motions on the body I had loved forever. The old routines were where we always started. I found that nipples hadn’t moved too much since I last played with them, there was a stomach here that was slightly ticklish—still, and there was still pubic hair, right where I had left it.
And an unresponsive sex, damn it. I touched gently, I tugged a little, stroking, feeling my way around again to...nothing. No arousal.
I had expected this, and committed myself to the next approach. Time for plan B. I pulled my knees around and slowly rearranged myself to be over my lover, and began moving my kissings down, down across the chest, dallying here and there, across the stomach, down, down, down through the down to the dead zone. Our bed wasn’t long enough; I was practically off of it, kneeling, hunched over, I had to look funny like this.
“I don’t, I don’t know that I want you to do that.”
“It’s still okay. It’s fine. You, you know I like doing this.” I lied, and we both knew I lied, and I prayed to God for forgiveness for breaking yet another commandment.
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m going to do it anyway. It’s nothing. So please, try to enjoy this.”
We breathed one more time in synch, deeply, as when we are about to set about an unpleasant chore that needs to be done, like mowing the lawn, or taking out smelly trash, or having to go to work on Monday morning. I descended and held my breath—honestly, the smell down here is the worst part—and opened my mouth, getting my tongue out just a little, committing myself to what I was about to do.
And I was rewarded. Another head in the bed arched backwards, and a pelvis rolled up to meet me, and a noisy exhale cluttered up the room, following by an increase in aspiration, tension in hands, small little quiverings being set off here and there.
“Oh, oh god.”
I smiled my little smile of conquering—I was a little smug, but I at least did not snicker—as I plunged: I stormed the gates and the gagging that always happened when I would do this set in, and I had my own shakings, my own breathing stress escalations, my own tensions in my own hands to contend with.
Lick, sounds, kiss, exhales, sucking, earthquakes. Again. Again. Again.
Nothing would happen, my ass. Which was in its own way, funny. And this nothing that wouldn’t-couldn’t-shouldn’t happen, went on forever and a day, and the end was nowhere in sight. We were both panting and exhausted and out of breath: there was frustration, too, god fucking damn it. What we were in here for had not happened, and I knew what I was going to have to do again. Again.
My hands shifted round and found the backs of knees, and lifted, and pushed, and moved toward the head of the bed.
“No, no, wait, you don’t have to, please, stop.”
“Mm hmm.” I lowered my head toward an orifice we both had, that we had been taught was awful, dirty, disgusting and not to be discussed, let alone have done to it what I was doing.
“I...oohhhh, you, uhh, uhhh, fffuucckk...”
My gagging continued; I hated licking this. It is much worse than the the subjugation of oral sex. This was much more demeaning, it tasted worse in my mind whether it actually did or not, and it absolutely did nothing for me except induce revulsion. It did not matter. My mate’s hidden secret shameful lust for this was what I was here to play into, to exploit, to use for my own purposes: to induce an orgasm. I was going to have my way here, and one of us was going to cum here—now—no matter what it took, no matter what I had to do to bring it about, hang my need, screw my fears and nausea, I don’t matter here. You do. Like you are supposed to: to me.
I was thoroughly humiliated by the time it was over, and I was at the same time happy: I was reminded that this was fun. You were smiling again. You succumbed to a baser need, and I had triumphed, but at a cost. We both won; the drought ended. That was at least something: halle-fucking-lujah.
“So, what can we do for you?”
I needed a couple minutes.
###
THIS HAD gone on long enough: no sex, no kisses, no hugs, no touches, and I had had it. No more: the drought was about to end right here, right now. No more dead zone. I stormed across the room and grabbed a hand and yanked.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“What do you think?”
“God, no, please, can’t we talk about this?” Laughter plowed through a grin.
“Exactly what is there to talk about? Get in there, and take that off. Lie the fuck down.”
This was a game we’d played lots; orgasm denial until one or the other of us couldn’t stand it anymore, and a quick burst into violence. Almost-violence. Play-acted expressions of frustrations and angers and beatings and rentings and force and screamings and and...it’s fun. Mock rape, aggressive love-making, an expression of our baser needs. It was cathartic, and something we both recognized we both needed and had to express every once in a while.
“Oh. Please. No. Don’t. Stop. Ha ha.”
“Yeah, right, shut up.” I always hated that I was the one to cave in first, and the rules of the game said that the one who couldn’t go any longer had to bring the other one off before getting their own needs taken care of. The longer I waited, the longer I got to wait, and I could never outlast my mate. Damn it, it was embarrassing.
I didn’t even wait before we were situated before I started throwing my hands and lips and tongue around, setting about lavishly licking, tugging, pulling, sucking, nibbling, biting, going at it as hard and aggressively as I could, trying to force an orgasm as quickly as possible. I, yes, groped all the familiar places: that had more to do with my needs than anything else. Squeezing, stroking, pawing, mauling, play-slapping, which earned me a “slow dowwwn.” I couldn’t, of course. I just had to get it so we could get around to taking care of me. Hurry up.
Nothing. Fine. Plan B.
We needed a longer bed. I scootched around and hunched over, barely on it, putting my face directly into sex. Right in it. Smelly. Tasting nasty. Too bad for me.
“Oh, oh god.”
That was better.
One body was arched one way in our bed; one body was arched around the other way. Lick...mmm...suck....ohh yeah...kiss...I love this...over and over and over, and it was taking too long, forever and a day, and I was getting tired too quickly, fighting nausea, trying to keep from gagging, not making enough progress, losing ground, why doesn’t this work, what do I have to do here.
Come on. Do it. Cum for me. Give in; don’t make me do that other...thing. Please. The thing I keep praying to a God who doesn’t listen to me about to please make it so this one thing wouldn’t-couldn’t-shouldn’t happen anymore. It’s not supposed to be that way.
“You know what you’re going to have to doo-ooo, don’t you??” Too much control, too much smug, too much snickering. God fucking damn it.
“No. Really? I hate that.”
“Don’t care. Get down there, right now. I have been waiting for you to do this for waaay too long; now get at it.” Knees went north; the game became commandment. Holy judgment had been passed.
Having to put my tongue on my lover’s asshole was something I truly despised, and it was something we argued and negotiated about over and over, and I always seemed to end up in this position anyway. It’s frustrating.
I gave in—again, again, damn it—and set about doing something awful. I became toilet paper. Closing my eyes was absolutely necessary and it made it raunchier and even more deplorable, changing an abominable act into something I knew I deserved; it focused everything onto my taste buds, my nose, the sense of touch in my mouth.
I loathed myself. I despaired. I was ashamed. Like I was supposed to be.
“I...oohhhh, you, uhh, uhhh, fffuucckk...Halle-fucking-lujah.” That was at least something.
I did it as long as I could, coming up for air when I had to, spitting, drooling, wiping my tongue on a thigh before committing again. And again. And again. When I finally could open my eyes—I didn’t want to—when I could finally look up, it got worse. As expected, like always.
There was a smile. The smile of triumph. Of winning. Of conquering.
There is no power on earth that could make me like this, and there is nothing I can do to get you past it, is there. Dirty, disgusting, detestable, and you will not shut up about it. Ooh, ahh, yeah, yeah, fuck you, you love it when I do this, you love humiliating me, exploiting me, and it will happen again, won’t it. You will somehow manipulate the situation, coerce me, maneuver your way under my mouth, and live out your glee at my expense, and keep dangling my little needs out in front of me, dragging me along by the short and curlies with the carrot and temptations of your sex, your adoration, the draw of your attention, your lust, the things I can’t resist. I am such a weak fuck.
Shit.
I know. That should be funny. Have you cum yet? Thank god; growing old with this is going to make me grow old. Now, when can we get around to what I want? Or are you going to make me pay some more? What, laundry? Fine. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.
-Brewt-
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