Friday, January 9, 2015

Post-coital colloquy, on sexual expression: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, last week.


"OK," replied Charles. "We fucking did what?"

I grew serious, and fixed his gaze with mine. "How many girls have you fucked before me?"

He looked steadily back. "Three."

"Was it ever like that?"



"Because. . . I couldn't. . ." He didn't want to continue, because he clearly didn't know how to put it right. He hadn't thought as philosophically about the matter as I had, to that point at least. I think it's easier for a sub, sometimes; we don't instinctively pull back from our own cravings quite as quickly as dominants do.

I said: "Because you couldn't spank them and fuck them in the ass." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "What you really mean is that you couldn't express your whole self sexually."

Now he turned his eyes back to me, with a look of wonder in them.

"That's what we did," I said. There was a long pause. I thought I knew what was coming, but I wanted to pretend it wasn't.

"How many guys have you. . . been with?" 

His prudishness may be the thing I like least about him, truth to tell, but it's not without its chivalrous charm. Also, it's an essential part of his dominant nature--I wouldn't find him so unbelievably hot, I'm pretty sure, if he didn't have an atavistic, chauvinistic need to see to my modesty--one that he fights against, mostly successfully.

"Five." That didn't make him happy, but what was I supposed to do about it? Say that when he touched me it was like I was a virgin? (The fact that it was true made no difference whatsoever at that moment.) 

"And?" his face was dark with a disappointment he didn't want to admit to himself. 

I snuggled into his chest again. "And there should be a different word to describe what we just did--a word that would never apply to what I did with them. First of all. . ." (I looked up at him again) "I saved my ass for you, and that must mean something, especially since, as you now know, my ass is fantasy-central for me. Second of all, I never told them anything about my fantasy-life. If you want to say that I had sex with them but I made love to you, I guess that's applicable, but it doesn't really cover it. I gave you everything here, in this bed; I gave them nothing at all." 

Were there tears in his eyes? "So I'm the only one who knows about. . . this stuff?" 

I kissed him, and nodded. 

"And you're the only one who knows this about me," he said. 

"Knows what?" I asked innocently. I wanted to hear him articulate it, something he hadn't done before, and which I suspected was hard for him. 

"That. . . I'm a sadist," he said, sadly, turning his eyes away. 

"Look at me," I replied, and he did. "Did you ever get off on something in real life where someone was really being hurt?" 


"No." I said. "I know that about you." 

"How?" he asked doubtfully. 

I laughed. "Because it took me half an hour to persuade you to fuck my ass like I know now you really wanted to, and I really wanted you to?" 

"But you were screaming, practically, and I. . . I liked it." 

"If I'd said 'Pineapple' or even if I'd forgotten the safeword and said 'Charles, stop', what would you have done?" 

"I'd have stopped, of course." 

"There you go. I'm an ethical masochist and you're an ethical sadist. We're going to have lots of fun together." 

"But. . . sometimes. Sometimes there's something in the news, about corporal punishment. . . about some poor girl whose teacher hit her, or even about some sick bastard who kidnapped someone, and. . ." 

"And you get hard?" 

He nodded. I kissed him. "First: I get wet. That may help." He nodded. "Second: getting hard and getting off are not the same thing. We're born under this star; I like to think it's the same star, you on the top of its rays and me on the bottom. We can't help what gets us wet, or hard. We can help what we do about it. Did you ever jerk off, thinking about C---- J-----?" (Really, I named a real girl who'd been abducted and kept as a sex-slave in a Western state.) 

"No! Of course not!" 

"Of course not. Well, let me tell you about me. I carefully adjusted the name and the state, and I played with myself for a very long time, thinking about it and, afterward, I wanted to take a shower. The state was Connecticut, and the name was Emily Tilton." 

Charles held me, tightly. "I love you," he said.

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