the week to come: fragment 4

As I leave to go to Kevin in another hour, I am thinking about my role of escort with him and how it is proving to be an effective thing in a certain way.

As I’ve written before, I am to him sometimes a “friend with benefits,” but there is also between us an awareness that I am his regular escort, a role defined for me in this from the beginning. We flip back and forth between these types of relationships, but there are differences, and being an escort to him creates some boundaries that are useful.

Escorts have their regulars, of course — repeating customers that become casual friendships of a sort. And there are high-end escorts with wealthy clients who take them on week-long, even month-long, excursions.

I am an escort in both those ways to Kevin — to him a recurring as well as a longer-term sex-companion experience.

I assume that level of professional sex — repeated arrangements, longer gigs — involves a lot of relational “work” for an escort quite apart from the sexual center. Most long-term time is not spent in sexual play. Accordingly, an escort must be interested and interesting, entertaining her client-partner with grace and passion even when not in bed.

Likewise, I serve Kevin with my personality as well as my body. While Kevin may at times be quiet and inscrutable, he is an intelligent man with varied interests and pursuits. He finds me compelling enough even with my clothes on. So this is good. Even if he is not so immersed in the world of words as I am, we are able to have good conversations. I don’t think of this as “work” for me, but it is akin to what an escort does in such situations.

I sometimes think a test of the best relationship is when two people can be comfortably silent together, when the absence of talk is easy and natural. Again, Kevin is prone to silence, but in the past that hasn’t always been “comfortable.” Yet these days, he has opened up to me more, and I’ve learned some of his rhythms. We can talk for a time, but then fall into a silence — albeit now a silence that is warm and accepting. This, it seems to me, is the character of a friendship, even one with benefits. We don’t have to entertain each other. (As I’ve posted before, I think Kevin had not early on realized this, but I’m hopeful this time he will settle into this comfort zone of us as friends being around each other but not necessarily doing something together.)

On the other hand, there are different advantages with my being Kevin’s escort.

As friends, even as we assume the benefits, there is the obligation for sex to be mutual and timely — that is, “Do you feel like doing something later?” and “What would you like?” — the usual negotiation of sex between two people. But as Kevin’s escort, the assumption is that I have an obligation to service him. He can (and does) then say, “I want to spread you on the table” or “I want you to give me a blow job.” It can be sudden, opportunistic, demanding — and still appropriate in the context of my being his escort. As the “client,” he has every right.

Of course there is a kind of subservience in this, my bending to his desire, that suits the submissive me so very well even though this isn’t D/s. And, though I demur at Amanda’s oft-used comment about “my capacity for sex,” it is a rare time that, well, I ever “don’t feel like it.”

As an escort to him there is also a built-in emotional boundary. Sometimes the sex is more of the “tender is the night” sort that feels, delightfully, like actual love-making, and teeters on the precipice of relinquishing hearts. But even then in the afterglow of kisses, we both know this is not about falling in love, for I am his escort, not the girl next door.

It is true that in some sense I always fall a little in love with the one I’m with, but that’s a different thing, subject for another post…

It’s also true that this boundary between love-making and actual love is freeing to Kevin, allowing him to not worry about attachment and complication. The day after he makes sweet love to me in the bedroom at twilight, he will at lunchtime push me forcefully against the living room wall and fuck me standing up, using my body without explanation or gentility.

It’s as if the physical drywall between living room and bedroom is a virtual boundary defining what we are and what we are not supposed to be.

(And there I made a drywall analogy, which Kevin would appreciate so very much.)

sunday night

It is the briefest of moments.

He is inside me, thick with the swell of lust.

I am wet for him. I know I am just his woman of convenience, yet I can’t help myself. I want him. So I am open, cavernous. Hungry. Juicy.

His body lies atop mine and his hairy weight slides back and forth across my smooth skin, rolling my breasts and rocking my naked flesh. His mouth lies beside my ear and he whispers to me directions — “slow,” “easy,” “let it come” — and I almost laugh at this dominant man who cannot help but issue commands even during sex. Even this he must control.

My arms are draped over his shoulders and my hands cling to the back of his head. It is as if I loved him, and maybe I do in some way. Maybe I love all the men who fuck me like this. Perhaps I just love anyone who makes me orgasm, as he just did moments ago.

I suppose it’s not befitting a prostitute, to love the guy. Or is it more of a prostitution to not only give the guy your pussy but also your heart?

He changes his angle and his cock pumps me more, now gracing my clit every other stroke or so. I close my eyes.

He thrusts himself farther in. His balls slap me underneath. And suddenly he stops, holding himself there.

It is the briefest of moments.

And then, from a rock solid standstill, he erupts and gushes his semen into my deepest places. It is warm and thick and demanding. It coats and marks me. It claims me.

I am Kevin’s once again.

I am such an easy lay.

tired

He is physical and energetic always, I assume with anyone, but maybe more with me because I am a submissive girl and he just can, that is do anything with me, to me, whatever he wants. And so he does.

I wonder if that is for a man dom what it is for a woman domme — the unique pleasure of owning a girl and using her as he wishes anytime, any way. I think it is different but the same, somehow.

Men are different at different times, which is a beautiful grace of sorts, but last night it was a kind of manhandling, as it is sometimes — strong and heavy though not brutal, but a pushing and pulling of me into the positions he wants, grabbing my thighs and ass cheeks and breasts, handfuls of my flesh leaving aches and red splotches, so that he can penetrate me in exactly the way, angle, and depth, whatever gives him deepest pleasure.

I’m not complaining — believe me, I’m not — just describing.

But I could be had by three men in one evening and not be left feeling as Kevin leaves me on nights like this. He does not read this blog, which is a pity, for he would then know he is a horse that fucks me with the force of three men. His male ego would be proud and self-satisfied. But Amanda, who does read this, will tell him. He will then know, yet say nothing. And she will say, “See, you are a man-slut.”

So be it.

I actually don’t do much of anything — he does the heavy lifting, literally — so it’s a mystery in a way why he leaves me so exhausted. But he plunges into me in three different places, an overload of stimuli, yet leaving me wishing I had more channels and holes and, well, vaginas with which to experience him. Sometimes one never has enough nerve endings. For him, it’s round-robin. My mouth, then my ass, then my mouth again, then my cunt, then…. As he transitions, my hands reach for him, and he laughs at my wanton need, pausing with pity to let my hand in on the stimulation orgy too.

It’s a 360-degree fucking. Everything is aroused. And that’s what exhausts me.

He edges, at precise times, always pulling back and out, then grabbing me, slapping me, until he approaches another entry point into my fizzy, sex-tired body. This is how he manages his stamina, carefully orchestrated. For me, it’s a cruel tease. For him, it’s a symphony.

On nights like this, I sacrifice any hope for my own orgasm. He is in pursuit of his own coming. And so I beg him to fill my mouth, where I can taste him, feel his viscous ooze coating my mouth, and have it spread across my lips and face. He grunts a raspy laugh, which means he will not. Using my mouth is a casual, common practice for him. He does that while reading the newspaper. This is more for him, the drama of trumpets at the end of the fourth movement.

Maybe ironically, in my exhaustion I wish for the next time to be with him in bed, soft and slow and sweet. With kissing and caressing. I think he would enjoy me as a lover.

That’s not to say I don’t like him fucking the hell out of me. Just sometimes. With other times about my sleeping with him. And yet other times giving him a blow job while he reads the newspaper.

But this is what it is. And I am so sexed by him right now, I am in an altered state, tired.

I feel warmth in my ass.

I hear him leave.

I fall asleep where he’s left me.

Later I awake and go to my bedroom, my bed.

In the morning, I shower, dress, and go to the cafe with Amanda.

twenty seconds

I am stretched out in the bondage room, my wrists shackled to the side of the table, my ankles chained and pulled apart. He stands between, between a cock and a hard place, poised to enter me. He pushes himself right at my entrance, and stops, his rigid penis gracing my wet pussy lips. I look into his eyes, and for the first time all week he is playful and teasing. He pushes his smooth cock head into my vagina just enough for it to pop in. Then he pulls out again, teasing me right where I’m gaping. Again he pops himself into me, and then again he pulls out. And again. I am in heaven because it feels so good and simultaneously I am in hell because I fear it’s all just a tease. Ten times in twenty seconds. I start to beg, but before my words come out, he thrusts himself all the way in, impaling me with his fucking shaft.

Another night.

Mistress has me in her bed. She has tied my wrists with scarfs, tightly, to each of my corresponding ankles. It’s the kind of bondage where the physics of arms pull apart ankles — I can’t help but be open and gaping, though I wouldn’t want it any other way. She places a towel between my legs. She oils her right hand with lubricant. It glistens in the light of the bedside lamp. Soon two of her fingers enter me. Then a third, stretching me a little. And then four fingers pursed together like snakes on a team, coil into my cave. She lets them dwell there, allowing my cunt to relax, before slipping her thumb’s thickness underneath and in as well. With her other hand she drizzles oil on my clit, letting it dribble down. She sets the oil aside, then oozes it into my vagina where her fingers are fucking me. She works her fingers inside down to what I presume is her middle knuckle. I am stretched but not in pain, and now I want her completely inside me. I beg her for more. “No,” Mistress says, “I would tear you.” She orders me to look into her eyes. For a long while, perhaps close to twenty seconds, part of her resides inside me, and our eyes together share this intimacy. I am throbbing with want and wanton.

wanton

I haven’t written much this week, and there’s a reason.

There are more genteel ways to say it, but doing so loses the thrust of things: since my cast came off, I have become significantly more fuckable to both Mistress and Master. They have done me over and over since last Monday.

I won’t detail all, mostly because I literally cannot remember — each of my sexings has blended hazily into another. Monday and Tuesday evenings I was had by Master K. Wednesday night he didn’t do me, only because he was at a board meeting until very late. Instead Mistress Amanda took me in his place, as her slave not her red-haired lover girl (I’ve been in my slaveness with her all week, my exact obedience required and, of course, given, nonstop). Yesterday afternoon she came home early to take me again, and then last night I was again fucked by Master K: I do declare he has been saving himself for this week — oh my god. And I have not yet mentioned times on my knees in the mornings. I don’t know what tonight will bring. Or the weekend.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m just saying.

To be clear, they have not hurt me, and they have remained careful of my arm. No suspensions from my wrists. (Ankles are another thing.) I do not fear what they do to me, just am a little overwhelmed.

I’ve been given time to sleep and shower. I haven’t eaten much, but that’s of my own accord. I am tired and, well, raw. Sometimes a woman is described as looking “freshly fucked,” referring to that rose-grinned glow after sex. I am way beyond that, not anywhere close to fresh, rather, ragged, not having the energy to smile but still fizz-happy. I don’t know if I’m pretty any more, I can’t imagine I am, but I don’t care. Apparently I’m not so unkempt as to be beyond consideration as a sex toy. They continue to take me.

And all of this is to say I haven’t had much time to write. Nor have I felt like writing at the end of an evening. I’ve come up for air to write this.

The damnedest thing is that desire is the pregnancy of more desire, arousal delivers more arousal, and sex births more sex. Lust fulfills its own prophecy. In other words, as utterly used up as I feel, I am wanting more.

garage time

He has me sit in the garage as he works on his truck.

Topless again, short-skirted in a floral print of whites and greens, I am all flesh and femme in his man-world of mechanical might and machines. I am surrounded by objects of cold steel — long, hard hammers and wrenches and drill bits. I feel too soft and yielding to be here, a female ominously encircled by a gang of Craftsman tools.

I angle my legs as I sit on the stool, my arm sling resting on the worktable. He somehow enjoys me here. He doesn’t talk much, not even to ask me to fetch him a tool from the worktable. Once he says I can go get a book if I want to read. He means bring it back, read it there in the garage. I say that maybe I will, but I don’t.

We could not be more different. I am about ideas and feelings and the abstractions of the submissive heart. He is about material things, physics, the mechanical world. He deals in objects — functional constructs of metal and wood and brick that serve a practical purpose. He is fascinated with how physical objects fit together. And that’s the only way my life and body intercourses with his — as I become another object for him to play with and make fit.

Tool-Truck. Him-Me.

I remind myself that, as his slave, it’s not my place and purpose to have a meaningful relationship with him, but to simply fit him at the point of his want and need. And, for a man whose job and career and life is to make things fit, he has done so with me. Like that metal clamp on the garage floor, he doesn’t need me to do anything, just to passively be what I am, to be available when he reaches for me. And that’s OK. I accept this. I willingly submit, letting him bend me into the shape he needs. He hammers me to fit, and screws me into place.

He keeps me for fucking.

I signed up for this life. So, that should be enough. But it isn’t.

I want to know if I matter to him when I’m not being stretched to fit his cock. I long to understand if I have a purpose with him when I’m not being used for his purpose. I wonder if I would ever experience his time and presence outside the bondage room.

Of course, then, a bolt of “obvious” strikes me. This is my experience of his time and presence. This is not the bondage room, but somewhere else. Another place, not just a garage, but another place in his life. He wants me here among his things, in his place of brilliance and greatness, to be with him.

This is more to think about. I feel a shiver.

I ask him if he wants a bottle of water. He grunts a yes.

I fetch it for him, returning to my place on the stool. I still feel out of place here, a female stranger in a strange land, an awkward biology of estrogen and breast flesh and angled legs in the physics class of a mechanical engineer’s world.

This goes another hour. But he wants me here.