He brought wine (what else do you bring to an intimate fuck-toy cleaning party?), poured some, and brought it upstairs to my room. I flipped through my iPod, ruled out most of my playlists (not sure what music sets the proper mood for scrubbing butt plugs?), ruled out podcasts, and finally settled on “The Best of Nina Simone.”
He set to work scrubbing the toys–my “his” and “hers” sinks became “his toy” and “her toy” sinks. I laid out some towels on the bed and got to work on the leather, wiping off the soap, blotting, and inspecting for possible further treatment and conditioning.
There is no door between the bedroom and the master bathroom (There is a door on the water closet, for the record), and so we chatted, talking over Nina between rooms, and enjoyed our wine over heaps of soapy vibrators and butt plugs and various clips and clamps. The atmosphere lent itself to laughter and lots of inappropriate jokes, and despite it being a sort of annoying task, I had a great time.
After the toys were cleaned and dried and the leather was treated and conditioned, I asked J to stay a little while longer to help me figure out a way to organize everything and decide what should go into my “travel” bags for when we spend time together at his place.
I opened one of my dresser drawers to retrieve something and was greeted with a mess of stockings and mismatched thigh highs. I set about untangling legs, rematching pairs of thigh highs, separating out the pairs with runs and snags, and reorganizing envelopes of brand new pairs I had never opened.
I held up a pair of fishnets to the light, trying to determine whether they were damaged or not. J watched me examining them and his eyebrows shot up.
“You’ve never worn those,” he said.
“Not for you,” I replied, smiling. He looked hurt for a quick second, and then I added, “I’ve worn them to work before.” He wrinkled up his nose in disapproval, but I assured him, “They’re fine as long as my skirt is long enough to be office-appropriate. They’re barely sexy.” I smiled as coyly as I’m capable of.
“I’ll bet they are sexy.”
“No they aren’t. They aren’t… I promise. Want me to prove it?”
He considered the question for a second (was it a trick?), and replied, “of course I do.”
“Then try them on and see for yourself.”
I didn’t intend for it to be a trick. I only thought to ask him to put them on when I realized that was the first thing to enter his mind. If that’s what he thought of–him trying them on–I might as well ask.
“That’s silly,” he said, shrugging me off and looking away. He had the tiniest hint of a smile on his face, and so I was pretty sure he really did want to try them on.
“It’s not that silly,” I assured him.
He frowned, but not in earnest.
“Ok,” I said, throwing the stocking at him, “it’s absolutely silly… do it anyway.”
I rummaged around and found the stocking’s match and tossed that to him too. He sat down on the bed and held them up to the light as I had done, only he held them delicately between his thumbs and index fingers as if they were dirty, as if they were something he shouldn’t be touching.
“Don’t worry. They’re clean,” I said, half-laughing.
“I know that,” he grumbled, but his eyes were smiling.
I took a determined stance, crossed my arms and tapped my foot, feigning impatience. He laughed, nodded his head in resignation, stood, and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. God I love the sound of a man unzipping his fly… it’s like fucking catnip to me. He dropped his pants and kicked them off, looked down at his boxer shorts–dark grey–and then back at me.
“You can keep them on… they match.”
He met my pretense of confidence and raised me one by stripping off his shirt. He sat back down on the bed, took one of the stockings by the band, and was about to tug it on when I stopped him.
“Wait… like this.” I picked up one of the stockings in the drawer behind me and showed him how to gather the material up gently.
He copied me, tentatively stuck a foot in, and pulled the fishnet up just past his knee, and then repeated with the other foot. He stood, looking down at himself, before trying to get a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He couldn’t see himself, as I was blocking his view.
“They’ll go higher. You have to kind of gather up the extra material and smooth them up.”
While his mumbled “okay” sounded more like a question than a confirmation, he bent at the waist and started smoothing the stockings, gathering up the material, pulling a little more, gathering up the material, and pulling a little more.
“It looks like you’ve done this before,” I suggested, only half-surprised, as he pulled the stockings up to his mid-thighs and straightened out the bands. He stood, his erection making a noticeable tent in his shorts.
“It’s possible,” he smiled.
I uncrossed my arms and walked toward him. I took his cock in my hand, through his shorts, and he was rock hard. I gripped him firmly and looked into his eyes, processing his hardness, his arousal at the situation, and I realized my my own arousal. He looked pleased.
“You fucking love this, don’t you?” I asked.
“No, Ma’am. I don’t love it, but it’s hot.”
“Don’t lie,” I said, playing serious, “You love it, don’t you?”
“No, Ma’am” he laughed, “I don’t love it.”
“Yes you do. You fucking love it. You’re lying to me.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him closer to me by the waistband of his boxer shorts, yanked them down, and his cock bounced out inches from my face. I reached around and grabbed his ass with both hands, pulling him into me, and I took his full length into my mouth… with no warm up and no warning. After swallowing him whole and holding him there for a minute, I didn’t move my head, but nudged him gently backwards with my hands, teasing the underside of his cock as he shuffled back, with quick lapping strokes of my tongue. He moved a little too far backwards and so I moved forward with him, keeping the head of his cock between my lips, swirling it with my tongue, sucking at him, pulling him back into me. He groaned, put his hand on the back of my head, froze for a moment, and then dropped his hand back to at side.
“Good boy” I purred, pulling away and kissing the head of his cock. “But still, I think you like this too much,” I said, running my hands up and down his legs. Brushing my hands over his thighs, the textures felt odd–a woman’s silky stockings over a man’s hairy legs. I tugged his boxer shorts down further, and he danced them down to his ankles and kicked them off to the side.
I sat back a little further on the bed and patted my thighs in invitation. He complied immediately, knowing exactly what I proposed, and he bent over my lap and caught some of his weight on the floor with his hands.
“You can rest more of your weight on me,” I said, and I immediately regretted it. When he rested more of his weight across my thighs, I had to shift my feet, moving them further apart to keep us both steady. When I was confident that I wouldn’t topple us both, I stroked his perfect round ass with my fingertips, trailing down over that sensitive spot where his thighs part, and down the backs of his impossibly hard thighs to the point at which the smooth lace bands of my stockings encircled his hairy legs.
When I was comfortable with his weight, with the sight of him there curled down around my legs, I sized up my target, lifted my hand, and followed the arc that it would take, slowly, without striking, just to get a feel for it.
When I was ready, I pulled back my arm as far as it would go and smacked his ass hard, leaving my hand where it stopped, and I gauged the situation. He jumped, but we were still both stable. I felt a smile break across my face, I pulled back, and spanked him again, harder this time.
I spanked him again and again, marveling at my own joy in wielding this sort of sick application of pain to another human being. It was sick and strange and delightful and I fucking loved it. As the minutes passed, I grew to love his increasing weight on my legs, and I spanked him harder and harder, enjoying the sting in my palm nearly as much as his reactions. His ass grew beautifully pink and sensitive under my hand.
A few moments later, I stopped and stared at my hand. I wondered if his ass felt anything like my palm, simultaneously frozen and red hot, somehow equally numbed and impossibly sensitive. With the palm of my hand, I skimmed along the roundness of his ass. The heat coming from his skin was incredible, and for a moment, it felt as if there was no flesh on either one of us, just my raw nerves catching on his raw nerves, electric and sensitive and deliciously hot.
I started again, spanking, then stroking, then spanking again… and then just spanking, finding a rhythm that’s uncharacteristic of me. With each blow, I enjoyed the thought, the build up, and then the physical release of pressure. I loved the sound and the feeling of skin slamming into skin, hard and fast and heavy.
With every strike–I lost count–I could feel his weight shift, feel the blows shake my thighs and vibrate all the way to up into my cunt. I grew hopelessly wet, hitting him harder and harder, and eventually I struck him for nothing more than the jolt it supplied to my cunt. At some point, he morphed from being human into some sort of object-obstacle standing between my hand and my clit, all at once providing stimulation while being equally and annoyingly in the way. I tried to beat through him to get to me.
After some time passed, my arm grew tired, and I knew his arms must be tired too. I shifted my feet and was surprised that his weight moved so easily. I looked down and saw that his elbows were bent, his forearms folded, and his hands were covering his eyes. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point, he had rested all of his upper body weight on my lap. And now, there he was, slung over my thighs with his face in his hands.
“Get off,” I said, with more conviction and command in my voice than I had intended.
He put his hands back down to the floor and half rolled off of my lap, first awkwardly positioning himself on his hands and knees in front of me, and then pushing back, coming to rest at a worshipful position with his head resting on his folded arms. I stood up from the bed, and as soon as I was steady on my feet, I dropped to my knees beside him, wrapping my arms awkwardly around his shoulders and nuzzling my face into his side.
His breathing was slow and deep and I realized I wasn’t breathing at all, trying to be mindful of his body, of his breath, and of him. With my face still pressed against him, I closed my eyes and struggled to match my breathing to his, to take whatever he was feeling and make it my own, to experience it, to own it.
“Are you okay?” I asked, but didn’t give him time to respond, “You know I love you baby, you know that, right? It’s just that you’re so fucking beautiful and sweet and you’re so fucking mine and I can’t help myself… I should have stopped… are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he finally exhaled, resting on his side. I laid down behind him, curling my body around his, wrapping all of me around all of him, embracing his soft warmth against the cool hard floor. His ass felt hot against my hips, even through my clothing.
He was so beautiful there, curled in my arms–awkward and unwieldy–but finally relaxed. My mind reeled at what had started with laughter and joking had evolved into my submersion into my own sensory experience, my simultaneous feelings of arousal and deep satisfaction at striking him that way, and now my beautiful boy, wearing nothing but my fishnet stockings, was resting in my arms.
I don’t know how much time passed, but we both fell asleep there and woke up in the middle of the night in the exact same position, with all the lights still on and Nina Simone still crooning on repeat.