He’s indiscreet when he’s finished with his chewing gum, using his fingers to remove it from his mouth in the middle of conversation, prior to a meal, or before a kiss. I’m no stickler for etiquette, but the rare indelicacy stands out against otherwise good manners.
I’ve never said anything because I don’t really care, but I’ve always noticed. Indecorum with used chewing gum happens frequently enough that I recognize the way he lifts his hand before he takes it from his mouth.
My tone was playful, but my demand was serious. He nodded, said “Yes, Ma’am,” and we went about our day.
Later in the evening, on one of many ‘breaks’ in a marathon session (wherein we play, fuck, love, and laugh for hours), I excused myself to brush my teeth. Leaning down to spit into the basin, I noticed the wad of chewing gum at the bottom of the wastebasket.
Of course it’s not a big deal, but it bothered me a little. It’s a tiny, meaningless, easy thing — why didn’t he do it?
When I tell him to do something, I expect him to do it. If he can’t, I expect him to tell me so. I’m anything but inflexible, and now more than ever, I don’t give a fuck about the small stuff.
When I returned to the bedroom, he was exactly where I left him — bound with his wrists above his head.
“Anything you want to tell me?” I asked, one hand on my hip and the other pinching his frenum between my fingers.
I stopped touching him altogether to indicate I wasn’t playing some interrogation game. I sat next to him, looked into his face, and waited for a response.
“No. No…? I can’t think of anything… Ma’am.”
“I told you to swallow your gum.”
He said he felt guilty when he did it, but didn’t explain why he failed to do such a tiny thing.
I didn’t ask because I didn’t care, but I still wanted him to know I noticed. We have too little time for me to care, and since I do — a little — I’ve become more and more adept at channeling my response to insignificant injustice into deviant behavior — enacted in playfulness and faux punishment instead of melodrama.
“I told you to swallow your gum, but you didn’t… I guess that means you don’t swallow?” I smiled, glancing over at the strapon dildo on the nightstand.
I touched two fingers to his lips and he opened wide to demonstrate his cocksucking skills. I often make him practice on my fingers before I allow him to suck my cock. I fucked his mouth with my fingers for a while, playfully repeating the line.
“So you don’t swallow… are you sure? You never swallow?” I pulled my hand from his mouth and allowed him to respond.
“No Ma’am,” he grinned, “I’ll suck… but I never swallow.”
He made the smallest, sweetest whimpering sound as he watched me get my cock from the nightstand and lay it on the bed. I straddled his hips, pinning his cock against his stomach. I hoped he would feel how wet I was.
“Ok… You don’t swallow. I get it… I just hope you’re telling me the truth.”
I smiled. As much as I focused on the (non) issue, it made sense to him — he hadn’t told me the truth earlier, and even more than that, I often fill play breaks with silliness. (If nothing else, I’m confident I can make that boy laugh better than anyone.)
I made a show of examining my nails and removing my ring. He watched intently, and I hoped he was imagining what might happen next. I might fuck his ass with my fingers to loosen him up, then insert a plug, and then I might fuck his face with my cock. And then — if he did a good job, if he got my cock good and wet — maybe then I’d use it to fuck his ass.
I leaned over, and with my face inches from his, I tugged on his lower lip and told him to open wide.
He eagerly obeyed. I hesitated for just a moment… and then I took the ring between my fingers and dropped it into his open mouth.
His brow knitted and his expression was confused — I’m not sure he saw what it was.
“It’s my grandmother’s wedding ring.” I smiled.
His jaw shifted as he moved it in his mouth and his eyes went wider than I’ve ever seen them. He looked terrified, and perhaps for the first time, I was absolutely certain it was genuine. His eyes pleaded with me, and I continued smiling.
He looked angry for a second and then I heard the metal clink against his teeth.
“No! Don’t hold it in your teeth — it’s 18 karat — if you bite down, it will dent.”
He tried to relax. I petted his cheek and stroked his throat as if he were a dog who’d been tricked into taking a pill. You want a dog to swallow — at best, I was only teasing J. At worst, I was daring him to do it.
“It’s okay baby. You don’t swallow… you won’t. I trust you.”
As much as I enjoyed his terrified expression, I got up to put my cock back on the nightstand. I returned with variety of clamps and pegs, a cock ring, and my favorite micro-needle wheel — and then I proceeded to use them all, alternately edging him and abusing his cock. When he seemed particularly close (or particularly pained) I was sure to remind him: you don’t swallow.
After nearly an hour, I told him to open his mouth and I retrieved my ring.
Like a good boy, he’s true to his word. He doesn’t swallow.