We’ve been flirting most of the evening. It’s a distraction, one he’s far too busy for, but he lets it go on. He’s tentative, eager, overly polite. He flirts like a rabbit coming for treats, one soft paw at a time. Are you here to see me? are those what I think they are? am I being too presumptuous? I keep goading, amused that he’s stuck at work. It has to be frustrating. He stays cheerful: “at least I’ll be able to relieve some tension when I get home.”
I tell him not to. It seems too textbook Domme, makes me self conscious. Still, if I was going to wait, so could he. But then–“Can I call you when I get home and discuss this?” He has me smiling, and he rarely calls. I say yes. I wonder if I’ll let him convince me.
He calls before he gets home. It’s late enough to call it early, had either of us slept. He’s had a long day, sounds cheerful in spite of it. He makes me laugh more than once. I try to keep my voice low, mindful of Spouse sleeping in the next room. It doesn’t take him long to get home. There’s a moment of fumbling and “um”s before he says “So, let’s talk turkey.”
“Talk turkey.” I’m trying to keep the laughter out of my voice. He gets flustered so easily, I don’t want to scare him off of talking.
“Well, I was hoping–I really want to relieve some of this tension tonight.” I still don’t know how he can still be so bashful, after knowing me so many years.
“Why should I let you?”
“I–uh–really want to? I mean, if you say wait, I’ll wait.”
“Well, convince me. You said you could beg. Try it.”
“Um. If you let me, I won’t again fora few days if you want. Or–”
I cut him off. “You’re negotiating. I thought you were going to beg.”
He pauses, long enough that I worry that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry. I’m still in work mode.” He clears his throat. I suspect it’s all bravado. He says he can beg but it’s a rare skill, takes a vulnerability he doesn’t typically show. “Please,” he says. It’s clipped. He starts to say something more, stops, tries again.
I’m the queen of uncomfortable silences. I can ride them straight to shore and I know they’ll break underneath me. They almost always do. But I’m impatient, don’t want to wait long enough for amusement to become annoyance. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal! Okay.” Too relieved. Still in work mode, I suppose.
“You can come–”
“But stay on the phone, and don’t stop talking.”
“Okay, I can do that. Should–I mean–can I start now?”
I still find it hilarious that he’s this shy, as if naming anything sexual could possibly offend.
“What should I talk about?”
I swear I’m going to laugh and he’s going to die of embarrassment. “Surely something comes to mind.”
He says something about a video game. (It’s been two years; I don’t remember which one.) “No.” At least I don’t sound ready to laugh this time.
“Um. Okay. Different topic. Um.” He pauses. I count silently to three.
“If you stop talking I might change my mind.”
“Oh! Did you hear about this movie–”
“That’s not a good topic either, huh?”
“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”
“You didn’t say I had to tell you what I’m thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Well, like we talked about before. You holding me down, kissing me, hurting me, but this time you’d let me come–I can’t fantasize about not having an orgasm while I have one.” He falls silent. He’s breathing a little harder. I count to three again.
“Keep talking.” I try to put a warning in my voice, am not sure it carries through. I lean back, run my fingers over my own skin. “Be specific.”
“You–um. I’d want to kiss you hard, the way you like it. Then you’d climb on top of me.”
If it were just words, I’d be losing interest. But his ragged breathing and the hint of a whimper and knowing how far outside his comfort zone this is have me toying with the edge of my panties. “Keep talking.”
He makes a strangled sound. I smile, listening to him breathe too heavily. “You–you climb on top of me and start riding me. You pull my hair. And when I don’t move fast–er–hard enough for you, you lean down and lick and bite my ears and–” His breathing is too raw and ragged to speak for a moment “–when you do that I thrust harder. You don’t–” He moans. I’m beyond distracted, dying for his mouth on mine, since words are nowhere near enough. “You tell me you’re not done with me yet.”
Pause. Count. one, two, three. He’s making sounds, beginnings of words too shy to fully form.
“Uh, it’s a little hard to–right. So you’re getting loud and trying to keep from screaming [aside: I’m rarely that considerate]. I still feel very submissive to you [is that part of his fantasy, or something he’s telling me now?]. And–can I–after you come a couple of times–I’d like to fantasize that I can make you if that’s okay–”
“After that–” he’s gasping between words “–you decide I’m allowed to orgasm and–uh–say–” he whimpers.
“That’s my good boy,” I say, at the same time he says “call me a good boy?” in such a pleading tone. His breath catches, for a moment I think he’s dropped the phone. “You say that, and it’s like you flipped a switch and I could. Thank you for letting me–” So much shyness, still. I suppose he’s not sure what’s meant to happen next.
“Good. You should get some sleep now.”
We say good-nights and hang up. I stay awake, frustrated but still smiling, wishing there were less distance, less inhibition between us.