Before you said it, I thought you'd fallen asleep. Your quest to maintain a 4.0 while belonging to four clubs and having four-ish sexual partners both impresses and frightens me. As does your directly related ability to fall asleep at any time and place nobody's interacting with you.
I'm glad you enjoyed the Marine Corps museum, by the way. I'd been a tad worried you'd find it dull. I noticed you had a special interest for the bit that simulates boot camp, though you were also intrigued by the history, and excited about the ceiling hung with small Marine Corps aircraft from throughout the decades.
You'd been so quiet for the previous ten minutes, leaning your head on your wadded-up jacket against the window, that it startled me when you said, "Do you like roleplay? Like, sexy roleplay? Laf and Adri don't, and Reinette's basically a friend who has blanket permission to push my face between her legs if we're alone and she feels like it."
"Sometimes and some kinds of roleplay." Could you hear that I was nervous?
You were certainly nervous. Trying to make it sound like you weren't, which clued me in right away. Your default state involves a backdrop of nerves. When you suppress it I can tell. "I wouldn't feel secure going to a dungeon or munch and asking people for something like this."
"You need to be specific, little gecko." I had some idea. But it's hard being the first one to broach a sensitive subject.
It's both wrenching and endearing when you stop faking nonchalance and start babbling. "If you want, only if you want, and if you'd enjoy it, oh god don't think badly of me, I feel guilty about it sometimes..."
"Are you asking about - LOQUACIOUS - consent play?" (I'm so glad you and I have gotten to the point where verbal tics are nothing but white noise.)
Again, it's both wrenching and endearing when you say yes via a single staccato squeak.
"I'm incredibly grateful you brought it up first." I didn't elaborate, but I think you knew. It's hard telling a much-younger boyfriend that I sometimes imagine vile things. Pretended vile things, of course, of goddamn course, but still things my imagination tiptoes around, that creep out when I'm alone.
I was impressed by your explanation, not taken aback, and I hope you knew that. For all my bluster I'm not the best at letting you know what's on my mind.
I know this probably sound dumb, but when written erotica and porn aren't doing it for me, I mentally add to this extensive - have I previously explained the terms "AU fanfic" and "self-insert"? Good. It's not really fanfic, but, like, it's an alternate universe version of our lives. Where we live in a version of late 18th century continental Europe that has indentured servitude, permanent slavery like America did but not race-specific, and a form of temporary slavery used instead of prison. The French Revolution's just happened and I'm an enemy of the Republic because politics. And the new Republic needs money so it sells a bunch of political prisoners to the Prussian government for resale. You're a wealthy baron who buys me. Other people I'm involved with or attracted to have roles, but the parts I'd like to roleplay are just you and me.
My biggest concern was how much of the worldbuilding you wanted me to remember. Once you said we could play it with a simple 'newly purchased catamite' premise, that the rest of it was for your own amusement and help getting into character, I was on board.
My other concern was under-negotiation. Which was why I insisted we negotiate the shit out of the scene. For the rest of the car ride. While taking Azor for his evening walk. Over dinner. While cleaning up after dinner.
We put it aside when we were busy with what you call "chocolate-chip sex". It's almost vanilla, except for me first tying you up in an elaborate rope lattice with your hands behind your back, since you find it relaxing and I find it satisfying on a number of levels. We didn't stop negotiating while I was working on the knots, either. I had the sense to focus on the present when I got you nicely slick and well-seated in my lap.
It takes concentration for me to help keep you steady when you start fucking yourself on my cock. It keeps my mind from wandering away from anything that isn't you in front of me. I suspect the frequency with which we've used that position, since we discovered it, has been good for your thigh muscles, too. Have you seen them lately? Do you look?
I almost went back into negotiation during our shower, but you declined, which was fair. I appreciate that this morning you made a list of all the things you thought might trigger you. I really appreciate you insisting that I make a list as well.
That's what made me tell you that I've hurt people in the past: how thoroughly you understand my own need for limits. That's what made me tell you I've gone too far before, though with someone who deserved it You know I get upset at all the shitheads and assholes out there. (Metaphorical assholes. I could never be upset at your literal one. Unless it gave you trouble for some reason, but that's a train of thought I prefer not to pursue.)
I think after some effort they found all the man's teeth.
That's why I won't hit you, little gecko, ever. You have others who learned to hit in the context of athletics (Lafayette), or specifically BDSM (Adrienne). The only people I've ever hit were men my approximate size.
I know you hate it being called 'delicate' outside the bedroom. Therefore I don't, but you are really very delicate, Pierre, that's how it is. I mean something very specific by that. You're not weak in resolve or physicality. You're not timid or cowardly, far from it. But I'm constantly weighing our enthusiastic mutual desire for me to fuck you raw against my fear of tearing you up. In more ways than one.
You were undaunted by my confession, and thank you, thank you for that. You agreed this would be one of those times you spend most of the scene ungagged, which was good because I didn't want to debate the point like we occasionally do. This time it wasn't my kink for hearing you versus your kink for speechlessness. There was no way in hell I'd risk missing you safewording under such circumstances.
It was fun having you start out that way, though, I agree. You look good gagged and blindfolded. Maybe I'll suggest doing that to you, plus that new hogtie we liked so much the time we tried it, then placing you on my dining table as a centerpiece for an hour or so. I'd be right there, of course, knitting or something. I'm going to surprise you with a sweater for Christmas. The sleeves connect behind the back. Quick and cozy immobility.
This scene was the antithesis of quick and cozy. I felt self-conscious for the first minute or two, conveniently while you still couldn't see me. Those bright straps people buckle around their suitcases were just the thing to keep you folded up, lying on your side, like a pillbug.
Then I ran my hand along your spine, and you made a soft, sad noise, and things started flowing. It felt natural to begin with: "Catamites of your quality are extremely expensive. I hope for both our sakes you prove worth it."
When I tell you to try to escape from your bondage, it's not simply to check for effectiveness. I suspect you get off on learning how impossible it is (without using the safety scissors I keep where you could grab them if you needed to). You are particularly beautiful, in a particular way, when you struggle hopelessly.
My character wouldn't like it, though, so I clenched a fist in your hair and growled at you to stop. I've been having frequent sex with you, as well as accompanied you on roller coasters and had you grab my hand during the achingly slow incline some of them have. I know your shivers. That was not the shiver you do when you're scared.
You were already so breathless when I took out the gag. "Please, sir, don't hurt me."
It was clever of you to devise a coded version of "green" and "yellow" that wouldn't take us out of the headspace. "Don't hurt me" for "green", "you can't, you mustn't" for "yellow". "Red" always means we should go back to our normal selves, anyway, and of course there's your ultimate one beyond it. I didn't tell you that I rehearsed my coded "Color?" check-in several times in the mirror beforehand. You're mine and I'll do as I please.
"I've no intention of damaging my own property, even within my legal rights to do so. I can think of other ways to punish you if you deserve it - there are a number of ways I can store you when you're not in use, and some are far less pleasant - DAWDLE - than others. I suggest you resign yourself to soreness and bruising, however. And it's master . Be still and let me arrange you properly." I might be a baron in this fantasy, but I maintain that rape roleplay scenes shouldn't use the same titles as regular scenes. Crossed wires, you know?
(Does villainous slave-owning me have our disorder too, or is he just eccentric? I forgot to ask. But you can't stop me saying odd things or tapping your chin or tugging on one of your toes anyway. Even in our normal scenes. Hehehe.)
I'm grateful you invited me to watch you weep copious fake tears in a tragic one-act play at your college. Otherwise that sob wouldn't have been hot, regardless of your color status. It was, though, lord forgive me. I decided on the spur of the moment to keep you blindfolded as I undid the straps and pushed you closer to the headboard. I wanted to see your eyes for most of the scene, but it made a pretty picture for a few minutes, and my character would want you to stay docile during the time you had the most freedom of movement.
There are always those mid-scene lulls when I have to adjust your position for you. I had to take you from nothing but a simple quick-release wrist bind in front of you to having your hands tied over your head, connected to the loop I've attached to a bracket on the wall behind the bed, and make sure it was possible for you to reach the scissors taped to the headboard. That was the easy part. The tricky part was getting each of your thighs tied the right distance from your ankles that I could then tie your ankles to the frame I installed under the bed and everything would be the right angle. Worth it, though. If I had eight hands to hold you down and squeeze and stroke you simultaneously, I would still tie you up a lot.
There was the novelty of doing it while you protested and I overruled or ignored you. These were my favorites of the things you said:
"I haven't done anything wrong, this is cruel, I've been displayed and molested for weeks now."
"Please, master, I've never - this is all new, please, I've never been with a man."
Once you were trussed up to my satisfaction, I removed the blindfold and avidly watched you blink against the light. You automatically smiled when you saw my face and I must have smiled back. Then we got back to our little drama.
By this point you must have seen how hard I was. I still took my time claiming you with hands and mouth. I think for Christmas I'll also get a little chain for your navel piercing, so I can easily tug on it when the mood strikes. I suspect Lafayette is already planning to get you one, but there's no reason you shouldn't have two. I feel like it shouldn't have been so much fun holding your head in place so I could "force" kisses on you.
As we'd agreed, I still lubed and stretched you, and we suspended disbelief regarding whether my character would use a condom. Some things are too important. I was nervous about our decision for me to prepare you slightly less thoroughly than usual and push in all at once.
God, the sounds you made. I've committed them to memory for those nights I have to spend by myself.
They inspired me. I don't remember everything I said, but I remember calling you 'my pristine new fuckdoll, but not pristine for long', and saying, 'I'll be sure to keep you locked up where only my slaves and servants can see you, because anyone with the slightest appetite will want to steal you from me', and telling you that your tight hole was only somewhat for your bodily needs now and its primary purpose was fulfilling my lust.
I could see you loved it, as much as you tried to act horrified. I didn't make any references to using your mouth because I know how insecure you are about your gag reflex. But I said: "Keep gasping and keening and begging, you wanton thing, nobody wants to hear anything else from you."
Then your eyes flew wide open, you said, "Nghi ngờ," , and without conscious thought I grabbed the specialized safety shears (faster than scissors) from the nightstand and cut you loose. And I pulled out of you. I wanted to wrap my arms around you right away, but I needed to know if that was what you wanted.
But you whispered that you wanted to be held, and said sorry, sorry, sorry. Too many times, little gecko. Never be sorry for needing things. I said it then, and I will say it however many times until you believe it.
At least it wasn't the scenario itself, or any of the sexual acts, you pointed out once your heart stopped beating so fast and you could talk normally again. I only care about that inasmuch as it cheers you up to contemplate trying the scene again some other time. I want to as well, don't get me wrong, but I demand that you break up with me the moment I prioritize my gratification over your well-being.
"It was what you said, gummy bear, but you couldn't have known. I'd forgotten. When I was in high school, this one kid - he wasn't a jock, movies make you expect that from jocks. Another theater nerd. I think he was closeted and resented that being out as queer hadn't done me any harm, that I'd been lucky that way. Everyone knew how sensitive I was about Tourette's. He made a lot of supposed jokes about it. Ones that weren't jokes. Then I got a part he wanted. He found me alone and said some things that were really, really, by no stretch of the imagination jokes. He finished with, 'Your mouth's only good for moaning around a dick. Nobody wants to hear anything else from you.'"
Never tell me how to find that boy.
I was more than happy for the rest of our evening to involve you having a bath with the door open because you wanted to be slightly but not completely alone, then our light dinner, then curling up with Azor in front of something mindless on TV while I knit and you reread The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat .
Sure, if you want a quickie tomorrow before I take you home, I'll be thrilled. But sex is something I can get from a lot of people. There are circles in which a reasonably attractive bear-type Dom who knows his knots and consent culture can do well for himself, even before I start with the presents. You know, the ones you keep refusing to accept unless it's a special occasion, the ones you genuinely don't like quite as much as handmade things or going on trips together.
It's been a very long time since someone's given me this:
You look so small in my t-shirt and your boxers. I didn't know argyle boxers existed. You fell asleep with the book in your hands and it flopped onto your face. I moved it for you. Sometimes your breath whistles on the inhale. I think I can draw your tattoos from memory now, down to the font of the word on your thigh, the stripes and stars of the flags on your wrist, and the feathers of your shoulder mockingbird.
You display your thoughts and open up your feelings to me like it's the most obvious thing to do. Yet you've never demanded I do the same. I will try.
It's been a little over three months since you first kissed me. I know you're asleep now, for real, since I am very lightly kissing you and you haven't moved. You've got goosebumps. I'm pulling the thick quilt over us both.
I will try to tell you some of these things when you wake.
Gute Nacht mein Schatz.