Consumer
Elder Statesman
(Yes, it's fiction)
I was on my back, my hands behind my head, my elbows out and to the sides, legs crossed at the ankles. I could feel the wetness turning to a cold stickiness on my skin. Sounds filtered in from the other room, running water, the miscellaneous noises of her, brushing her teeth. She was pretty fastidious about that, even though her mouth had not directly touched me. I think that the act of kissing made her feel vaguely dirty, although she hadden't admitted it to me yet. I had told her that I couldn't make love without it, although maybe that wasn't technically true, I'd managed to bend her over the table a few times, taking her urgently from behind, of course one could also argue that ripping her panties off was a form of kiss. It didn't matter, she wasn't here.
I don't care if a woman finds it distasteful to cuddle. I want to. If she can't handle it, then she shouldn't be in my bed. I wondered why I always let this one up to go do whatever it is she does in the bathroom with not even a minute's holding. I know she isn't really concentrating on her puss, it's usually that wet-sticky combination, same as on my retracting cock, so she isn't running from or washing that away. It's useful too, if we do it again, I can slide into her more easily. But not right now. I'm not happy about this morning.
I let my eyes squint, letting the bulbs of the string of light above my bed go fuzzy. I had hoped that they'd twinkle like stars when I'd strung them up, now they just looked like an after-thought, dim enough to both conceal and reveal the act of love-making. Right now, in the after, they only made the place gloomy.
I feel oddly petulant. Nope, she's not getting any for the rest of the morning. Isn't that supposed to be a womanly thought? It's not a Dom's teasing, powerful denial. I just feel like being difficult. Oh hell, I don't feel like having sex, it's that simple. As I follow that line of thought, I find what I didn't want to find. I felt sad, suddenly, and like I wanted to cry. That would not do. It's going to be bad enough that she'll walk back in with fresh breath, her nightgown still torn, and her hair in that appealingly messy state, knowing that she looks good and wanting more. To find me staring at the lights, silently weeping would pretty much destroy all of the mystique. Well...so what if it does? It's me, isn't it? Won't she feel some sort of intimacy in being shown vulnerability? Yeah...nice thought. They say they want that. Most women lie about it (sometimes even to themselves), they don't really want to see the man who just fucked them cry. My tooth-brusher certainly won't like it. She wants the illusion so she can be greedy, she wants to think that I will take care of my own pleasure because I claim that I always do it that way with my Dom-ish smirk. It's a trap of my own making. So I tell myself to quit complaining.
I roll over on my side, and let one tear out. Yeah, I can do that. She'll think I'm fiddling with the music or something.
She comes in, I can hear her, I mumble something about needing the bathroom. I toss her her panties as I walk out. Maybe I'll take a shower. I need to wash this mood off of me. I need to wash her off of me.
As I let the water flow over me, I think. I think about who I want. I think about my inability to say "no", and it's not because I'm weak either. I think about spoiled chances I've had. I think about my ex, my illusions that I clung to so strongly out of pride and desperation. I think about mutilating myself, making myself so un-attractive that no one will ever even look at me again. Of course, there's always that beauty for every beast.
I emerge and she's almost dressed, blouse on, garters and stockings in place, her skirt being pulled up her legs, happy. I smile at her. Good. If I can't please myself, then there's at least the satisfaction of a job well done. Of course, that also means she'll be back.
Maybe tomorrow, I'll feel like making love, or something close to it. Maybe I'll make her feel dirty with soft kissing, and then hide her toothbrush. Maybe that illusion will be real and I'll just do what I want, and really please use both. And then I'll make her stay in bed afterward, and make her watch the tears on my cheeks.
-Consumer
I was on my back, my hands behind my head, my elbows out and to the sides, legs crossed at the ankles. I could feel the wetness turning to a cold stickiness on my skin. Sounds filtered in from the other room, running water, the miscellaneous noises of her, brushing her teeth. She was pretty fastidious about that, even though her mouth had not directly touched me. I think that the act of kissing made her feel vaguely dirty, although she hadden't admitted it to me yet. I had told her that I couldn't make love without it, although maybe that wasn't technically true, I'd managed to bend her over the table a few times, taking her urgently from behind, of course one could also argue that ripping her panties off was a form of kiss. It didn't matter, she wasn't here.
I don't care if a woman finds it distasteful to cuddle. I want to. If she can't handle it, then she shouldn't be in my bed. I wondered why I always let this one up to go do whatever it is she does in the bathroom with not even a minute's holding. I know she isn't really concentrating on her puss, it's usually that wet-sticky combination, same as on my retracting cock, so she isn't running from or washing that away. It's useful too, if we do it again, I can slide into her more easily. But not right now. I'm not happy about this morning.
I let my eyes squint, letting the bulbs of the string of light above my bed go fuzzy. I had hoped that they'd twinkle like stars when I'd strung them up, now they just looked like an after-thought, dim enough to both conceal and reveal the act of love-making. Right now, in the after, they only made the place gloomy.
I feel oddly petulant. Nope, she's not getting any for the rest of the morning. Isn't that supposed to be a womanly thought? It's not a Dom's teasing, powerful denial. I just feel like being difficult. Oh hell, I don't feel like having sex, it's that simple. As I follow that line of thought, I find what I didn't want to find. I felt sad, suddenly, and like I wanted to cry. That would not do. It's going to be bad enough that she'll walk back in with fresh breath, her nightgown still torn, and her hair in that appealingly messy state, knowing that she looks good and wanting more. To find me staring at the lights, silently weeping would pretty much destroy all of the mystique. Well...so what if it does? It's me, isn't it? Won't she feel some sort of intimacy in being shown vulnerability? Yeah...nice thought. They say they want that. Most women lie about it (sometimes even to themselves), they don't really want to see the man who just fucked them cry. My tooth-brusher certainly won't like it. She wants the illusion so she can be greedy, she wants to think that I will take care of my own pleasure because I claim that I always do it that way with my Dom-ish smirk. It's a trap of my own making. So I tell myself to quit complaining.
I roll over on my side, and let one tear out. Yeah, I can do that. She'll think I'm fiddling with the music or something.
She comes in, I can hear her, I mumble something about needing the bathroom. I toss her her panties as I walk out. Maybe I'll take a shower. I need to wash this mood off of me. I need to wash her off of me.
As I let the water flow over me, I think. I think about who I want. I think about my inability to say "no", and it's not because I'm weak either. I think about spoiled chances I've had. I think about my ex, my illusions that I clung to so strongly out of pride and desperation. I think about mutilating myself, making myself so un-attractive that no one will ever even look at me again. Of course, there's always that beauty for every beast.
I emerge and she's almost dressed, blouse on, garters and stockings in place, her skirt being pulled up her legs, happy. I smile at her. Good. If I can't please myself, then there's at least the satisfaction of a job well done. Of course, that also means she'll be back.
Maybe tomorrow, I'll feel like making love, or something close to it. Maybe I'll make her feel dirty with soft kissing, and then hide her toothbrush. Maybe that illusion will be real and I'll just do what I want, and really please use both. And then I'll make her stay in bed afterward, and make her watch the tears on my cheeks.
-Consumer
