What am I like in bed?
He stumbled back with his arms up at his center in a posture that was begging me not to punch or kick, as her leaned and backed away. "Not what I meant! I mean honey it's just gotten to be the same lately. I'm not complaining. It's great spending time with you."
"yeah but when the sex is boring and that's all we ever do.... hmmm?"
I had him cornered. He knew it, he wasn't going to get laid for a good week or two. It was up to me to convince him it would be longer. Hell as good as he is I don't know how I last an hour without him. But I knew it, I knew he was right. We had fallen into a sexual rut. Hell I could recite for you now exactly how it goes:
Indeed. Who have I let myself become? Why? I start out thinking.
In the dead silence your random laughter mocks me. It is demeaning to be so curious and to question with no avail. I am jealous of your entertainment. I want to escape you sometimes. I'm tired of being reminded that I'm not your peer, rather your inferior. I want to be home now. I want to feel the touch of someone understanding, loving; someone kind, not cold. yours is a welcome escape from the cold demeaning I once knew. But I leave such unhealthy things behind because I want and need never to deal with that. Mine, he's a sensitive type. He knows I'm best left alone. Call me a fine wine. Let me age. Love me, but only when I'm around should he look for my attention. I am aloof. Often just needing time to sleep, to stroke my ego, to fraternize. But who am I to tell you all this? Your memory is probably better than mine. And what you really want to hear about is my hips.
He's been so kind to me, so generous in loving. We kiss. The ways he pleases me, I'm often surprised by his hands, his tongue, his moans. I enjoy kissing him. Mostly because he claims to enjoy it so very much. His neck gets the best sounds I think. A deep low relaxing moan of a sigh. Following closely is his nipples. He is sometimes surprised by my touch, my tongue there. he gasps, he whines, sweet whines that make the nerve endings all over my skin jump to his attention. He's often rubbing mine as I lick his. The sensation is so wonderful that it becomes distraction. I get so wrapped up in his kind reciprocations that when he moves me to kiss me, I melt to his form and don't notice his hand on my hip, between my thighs. As he grinds against me, and gropes me; we kiss. The passion when we kiss, he raves about.
I know nothing of it. When we kiss I feel a kiss; a sloppy, soft tongued, nibbling, lips tasting each other, kiss. Each kiss is a simple kiss. Enjoyable but nothing extraordinary to me. Part of me wonders if he flatters me for the sake of flattering me or if he means it. I want to get out of this rut so I can feel the excitement behind the kissing we first had. I leave him breathless on purpose. It's the best way to shut him up. That and stroking him. He gasps, I bite his neck, he gently kisses mine and we are giddy. Elation is a funny state of being. By comparison; almost in definition, What precedes and what follows is misery. So I do my best to avoid the sorry state of bliss. But he seems to enjoy when I go down on him. Or when I rub his harsh reality against myself. He even seems to enjoy going down on me. He loves the sounds he can make me produce. Be music to a musician... At least I think that's how it goes... He holds me, plays with me, smiles as I come, plays some more. And I want to kill him, fuck him, but kill him. I pull him up to me to kiss him; it's the only thing I can think of to do at this point. We grind and fumble. Why does he lean back? To watch his entry I guess. My eyes, if not my lips too, at least my eyes are glued to his face. That look he gets, that face he makes. That is my pay dirt gold. His eyes roll back, his mouth gaps and he gasps. Slowly. He takes that first breath with his whole body as his shoulders come straight forward, his chest puffs, he leans further back and he feels. His nipples get harder. About now is when I grind into him and he lets out a moaning sigh of relief. I smile a devious smile and my mind wanders to wanting a good stiff drink, something that preferably has vodka in it. I'm smiling and he smiles back at me. Maybe I'm a cruel lover but he's the focus, not me. I don't mind his "attentions"... but I'd rather make him writhe, moan, scream and convulse. I want to make his wildest dreams come true. It's exciting to me to please him. Doing to him what others plan to do to me is the only thing that makes sex worth it to me. when he gets bored with something I can feel it, I beg we change. Change positions, change speed, change. I get lost in it when I ride him. We rarely kiss in the act so I count it a welcome bliss to be able to bury my face in his shoulder, kiss his neck, lick his ear. This monotony goes on. two rounds, three rounds, every time he comes and I take a mental snapshot of the look on his face. I "come", we clean, we hold each other and I play that mental snapshot over and over again in my mind. The image makes me shutter and he gratefully holds me tighter. we kiss. It is so exciting, so enjoyable, so good, this time the kiss seems blissful to me. He's so skilled, so thoughtful, so big. I'm so bored with it. I want for once for us to abstain. Just hold each other, maybe whisper the sweet things we want to do to each other the next time we are in bed together. I want to bring back my want and desire. I love him but I need to fantasize about him again. Two months it has been that I've been waiting for something exciting from him. There are moments of bliss but as they pass I want no longer. Is it sad? A testament perhaps to my over gratification? Am I spoiled? I've only cum a handful of times in my life. I don't particularly enjoy it. I am not promiscuous. It's like I'm dead inside, it doesn't feel like anything to me. I'd rather play a game of chess. Oh! And don't think it's just him. it's every man I've ever been with; I'm not into women. I just don't physically feel what it is everyone thinks is so great. So pun, flirt and play chess with me. I think.