You come in and tell me you are ready to begin if I am. I look at you standing in front of me, waiting, your hands held together in front of you, your face open and quiet, your eyes very still.
“Is there something in particular you want me to wear?” you ask after a long stillness. I think about that a bit, then tell you to put on your peach pink sheath dress, the silk one, the thin one, the one that makes delightfully obvious the points of your nipples, that makes your breasts into barely perceivable shadows, that clings wisely to your hips and barely covers your crotch, the one that slips so smoothly under my hand or my body, that slips so smoothly over your body as you walk or bend or stretch or turn. Put on that dress, I tell you, no underwear, no shoes. But first take a shower and shave your cunt smooth, all the way to the top of your clit. Put on perfume (your choice), black lipstick, and eye makeup. Do something elaborate, something dramatic, with your eyes. My voice is surprisingly stern and demanding, almost harsh. Do this, do that, make yourself ready, wench. You accept it all — the instructions, the tone of voice. You nod and go off, for what I know will be a long time. I hear the bathroom door close and the shower come on.
I stare into the fireplace and laugh at myself. What is this harsh tone of voice? What is this role I am so automatically playing? I realize that I am carrying a notion in my head — the master/slave thing — and I’m playing at what I think a master is supposed to be like.
But is this what I really want, most of all, from this time where I can have anything at all — someone to get imperious with? Sitting there I feel my posture change. My body drops its pose, relaxes. The role drops away, disappears. Better. I take a deep breath, then another. And I realize — amazed, embarrassed, and somewhat afraid — how little I know about what I really do want, once I drop all the roles and expectations.
The original point was to give each of us a chance to have the other entirely at our disposal, prepared to do whatever it might be that we wanted, prepared to turn themselves completely over to being of service, to giving pleasure, to fulfilling whatever was asked of him or her with as much art, precision, care, grace and attention as could be focused on each particular moment.
You had had your turn to be pleasured, and now it was my turn. I had wanted to be the servant first, essentially because I am more comfortable being the giver than the receiver. Turning myself over to your every whim is easy compared to taking on the responsibility of telling you what to do. So we started there, and some weeks had passed and then you said, “When do I get a chance to be your servant?” which led to setting aside an afternoon for that purpose and this was it.
I sit there a long time, glad to know that it will take you a while to get ready, that I have some time to sort out what is going on for me. I spend a long time just feeling my breathing, the rise and fall of my belly, feel the breath get slower, feel the sensations in my body rise and take over my attention. I feel the tension in my shoulders and my belly, the stiffness in my back. I realize that although my mind is ready to invent fantasies of hot sex, what my body wants is not sexual at all — the opportunity to relax, to be pampered, to be attended to with ultimate loving care. This comes as something of a disappointment, but the truth of what I am feeling is undeniable. Sex or no sex, I am going to have to begin with my body and what it wants.
I find myself choosing between a massage and a hot bath. Either would feel absolutely blissful. Massage? Bath? Massage? Bath? I am wearing black spandex pants and very much liking the way they feel on my legs, on my ass, on my cock — the tightness, that all-over sensation of cool touch so special to spandex. I don’t really want to take them off, so I choose the massage over the bath. (It’s not until later that I realize I could have taken a bath in the spandex pants, a good starting point for another time….) I don’t know where this little journey is leading any more, but I do know it is starting with something about massage.
While you are readying yourself, I set myself to transforming the house. I burn incense. Breathing the fragrance I marvel again how much a created smell can alter psychic reality, almost like a drug. Then music — something quiet, something without words (the better to disengage the left brain with you, my dear). Perhaps I pick Kitaro’s Kojiki, perhaps Jean Michel Jarre’s Oxygene. I pull out the massage table (too heavy for your weak back) and set it up in the middle of the room. The rest I leave for you to set up. I turn up the heat. I turn down the lights. I eat a few frozen grapes. I wait. I listen to you move back and forth between bathroom and bedroom, busy with the task of turning yourself into the picture I have created for you. I sit very still and breathe, letting my anticipation grow slowly, letting the music and the incense and the stillness settle into me.
After a while you emerge and present yourself to me. That you are standing before me, slutted out, pleased to become whoever I want you to be just now, your eyes dark and dramatically patterned, your mouth black and other-worldly, your body sheathed in peach-pink silk for the pleasure of my looking, your nipples hard and expectant, your eyes enjoying my obvious delight with you — all this is testimony to the ritual we are beginning, the ritual that has already begun.
I call you closer and look you over carefully. I praise your handiwork, the artfulness of the black lines that make a webbing of your eyelids, the way you have done your hair, the way you look in that incredible dress.
I run my hands slowly down your arms, from your shoulders to your hands, testing the feel of you, feeling the silk glide under my palms, feeling the shapelines of your flesh, feeling the shudder that runs through you, following my touch like an afterimage. I run my palm over the wide curve of your ass, lift you, press into you. Reaching around you from behind, I run my hands over your breasts, feel their solidness, their resilience, cup them in my hands, squeeze them slowly, deeply, absorbing their delicious texture. I am pleased at the wave that goes through your body like a sigh, relaxing you, exciting you.
Standing in front of you, I stroke the insides of your bare thighs with both hands, starting at your knees and moving gradually upward, all the time fixing your eyes with mine, watching the beginnings of your response. You take a small step to the side, parting your legs, inviting me upward, but I stop instead, sit down on the floor between your spread legs, tell you to lift your skirt and show me how careful a job you’ve done shaving your cunt. You lift your dress and hold your cunt open for me to inspect which I do — first with my eyes, then slowly and carefully with my fingers, then even more slowly and carefully with my lips and tongue. You are smooth everywhere — outer lips, inner lips, along the ridge of your clit, all the way down to your ass.
I have you wet now, and your hips are beginning to rock a little under the probe of my tonguetip, but it is not my purpose to turn you on, only to show myself how completely smooth you have become, and to show me also how completely you have become mine to enjoy in whatever way pleases me most.
I stand up, pull down your dress back down, step back from you. You move your legs together again, a quiet closing. I tell you I have decided that I want to begin with a massage, tell you to finish preparing the massage table by getting the foam pad, the sheet, the oils. Everything is in its proper place. When you are done I take off my spandex pants and lie face down on the table, letting you begin working on my back, my arms, the backs of my legs. You rub the oil into me slowly, smoothly, pressing me harder when I ask for it, taking away the tightness, muscle by muscle. Your touch is slow and present, and I let myself dissolve into the release that comes from your hands.
After a while I stop you, turn over onto my back. You stand at the head of the table, begin rubbing oil into my chest and shoulders. As you lean forward, your breasts sway just over my face, lush and inviting. I reach over my head with both hands, holding onto your hips while I suck hard at the nipple that you now offer continuously to my mouth. Slowly I slide your dress up until it is around your waist. I reach for your smooth cunt, which is delightfully wet and slippery. You open your legs a little and lift your pelvis into my touch. Your legs begin to shake. I hold two fingers rigidly between the lips of your cunt and you begin to fuck at them, trying to get them inside you. I stop you.
“Wait a minute,” I warn, “you’re forgetting what we’re doing here. This is for my pleasure, not yours. This time if you get excited you have to get excited for me, not for you.”
You have stopped moving, and now you stop everything for a moment, to take in what I am saying.
“Do you understand the difference?” I persist.
“I think so,” you answer, tight and holding your breath.
“Ok,” I say. “Now go back to doing what you were doing.”
You begin rubbing my chest again, your body more relaxed than before, waiting for me to come to it rather than reaching, wanting, on its own. I relax into the pure delight of holding your nipple in my mouth, your wonderful cunt in my hand, my fingers turning slow, wide circles inside you, running along the smooth walls of you, pressing them outward, feeling them stretch with my pressure and then contract again as the pressure passes. The inside of you moves around my sweeping fingers like an anemone. I can smell you, rich, warm, and pungent. From time to time I feel you tighten a little, draw yourself taut, and then I have to stop and remind you to relax, to let go of your wanting, to just release yourself to my playing with you.
I want you to let go of wanting, to simply wait expectantly to see what I will bring you, what I will do with you. I sit up, turn around and sit facing you on the edge of the table, playing with you while you stand there, legs apart, focusing on the solitary task of receiving my touch without tensing, without reaching, without stretching. This gets harder the more excited you become, but every time you tighten I pause and back away, give you a minute to breathe and relax, then start moving in you again. I can feel your ache grow deeper and deeper.
Your legs shake continuously now, vibrating from the energy that is streaming through your body. You have given up all the reaching, all the wanting, all sense of goal or purpose — given up any attempt to direct what is happening, turned yourself over to me completely. You do nothing to block or heighten the vibrating in your legs that is growing stronger minute by minute. Inside you I can feel your energy growing, feel your body begin to organize itself to come, even though you are barely moving. You feel it too, and the focus of your attention narrows on the process of allowing the explosion to happen without reaching for it in any way. The whole structure of your cunt is gathering around the core of my fingers for release. I wait until I can feel the wave just beginning to move up through you.
“Don’t come!” I demand, watching your eyes startle in confusion. The reflex to come and the reflex to do what I am telling you spiral away from each other, and something deep inside you tears open. Your eyes are wide, almost pained, deliciously lost. “I don’t want you to come until I give you permission. Do you understand?”
You nod.
“Tell me you understand,” I insist.
“I understand,” you whisper. “I won’t come until you say it’s ok.”
“Good.”
I begin playing with you again, playing with you more, one hand in your cunt, the other roaming over your body, pressing your breasts, squeezing your nipples tight. Each time you body begins to swell toward release I warn you not to come, and you relax again. We get to where your whole body is humming, your legs shaking enough that you have to adjust yourself to keep from falling.
Eventually I take my fingers out of you, stop touching you entirely. I begin playing with my cock, which I know you love to watch, which I love to watch you watching me. I stroke myself until I am full and hard. Your eyes are wide, focused on me intently. Your breathing is fast and shallow. I see you squeeze your thighs together, the way you often do to make yourself come.
“Don’t come!” I caution you, but this time, instead of releasing the tension, you just stand there, trembling, your thighs pressed tightly together. I reach my hand quickly between them and pry them apart.
“Move your legs apart,” I demand. You whimper a protest.
“Come on,” I say, pushing your leg, “open them.”
Reluctantly you ease the pressure against my hand a little.
“More,” I insist. You move your feet a little farther apart, then still farther, until I’m satisfied there’s no way you can squeeze your leg muscles to increase your excitement. All the while I stroke my cock, your eyes fixed on it without moving.
“Please let me come,” you plead.
“No, not yet.” I touch your cunt, wanting to feel your excitement. You’re deliciously wet, burning hot. I push two fingers inside you which sets off such am instantaneous turmoil in your body that I pull them right out again, knowing that otherwise you’ll come whether you want to or not.
“Please,” you beg.
“No, not yet.”
I lick my thumb and run it slowly up the center of your cunt — starting at the base, then up between your lips and over your clit. You moan and shudder, but the wave goes by too fast to crystallize your release. I do it again, more quickly, and then a third time, more quickly still — each time going just too fast to take you over the edge. I can see your cunt twitch and I can feel, almost as if my fingers were inside you, the contraction take over your core.
“Don’t move, not a muscle, nothing at all,” I say quickly, not wanting you to come this way either. You wince, but your response has become automatic and the twitching stops. You stand there completely still. I know you are suspended right on the edge, right on the lip of chaos, and I am giddy with the stretch of it, the power, wanting to dangle you there as long as possible, the edge sharpening second by second. I am not touching you at all — the energy holds itself up with no encouragement from you or from me. It is the moment when the magician snatches the table out from under his assistant, leaving her suspended in mid-air. It is a perfect moment.
I flick your nipple with my fingernail and watch the energy wave shoot through you like a shock wave. Your eyes have gone complete unfocused.
“You’re not going to come are you?” You shake your head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
I flick the nipple again, harder. A yell jumps out of you. Your legs wobble.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you hiss, straining.
I flutter my fingertips lightly and quickly over your breasts, your thighs, the lips of your cunt. Your whole body is visibly shaking now, a very fine continuous tremor.
“I’m going to let you come soon,” I tell you, watching your face carefully, finding a mixture of relief and anticipation. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I want to come.”
“You want to come now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Soon you can come. But I want you to hold absolutely still. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I’m doing that.”
“Yes you are, but when I tell you you can come I want you to come without moving, without moving a single muscle, without moving anything at all, inside or out. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well that’s what I want you to do. That’s the only way I’m going to let you come. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“I think so too.”
I reach between your legs with both hands and pull your cunt open until your inner lips peel apart from each other, showing me the shining red flesh inside. You make an animal noise, something between a growl and the sound of someone drowning.
“Soon you can come,” I say letting go of your cunt and watching the lips seal together again.
“Soon,” I say, tapping your clit lightly, your cunt, your thigh.
“Soon,” I say, flicking both your nipples with my fingernails.
“Soon,” I say, licking my finger and passing it lightly across the dry lips of your mouth.
Your eyes are impossibly wide and staring into mine with a mixture of amazement and pure desperation. I stroke my stiff cock and let my own excitement sweep up my body, into my eyes, meeting your urgency with my own growing need.
“Look at my eyes,” I shout, opening my eyes wide in imitation of you. Your eyes lock onto mine, like radar. “That’s it, look at me…. Look at me…. Look at me — hold still — and now… come.”
As soon as I say the word, I see your entire body contract and start to shake violently. Your mouth falls open, spilling some unintelligible noise, and a gush of ejaculate pours from between your spread legs onto the carpet. I watch in amazement as wave after wave sweeps through you, while you stand still, absolutely unmoving the entire time, your arms at your sides. I am so taken by the sight of you, the combination of stillness and total spasm, that I forget completely about coming myself. I watch the spasms subside and take a minute to enjoy the amazed radiance of your face before I stand up in front of you, reach out, and feel you turn to putty in my arms.
Copyright © 1999 David Steinberg
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