What he needs

He is on his knees at the bottom of the bed, naked. His ass is raised, his chest resting on his thighs, his face pressed against the sheets. She tied him so he can’t move forward or backward. One rope catches him behind his knees, the ends looped over the posts at the head of the bed. Another catches him at the waist and pulls his hips back, ends looped over the posts at the foot of the bed. His cock is pressed between his belly and his thighs. His hands are bound to his ankles.

She reflects on her options. She could whip him now. He presents an inviting target. And she knows he loves the sting. But that is not what he needs. She caresses his ass and he moans. She will put his needs before his pleasure and remind him of the pleasure in his needs. It is why he comes to her.

He comes to her because she understands that he doesn’t necessarily want to need what he needs. He comes to her because she enjoys his struggle between what he wants to need and what he really needs. He comes to her because of the pleasure she takes in his deep ambivalence about giving up control, he who is usually so masterful at control.

She puts on a glove and his breath catches when he hears the latex snap against her wrist. She dips her fingers in the bowl of lube warming over the candle on the table beside her and smoothly, without any other preparation, without saying a word to him, slides one long slender finger into his ass.

This is what he needs.

She presses in and down. He moans. She slowly withdraws, all the way, leaving him empty. He is silent. She knows he is disappointed but she waits while the need becomes desire. She waits while he wants. She lets the silence hang between them for a moment, dips her fingers, and presses two against the tight opening and they slide in easily, the ring of muscle squeezing her, then the warm space inside his body opening to her, drawing her in. He has prepared himself well. She wonders what his subs would say if they knew he came to her like this. If they knew he needed as they need.

She pulls out again and this time he whimpers in protest.

She takes her cock in her hand, runs the head of it from the base of his spine between his cheeks until she is pressed against that same tight opening and then she pushes, savoring that moment of entry, his gasp at the instant of penetration followed by the long smooth slide into his body, gravity pulling her down into him. She sinks in to the hilt, her hips pressed against his ass, and rests there a moment enjoying the sight of him, pinned by her cock to her bed.

She holds his hips to steady herself, sliding slow in and slowly out, taking him for her own pleasure.

His cock is throbbing hard but pinned where he cannot reach it. Each thrust she makes, long and slow and smooth, causes it to twitch and thus to brush against his thighs. It is almost enough but not quite.

Except that the pressure and the sliding in and out is making him harder than he can remember being in a long time. And he thinks he could almost come, almost, even without touching himself.

Just because of the fucking.

The deep penetration.

The pressure on that spot inside his body that responds like nothing else.

Slowly she pulls out and slowly she pushes in, her hands tight on his hips, pulling him back against her body, hard, tight.

The long smooth sliding out takes forever. It starts from the center of his body and ends just as the head of her cock threatens to slip out of his ass.

Then her body falls against him, filling him, fast, and hard, and deep.

That rhythm is part of what he needs. The long slow exhale. The long, slow withdrawal. The fear, momentarily, of being left there, empty, before the rushing in, the filling. Then the knowing that he has everything all of a sudden, until the fullness is almost too much, and there is that long slow exhale again.

The long slow smooth stroke that leaves him almost empty before gravity and her need fills him again.

Hard. Fast. Deep.

His cock is hard and throbbing and wet and she hasn’t even touched it. And he needs to come. But he knows he won’t until she says he may.

And he has never come like this before, without being buried in anything warm and wet. Without a mouth or a cunt or a hand on his cock.

Except this time he does. When she can tell he can’t hold back any more, when she knows she is about to come as she falls into him again, hard, fast, deep, she tells him “Now!”

And he comes, in big spurts, his cock trapped there between his thighs and his belly, hers pulsing deep inside him, both of them awash in the confluence of need and want and pleasure and control and release.

And the struggle subsides. For now.

~ by Molly Montrevoir on July 12, 2008.