Ready

Surely it starts well before the door opens; surely before a hot hand is laid on ready skin. It’s possible that it starts with the first picture  or the first few words exchanged, but more realistically it’s when he says Get here early because I’m going to fuck your ass, and that could take some time. Just writing the words now, a week later, makes me swallow hard and tingle in an altogether inappropriate fashion and if not for the demands of work and children — and even considering the events of last night — if I could I would take those words to bed with me and not let them up ’til they’d made me come five-hundred times. Which would take not even an hour, and is coincidentally almost the exact amount of time I spent yesterday readying my body for the date.

None of that time was spent doing my hair (unless by “doing” you mean “securing tightly in a band”) or putting on makeup. Instead I scrubbed and shaved and smoothed over rough spots. I painted toenails and filled myself with warm water time after time ’til it ran clear and once again I had to appreciate the ability of that activity to make me so very wobbly, so very poundy of heart and thumpy of cunt that I had to wonder why whywhywhy I only started doing it this year. Why didn’t I do it before on even one of the dozens or hundreds of times I got ready for sex — and not, as you may be imagining, solely for the sake of whatever degree of cleanliness can be conferred by plain water but instead because it’s impossible to be filled with water and not think of being filled with cock.

And then a man must be placed in a chair, tied up and blown so that he can get it hard; service the girl — not that it was difficult to do such a thing or even, technically, necessary, as by the time the ropes were tied and the chair spun ’round my mouth was a treat and not a tool. Don’t come, I threatened halfway through. I want you to put that in my ass, and before he could answer I realized that saying the latter made the former all the more difficult.

But it was managed; I watched from my knees as he prepared by dragging on a condom¹, pulling his cock one-handed off to the side sofuckinghot to snug it tight right down to the base. And then the lube, dripped (and almost dropped, slippery thing) on him and on me and then rubbed on me, and then in me which regardless of whatever other perverse things we’ve done makes me cringe and blush so hard. And then pressure, and then a tiny jolt of almost-pain, and then that feeling of being so stretched open, so spread open, so full and wide and bursting-big as it angled down in me and I screamed and screamed and screamed.

I’m not sure if I could say that half of it is in the getting ready, but enough of the pleasure is there that to skimp on it would be foolish at best and self-sabotage at worst.

I never will.

1. without a single word of complaint, ever, not even once [↩]