I love it when a woman gives me what I want, when she perfectly anticipates my desires, when she perfectly fulfills them.
Over time, perfect compliance becomes… boring.
As much as I might imagine that I’m a perfect pervert, that I want nothing more than perfect control over a beautiful woman, extracting from her precisely what I want, at all times… that just isn’t true.
I am, of course, a pervert. I do have my fantasies, and I take enormous pleasure in fulfilling them, perfectly. If I cast you in my fantasies, I do want you to execute your role faithfully, perfectly, even.
But in an ongoing back-and-forth relationship? Things get more complicated.
In that context, if you do nothing but give me precisely what I want, I imagine I will get bored. (And, that you will, too.)
In sex, as with so much else, I find the edges, the boundaries, the most interesting. Whether those edges are the edges of your compliance, of your ability, of your comfort, or the edges of my desire, my longing, my imagination – it’s at those edges, at those boundaries, that my excitement peaks.
The other day, I set out to extract from Marina a “beg” – I wanted her to “beg” me to let her stop coming. (We haven’t met – there are lots of miles and a pandemic between us. Her orgasms were at her own hand, but at my direction.) As I cooked dinner, I instructed her. She had been on a long hike the day previous. Her legs were weak – something I knew both because she had told me and because, when she first came for me, standing, at the very end of her orgasm, she buckled to her knees.
I wanted to capitalize on her availability, on her compliance – and on her weakness. Come, facing me, in your clothes, I told her. Come topless for me. Come nude for me. Show me your ass and come for me. Come twice in a row for me. Come three times in a row for me. Just, whatever you do, I told her, don’t stop standing.
I imagined that, five, seven, ten orgasms in, Marina would give me the quarry I sought: “N,” she would write, “I beg you. Please, may I stop coming?”
But Marina doesn’t want to beg. The concept doesn’t arouse her. Being rendered vulnerable, dependent, raw, in that particular way? Not hot for her. And as she stubbornly refused to stop coming, ten orgasms, fifteen orgasms, twenty? She found herself getting angry at me.
At about which time, she stopped. And recorded a thoughtful meditation on her anger. On her relationship to begging. To me. She didn’t ask my permission to stop. She didn’t say a “safe word.” She simply told me that I had pushed her beyond the boundaries of the sandbox in which we were playing.
I fucking love the edges – and, I love the resilience that enabled Marina to stand just beyond those edges, to delineate them for me thoughtfully, articulately, and to slip her pretty body back over the edge into the sandbox, where I may, once again, use it for my pleasure in just about whatever way I might wish.