When I first met Grace, what excited me about her was her brashness; her uninhibitedness; her powerful self-will. I don’t know why that attracted me, but it did.
We dated in the glorious mutual thrill of a new couple basking in lust and infatuation for about four months. That was a long time to me. It was a record.
Our first fights were over meaningless things, and their duration tended to reflect that. We both seemed to have perspective about the things we fought over, so we never became fierce with each other. At least not at first.
We had little in common, now that I look back on it. We shared few interests. One thing we did share was our appetite for love-making, and our aggressive approach to sex: I was positively ravenous, and she matched my starved hunger. In fact, she sometimes exceeded it: I, after having my second ejaculation – at her strong, knowing hands; her daring, deep mouth; or her oven-like, commanding vagina – was often spent…but I could tell she wanted more. And I couldn’t give it to her with my penis, usually: two or – on a good day, three – ejaculations wore me out. Left me as limp as a soggy six-inch french fry. So I’d try my best to take her to town with my tongue, my lips, my hands – whatever she wanted. I always felt slightly inadequate on those occasions, and I noticed that she never pretended to be totally satisfied: she wasn’t the type of woman to put up with lies. She was dissatisfied too, and she let me know it – with her eyes, her facial expressions, her body language.
When I moved away to grad school in Oregon – we had lived in California – she came to visit me several times. The distance put a strain on our relationship. Moreover, when she came to visit me, she was sexually starved; we had agreed not to see other people, and so our normally powerful appetites were almost insatiable. At least, hers was: I found – and maybe it was because I was so busy with school, my energy was depleted – I found I was still totally satiated with two orgasms (or, on good days, three). She usually wasn’t. I would cum, I would cum again, then collapse. She would lie there staring at me. Expectantly. Sometimes with obvious disappointment (which I tried to ignore). Occasionally, while I flopped on the bed beside her, she’d grow impatient; she reach over and cup her hand over my genitals: she’d tug lightly on my penis, flick my balls around with her fingers, even slide a finger up to my anus and prod gently. I’d moan in defeat; try to convey my exhaustion. And usually she’d let it end at that. Usually.
One Sunday afternoon she wasn’t so easy on me. When I collapsed into utter tranquility after my second orgasm, she was still driven with libido: her body lay beside me like a neon question mark – not in the least bit placated. Her sex had soaked up everything I could provide it with, but she was still light years from the threshold of gratification. She reached over, forcibly separated my partially closed legs, and put her right hand over my testicles. She didn’t just lay her fingers on them; she held them like a pair of dice about to be tossed onto a backgammon board. She actually shook my balls, and I jumped in response.
“David! Come on, David! You’re not dead yet.”
With her other hand, she trapped the head of my penis between her thumb and her first two fingers, and squeezed.
“Ouch! Whaddaya mean, I’m not dead yet?”
She gently tugged my balls toward her.
“I mean, I know you can get it up again. You’ve gone three rounds with me before, remember? Come on, baby, you just have to try!”
She tugged me harder, and I gasped vocally. This made her laugh.
“Ooh, poor boy!”
She pressed her finger into the tender rope that extends beyond my penis. I felt myself grow slighly harder, and she drove me on: wrapping her fingers around my testicles like little pythons, gripping my penis like a dead microphone, thrusting an occasional finger at my anus. I felt like I was a scare-crow being raped, but her aggression gave me a new burst of erotic energy: my penis rose: and she got up and rode me to a third orgasm.
Now I was finished. Over with. Kaput. I felt like I had ejaculated barely half a teaspoon into her, but I was spent. I looked over at her, and smiled in dizzy gratitude; she had hauled my manhood to a level that – at that time – I hadn’t expected it to reach. Looking at her, to my disappointment, I saw she was still unsatisfied.
“Is that it?” She asked.
“`It?’” I responded.
“Is that all you’re good for?”
“Is that ALL…? Grace, that was three orgasms! If you’re not satisfied with that, you’re…”
I didn’t know how to finish.
“I’m what?”
She moved closer to me, her breast pressing against my tired chest.
“I’m what?”
“Nothing.”
Once again – this time with her eyes focused on mine – she placed her hand over my balls. Once again, she held my nuts – as if they weren’t even a part of me – as if they were things that belonged to her, like toys that had failed to work as advertised.
“Tell me, David. I’m what?”
I had had enough. I pulled away from her. To my horror, she still gripped my balls: I couldn’t move back. I heard myself utter a sound – I don’t know, a gasp, maybe, or a groan, a sort of masculine whimper – then, sort of desperate, I tried to pull away again. This time she let me retreat. But as I walked away – to the bathroom, to take a shower – I felt her eyes drilling into me.”Sorry I wore you out,” she said.
I felt myself blush, and didn’t reply.
In the shower, with the bathroom door locked, I looked down at my penis. I tried stroking it, just to see if I could get it up again. I stroked it, I coaxed it, I yanked it a little – but it couldn’t go hard. She’s demanding too much, I thought. Stupid woman. Stupid goddamn cunt.
The rest of the day we hardly spoke. Oh, she said a lot, but not through words. She wouldn’t let me forget that I had let her down. Whenever we walked past each other, she’d rub into me – at first discreetly, letting her hand brush against my waist – but then more obviously: she’d walk up behind me, and run her hand lightly over my ass. Then later, when I was walking out of the kitchen after preparing some of the ingredients for dinner, she blocked me in the doorway. I tried moving to the left, and she moved to the left: I tried moving to the right, and she moved to the right. I told her, “Excuse me,” in a kind of pissy voice, and she smiled pityingly at me, then let me by. But as I walked past her, she ran her fingers over my crotch. Not just brushingly: she plunged her middle finger deep between my legs, raced it over where my anus was, then lifted my testicles with her palm as she pulled it back. Then she stared me in the face. I tried to totally ignore her: I had never known her to be this hostile before. I just moved on – sat at my desk and stared doing my homework, pretending she hadn’t just worked me. She stood there, staring at me, then laughed. I ignored this. “Oh, Jeeesus,” she said, then, walking into the kitchen, concluded with, “You’re pathetic, David.” I didn’t respond. I felt myself blushing again, and she left me alone. Sitting there, I envisioned my penis, hanging between my legs – my manhood: a tiny piece of flesh, unable to get hard enough to satisfy her. Taunted by her. A limp little thing.
Continued …
Originally posted 2009-01-12 15:00:54.
Male Weakling : 1
Female Led Relationships - F/m Fiction, Male Chastity, Feminization Stories, Female Domination Erotica, Femdom Photographs