Posts Tagged ‘dishes’
We’ve been working on discipline and service over in the Submissive Playground course, so I’ve been thinking a lot about both.
Earlier this week, rife didn’t want to do the dishes. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was being “naughty” (though he did apologize for being so later). It was getting late, and I gave him a direct order—”Go do the dishes”—and instead of heading into the kitchen, he hopped onto my lap, kissing me, flirting.
“What if you can’t resist my boyish charms?” He giggled, and I laughed and kissed him back, and he gave me that dimpled smile that I can never resist. But … I’d been thinking about discipline. About order. And, about what it’s like to be a Daddy to someone who grows up, and what it’s like to be a Dominant who is firmly In Charge.
His task this week is to get off every day, and as such I lifted all orgasm restrictions that are usually in place: he can touch himself, he can use any toys he wants, he can come anytime I touch him—he doesn’t have to ask. I did leave one restriction in place, and that’s that he cannot use any toys in his ass without my permission, that hole being my domain exclusively for almost two years now. Having all this permission lifted seems to have made him a bit more bold this week, a bit more playful.
I like it.
(It has also helped that we both are finally, finally recovered from the Holiday flu, which lasted almost a month.)
He rocked his hips on my lap a little, and immediately I felt myself getting hard. He wanted to play. I wanted to play.
I caught his wrists with my hand and said, “I gave you a direct order: “Go do the dishes.” You think you get to just play whenever you want? You think you don’t have to do what I say?”
He backed off a little, sweet and shy, and started to defend himself with a comment, but I pulled his body up and started shoving him toward the bedroom, with a plan. He tried to dig his feet in to the floor and resist, but I slid him easily just by pushing. (Halfway through the kitchen, he mumbled, “Stupid socks!” and we both burst out laughing.)
I know from experience that he can take me. He was a wrestler, he plays rugby. I am a poet who likes to hike. He pinned me five times in a row when we wrestled on an LA beach. I’m bigger than him, so sometimes my size can pin him, but he’s fast and strong and knows the tricks. But that’s part of what makes it fun—I know, on some level, that he doesn’t want to win. That he resists because he likes me to push him.
When I shove him face-first onto the bed, I pull his pants down to his knees, his shirt over his head. We’re both laughing and breathing hard. I gather a few things from the shelves and use them, one by one. First the gag. Then the hanky tie around his wrists. Neither of us are laughing now. Then the little tube of lube to fill up his ass, followed by my fingers—”You may as well relax, boy, it’s going in one way or the other”—and finally, the thick butt plug.
I leave him there for a minute, pressing against him. I whisper some things in his ear … things like, you’re not actually in trouble. I like it when you flirt with me. But I like it when you do what I tell you to do even more. I love the way you make me want you, make me pull in the reigns. I love you. Good boy.
He softens and lets out a couple little moans. I feel our bodies line up, then pull his briefs back up and say, “Leave your jeans. And go. Do. The. Dishes.”
He lifts his head and there’s a pool of drool on the bedspread. He gets up, still with the gag and the wrist tie and the plug, goes to the kitchen; I heard the water start to run and the clink of dishes in the sink. I sit on the small couch in our bedroom and write, thinking about power, thinking about what I am going to do to him when he was done. After a page or so I hear some clattering in the kitchen, and it doesn’t stop, and I know the tie on his wrists are in the way of his task, so I go to remove it, playing with the plug in his ass as cost for this convenience. He bends over the sink to give me his ass, moaning and drooling around the gag. I leave him, briefs now wet, to finish the few things left and go back to writing a little longer.
When he comes into the bedroom, I barely look up. “Down,” I point next to me, our signal for kneeling, and he does, leaning his head on my thigh. I finish my thoughts in my notebook and stand up, strip my pajama pants and briefs, spread my legs around him and pull his head to my cunt.
“Ohh, you still have that gag, isn’t that unfortunate,” I tease. He moans, trying to rub against me, feeling that I’m already hard … and dripping. I let him struggle for a minute, but want his open mouth too much so I undo the gag and toss it aside.
“Thank you, Sir,” he says, and lowers his mouth to my dick, tongue cupping and sucking. In the right mood, I can let him do this for a long time, but I’m a little too eager to relax tonight. I want his fist, I want a thrashing come, I want to shove in, I want to be shaken at my core.
I start working his head on my dick, then holding him steady while I move my hips so I thrust into his mouth. “It’s been a while since you came with my dick in your mouth,” I lean down so my mouth is close to his ear. “Do it for me.” I pull his head away and hold him by his collar, bring my hand down to jerk myself off. “Can you do it if I come all over your face and I make you watch?” He strains at his collar, stretches his tongue to lick me. I can feel his body taut and getting close. He’s straddling my leg and I can feel him rock the butt plug against me. The denial will tip him over the edge. Maybe I’ll just shoot down his open mouth, maybe I’ll not let him touch me. I feel … something … building in me and I want to use him to get myself there, to work it out of me. I jerk it and he gasps, shakes, thrusts forward. I feel his body tighten, and open, then relax, and he collapses against me.
I say some little reassurance things, telling him he’s a good boy and I like using him, and we sit for a minute, touching softly, that sweet pillow talk kind of mood, until I stand up. “Come on,” I say, lying on the bed; he follows me, and I shove him where I want him. “Inside.” I say. “Your fingers. Now.” He works in one, then two; I hand him the bottle of lube and he works in more. I float, working myself up, sliding my fingers around my clit and feeling my tissues swollen and hard, needing, eager. Sometimes it is hard for me to come, but I am determined to tonight. I barely notice when he slides his fist all the way in, just feel that full pressure of being stretched inside.
It is hard to describe my own orgasms. Maybe they have become increasingly internal and complex over the years I’ve done more bodywork, maybe because I’m shy. Sometimes I see kaleidoscope colored patterns, or have visions. Sometimes I feel like I’m scrunching up my face and trying so hard, never quite sure if I’m actually going to reach the kind of release my body is craving.
But sometimes, like last night, it all just comes together, and I have someone so perfectly willing to do precisely what I need, that I can have transcendent experiences in my own bed, with my boy, with just our bodies and our love and our power.
He pulled his fist out when it was too much, and teased just the right spot with his fingertips while I jerked my small dick. Every part of me tensed and gathered. The climax was a relief, a release I can never quite control, where I yell hard, my throat chafed and voice horse afterward, and I groan, and I squeeze out everything I can, until it’s just all flowing so smoothly that I burst open, and the yells turn into sobs, those full-body, chest heaving, I’m-not-sure-I’m-going-to-stop-crying kind of sobs. I breathe. I cry. I trust the sweet feeling of my boy’s body, resting gently on mine, know that he’s there if I need anything. Grateful that he’s there. Grateful that he can hold me the way he does, that he can serve me, that he can take my need for controlled behavior and instructions and tasks and turn it into a way to make us closer together. Lucky to have found him. Lucky that he chose me.
I pull him up to me and wipe my face, catch my breath, as my crying stops. We hold each other in the quiet for a little while. “Thank you for doing the dishes,” I say.
“Thank you for motivating me,” he says.
I fell asleep thinking, That, right there, is the kind of discipline and service that I like.
Featured image borrowed from The Crash Pad Series. More about the featured images is coming soon!
Ozy Frantz, ozyfrantz.com.
1. What insight about open relationships do you wish you had when you started?
The biggest insight I have about open relationships is that they’re less difficult than you think they are. Admittedly, I kind of fell into polyamory by accident. My now-girlfriend then-roommate hooked up with a guy that she thought I’d be interested in (we both liked comics). Like the kind and generous-souled person she is, she brought him home. That night, the guy and I ended up having sex with my now-girlfriend in the room reading Sandman; we invited her to join us and by the next morning, without anyone quite meaning to, we were all dating.
So I didn’t really put much thought into the whole “becoming polyamorous” thing. If I had, I probably would have processed it a lot more than I did and worried about jealousy and time management and communication and all that stuff. In practice, though, polyamory is basically like a monogamous relationship, except with more people. Good intentions, communication, and honestly wanting the best for each other is the most important thing.
2. What has been the hardest thing about opening your relationship, and how have you overcome that?
The hardest thing for me is that I tend to be very afraid that people will abandon me if I don’t do everything right. So sometimes I get worried that my partners will leave me. That’s really the only time I get jealous: normally, I’m not a jealous person at all. The big thing for me was realizing that my jealousy and fear of abandonment are important issues. I had– still do have, in a way– a tendency to repress my emotions because they’re irrational and I shouldn’t have them. But even though my fear of abandonment is very irrational, it’s still real. It’s okay for me to bring up that I’ve been feeling abandoned lately and to talk about it with my partners and make sure they spend some extra time taking care of me until I feel more secure.
Also, dishes. My poly household gets into some truly epic arguments about dishes.
3. What has been the best thing about your open relationship?
Compersion is seriously excellent. You know that feeling when you’re watching your favorite TV show and the couple you’ve been rooting for for six seasons finally gets together? Like that, but for real people. Not to mention that finally there’s someone who is as interested in discussing the fabulosity of your romantic partners as you are, as opposed to your regular friends, who would really just prefer you get back to discussing My Little Pony.
I also like the way polyamory makes relationships so much more fluid. I feel like, with monogamous relationships, there’s a certain mold you’re supposed to fit: sex on the third date, “I love you” by month six, moving in together after a year, that sort of thing. But because of polyamory I can have all kinds of relationships that enrich my life but would be deeply unsatisfying as my only relationship. A romantic relationship where we don’t have sex, a platonic relationship where we love each other and have sex but still don’t want to date, long-distance relationships, flirty platonic friendships… every relationship grows into its own unique form once you take away the way it “has” to be.
4. Anything else you’d like to add?
It’s amazing how natural polyamory feels to me. It’s like the final puzzle piece clicking into place, a puzzle piece I didn’t even know was missing but now that it’s here the entire picture makes sense. Normally I’m a very analytical person who questions whether I’m “really X” a lot, but I have never questioned being polyamorous since I started. I literally cannot imagine going back to monogamy.