I respect everyone’s sexual needs. What gets me off might not get someone else off, and I might not like what they’re into. That’s fine, that’s natural, and that’s honestly just how sex works. However, things get a little sticky (hehe) with me because I’m into some pretty weird shit.
You might wonder if telling the guy I just met that while I can not handle making out with a little bit of tongue involved, I do enjoy being hogtied, is weird. Yes, it is. But it is less weird to me to scare off a guy while I still have time left at the bar to finish my prowl than to be stuck in missionary position, avoiding eye contact and dodging the sweat that is falling into my face.
Hell, maybe that’s not too bad, right? Sure I don’t enjoy standard vanilla sex and have no chance of finishing, but it could be worse. But that’s not what happened. For the first time, I was blindsided by own game. I sat, dumbfounded as the giant of a man with black hair and light eyes clearly mistook my love for being dominated as a love for being a dominatrix.
Now there are a few reasons I like the type of sex I have. The obvious reason is that it feels nice. But other than that when a guy is in charge I feel safe (even if he’s slapping me across the ass) and when he picks me up and throws me I feel small, but here’s the biggest secret: when a guy dominates, I get to be the lazy piece of shit that I am. I love being tied up. Oh, you mean I get to lie there and not even pretend that I want a turn on top? Sign me the fuck up. When the guy is in charge I don’t have to think about whether he is enjoying himself because if he isn’t, he’ll change it so he is. Being dominated takes all the pressure and thinking and exercise out of sex. It is the one way to make the best thing in the world even better.
Yet here I was, having to think fast about how I was going to make the guy before me, who was twice my weight and a foot taller, feel like my bitch. We had met casually, and after a few drinks made it back to my place with a few less articles of clothing. After hastily unzipping and landing wet mouths on each other, we got to talking.
“What do you want to do,” I purred, ready to get into my usual, lazy-girl position.
“I want you to be in charge,” he murmured back, taking my lazy spot on the bed.
I stared at him, confused. What? That was my move? Could I get away with standard cowgirl? I knew I only had about four minutes in me before my legs gave out. Did that mean I would have to finish him off with head? Could I finish him off with a blow jay without vomiting all of the tequila in my stomach?
As I internally debated my options, he positioned himself on my bed and looked at me expectedly. Cautiously, I got on top of him. I started to kiss his neck and then moved onto bite his ear. Just as I was thinking things would be okay, he started moaning in my ear. Loudly. I stopped immediately.
“So,” I tried to act casual, “what should uh I do?”
“Touch me,” he moaned. I poked his nose.
Eventually, like the selfish person I am, I took one for the team and pulled him on top of me. Maybe I would have lasted longer, my legs were impressively still intact after riding him for a few minutes, but I couldn’t handle the weird contorted faces he was making. Plus, homeboy was moaning louder than I ever had. He positioned us into missionary and began to shallowly thrust. Time was ticking and I was getting dryer by the second.
“Come for me, baby,” I whispered in his ear, my last hope to get him off and this over with.
“Mmm, insult me, mommy,” he hissed back.
“What the actual fuck?” I burst, sitting up abruptly.
“Treat me like the bad boy I am,” he cooed in my ear.
“I’m very disgusted,” I answered honestly, not knowing if I wanted to laugh or cry.
“Oh, yeah? Are you going punish me?”
At this moment, my orgasm had officially given up. It packed its bags and left me to deal with this man-child. If this guy really wanted a little blonde girl to quite literally step on his balls then I was out. Not only was my entire experience dampened because I spent the whole time worrying about what positions to do and if he liked them, but I caught myself debating whether or not being called “mommy” by a grown ass man was enough to call the cops. There’s nothing “little” or “safe” about slapping a man’s ass and emasculating him. Sure, some people get off this way. But I will never, ever be one of them. There comes a time when you just got to throw in the towel, and that should have been before our clothes ever came off.
“Hey,” I lightly nudged him off me, “you gotta go. I have church in the morning.”.
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