My hand started drifting down his body and at the last minute it stopped. I’m not allowed to touch one area without permission – something that’s been a hard lesson for me.
“May I?” I asked, my voice squeaked barely above a whisper since an illness swept over me this week, leaving me practically voiceless.
“May you what?” he asked, raised an eyebrow and a revealed a smile that clearly was up to mischief. “What do you want to touch?”
“You.” I whined.
“What part of me?” he pushed.
*Disclaimer: while I am writing some words for male and female genitalia (and even then I take a deep breath and then hold it while I quickly type them), thirteen years of Catholic School are still at force and I won’t read them out loud, nor can I say word connotations with any sort of ease. I’ll come up with other words that simply describe or avoid it altogether. It’s amazing how I don’t embarrass easily, how I will delve into most things sexual without fear, and yet cringe over semantics.
So that was his game…I actually debated calling surrender and giving up sex for the night when he refused to let me go around saying a word – I’m sure quite a few words would have been acceptable to him – but I wasn’t using any of them.
He gripped my hair and kissed the side of my neck, pressed his body down against me. That was nice, it was a cocoon around my sudden shyness and he wasn’t staring at me fumbling and refusing with his mouth on my neck. “Say ‘I want to touch'”.
“I want to touch,” I squeaked out, winced at my tiny voice, yet taking comfort that even if I was coerced to say something, it wouldn’t be loud.
I giggled. “Why do I have to lie?” I teased.
He laughed, confident in the fact that it was quite large, and I was just giving him a hard time. He also wasn’t letting me distract his intent, “‘your large”.
His teeth grazed my neck and I felt goosebumps appear down the side of my body. “Your large,” I breathed out.
Well, at least he didn’t want me to use one of the more (considered) vulgar words – though truthfully no words bothered me reading them – I just couldn’t say them out loud.
I faltered, despite his warm body on me, despite him not looking at me, and encouraging me slowly. “Why do I have to say it? You know what I mean.” I whined.
“Because I said so,” he insisted firmly and then he walked through the statement again.
I squirmed after the word large, hesitated, and then whispered the word “penis”. Unfortunately, a whisper with no voice is just air.
“I didn’t hear you,” he said, “here, my ear is right beside your mouth. Start over.”
“I said it!” I whined.
“Didn’t hear it.”
I started again, took a deep breath, and then said the word “penis” again.
He leaned up, a triumphant smile on his face, and granted me permission to touch, adding, “you dirty little wife.” Somehow those words made it more bearable – his pride in that statement, his love and approval, and calling me “dirty” – something he really hasn’t done before. I did feel dirty in saying the statement, but him using that word and turning it into something so positive and yet naughty really helped. I beamed, enjoyed the victorious feel of him in my hand.
He leaned down and kissed me, his whole mouth crashed on me and his tongue was assertive against my own. After a few seconds, we both realized I couldn’t breathe through my nose; I was, after all, still sick. I let go of him to use both hands to push against his chest. He pressed even more firmly against my mouth for another second, and then let up.
“You can’t breathe through your nose,” he said, surprised.
I was still gulping in air. “Nope,” I affirmed.
He positioned himself at my entrance and entered me roughly, then gripped my hair and pushed for another kiss. I was surprised, and within a few moments I was panicked because I couldn’t breathe – his obvious intent. He let me push against him a few times before relenting. “Mmm, breath play without choking. How nice,” as he thrusted in and out of me, he pressed for another kiss, and I welcomed it, loved the feel of his mouth taking as much possession of me as him being inside of me did, felt the pleasure build, struggled to breathe, trusted him, and felt the beginnings of an orgasm. My nails dug into his shoulders and yet he still denied me breath, his hand so firm in my hair that I couldn’t move my mouth to the side.
There may have been other ways for me to breathe, but I wasn’t thinking of any. When he allowed me to gasp in a breath I was clenched so tightly around him in the throes of orgasm, and yet he didn’t give me any time to do other than one breath before he was stifling another.
It terrified me…it excited me.
I had two really strong orgasms that way before he allowed me to take a few calming breaths. I was exhausted in the short amount of time. My panic and struggle to breathe combined with the pleasure and tension of my orgasms, not to mention still feeling weak from being sick, left me no energy. I laid there limply, gasped for breath, barely aware of his pleased smile – yet enough to try to smile back.
But he hadn’t found his own orgasm yet. He leaned back and stroked in and out of my body at a different angle, his mouth far away from my own so I could breathe through a slower orgasm, my body tightening to bring his own to pleasure.
Afterwards, my body a heaving and exhausted mess safely tucked in his arms, I whispered how I appreciated him calling me dirty so proudly, and his cleverness for using breath play and working (against?) with my sickness.