chair facing the drapes and ordered Emily to sit with her legs wide apart. I told her to pleasure herself. I wanted to watch her cum. Emily nodded and gnawed at her lip. Her right hand dipped spontaneously to the shaved mound of her pussy, and then she touched herself with several slow lingering caresses before pressing against her clit with her fingertips. I stood and watched her for several moments – and then drew the vertical blinds open.
For an instant Emily froze, like a shocked deer in the middle of a road, suddenly caught in the glare of headlights. There was a light on in a window of the facing house.
Emily made to flee from the chair but I snapped at her. I told her I wanted to watch her orgasm. The sooner she got herself off, the sooner the blinds would be closed.
She flashed me a venomous glare and then screwed her eyes tightly shut. Her face looked as though she were in some deep trance of concentration. Her nipples came taut and then her abdomen began to undulate as her tummy concaved with each deeply drawn breath.
Okay… I just need to stop here for a moment because I’m wondering if you notice a trend yet?
I’ll come back to my story about Emily very soon, but this is important – important enough to share a secret with you.
I’ve always made it a rule in my BDSM experiences to insist my submissive pleasure herself before I ever attempt to bring her to orgasm.
Why?
Well how else will I know how to pleasure her – how best to touch her to bring her to release?
A woman’s orgasm is hidden behind a million combination tumblers; what works for one woman never, ever works in exactly the same way for the next. Most guys might think they know how to pleasure a woman. And maybe they do.
A woman. A single woman.
But any guy who uses exactly the same techniques on every woman he ever tumbles into bed with is going to disappoint the majority of them.
I’m not smart. I’m just smart enough to know I need each lady’s combination. It’s the only way the sex can be mutually satisfying, after all.
Okay. Okay. I know – there’s nothing worse than breaking off a good story just when it’s about to get interesting. I’ll come back to Emily and what happened during our first night together…
While Emily slowly rose towards the thrill of her release I studied her closely; the way she moved, and the little touches that seemed to turn her breath into soft gasps. She reached the brink at last and teetered there for over a minute. In that time she never breathed – the air became jammed in her throat so that when she went crashing through the thrash of her orgasm, she was panting and starved for air as if she had run to the end of a marathon finishing line.
She was like a limp rag doll in the chair, her arm dangling between her spread legs and one of her legs tapping a trembling beat against the floor. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes bleary as though she had just awaken. I drew the vertical drapes closed and took her languid hand.
Quietly, I led her up the stairs.
One bedroom was filled with cardboard boxes and in the other room was an unmade king-size bed. Emily moved like a sleepwalker. I positioned her at the foot of the bed and gently put pressure on her shoulders. She understood instinctively and sank to her knees before me.
I unzipped my jeans and stood perfectly still. Emily took me tentatively in her mouth and my hands went to the back of her head, guiding and instructing her with the pressure of my touch.
She was willing but lacked skill, and it took more patience than I had in order to finally control her throat gagging lunges into a more sedate, controlled rhythm. After a couple of minutes, I was still hard but no more aroused. I drew myself back from between her lips, wet and glistening and Emily sat back on her haunches, pouting her lips like a petulant child.
I ordered her to start again. Emily sulked for a moment longer and then she opened her mouth wide. Firmly, I cupped her
For an instant Emily froze, like a shocked deer in the middle of a road, suddenly caught in the glare of headlights. There was a light on in a window of the facing house.
Emily made to flee from the chair but I snapped at her. I told her I wanted to watch her orgasm. The sooner she got herself off, the sooner the blinds would be closed.
She flashed me a venomous glare and then screwed her eyes tightly shut. Her face looked as though she were in some deep trance of concentration. Her nipples came taut and then her abdomen began to undulate as her tummy concaved with each deeply drawn breath.
Okay… I just need to stop here for a moment because I’m wondering if you notice a trend yet?
I’ll come back to my story about Emily very soon, but this is important – important enough to share a secret with you.
I’ve always made it a rule in my BDSM experiences to insist my submissive pleasure herself before I ever attempt to bring her to orgasm.
Why?
Well how else will I know how to pleasure her – how best to touch her to bring her to release?
A woman’s orgasm is hidden behind a million combination tumblers; what works for one woman never, ever works in exactly the same way for the next. Most guys might think they know how to pleasure a woman. And maybe they do.
A woman. A single woman.
But any guy who uses exactly the same techniques on every woman he ever tumbles into bed with is going to disappoint the majority of them.
I’m not smart. I’m just smart enough to know I need each lady’s combination. It’s the only way the sex can be mutually satisfying, after all.
Okay. Okay. I know – there’s nothing worse than breaking off a good story just when it’s about to get interesting. I’ll come back to Emily and what happened during our first night together…
While Emily slowly rose towards the thrill of her release I studied her closely; the way she moved, and the little touches that seemed to turn her breath into soft gasps. She reached the brink at last and teetered there for over a minute. In that time she never breathed – the air became jammed in her throat so that when she went crashing through the thrash of her orgasm, she was panting and starved for air as if she had run to the end of a marathon finishing line.
She was like a limp rag doll in the chair, her arm dangling between her spread legs and one of her legs tapping a trembling beat against the floor. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes bleary as though she had just awaken. I drew the vertical drapes closed and took her languid hand.
Quietly, I led her up the stairs.
One bedroom was filled with cardboard boxes and in the other room was an unmade king-size bed. Emily moved like a sleepwalker. I positioned her at the foot of the bed and gently put pressure on her shoulders. She understood instinctively and sank to her knees before me.
I unzipped my jeans and stood perfectly still. Emily took me tentatively in her mouth and my hands went to the back of her head, guiding and instructing her with the pressure of my touch.
She was willing but lacked skill, and it took more patience than I had in order to finally control her throat gagging lunges into a more sedate, controlled rhythm. After a couple of minutes, I was still hard but no more aroused. I drew myself back from between her lips, wet and glistening and Emily sat back on her haunches, pouting her lips like a petulant child.
I ordered her to start again. Emily sulked for a moment longer and then she opened her mouth wide. Firmly, I cupped her
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