**Preface:**
Hey guys, have another story for you cooked up in the corners of my ever-imagining mind. Hope you enjoy the read – would more than appreciate any constructive feedback!
Cheers,
S
—–
**Prologue:**
He didn’t like to cum. The pent excitement, the increased adrenaline, the emotional and physical sensitivity; they all pleased his mind far more than the crash he felt after release. Still, his physical body sometimes needed it and those moments he had entrusted to his sweet girlfriend.
She wasn’t one to be cruel – anything but. The ever sweet, always helpful and caring soul she was, she’d found it difficult do tease him at first. The idea of taking away release from him when he gave her so much made her wince. He took the time to explain it to her – to show her what it did to him. How it felt, what it meant, and why it was so much better when she, the kindest, most loving person he knew, was the one to help him hold back. He didn’t need to be forcefully denied – he wanted her to help him feel even more pleasure without the crash that often left him upset.
—–
They had created a little game. Once he had satisfied and loved her to completion however their night demanded, she would lay down beside him, rest her head on his chest and gently stroke his body. From his lightly rippled abdomen, do his feather sensitive sides, down his strong muscled thighs, between his legs where he played with her so skillfully, and of course, all over his dripping, squirming shaft. Over and over and would tease him, alternating over his sensitized skin and feeling him almost meditatively breathe under her ear.
Then, he would whisper, “I’m ready”. Lifting her head, she would move herself so she was beside his handsome face – his jaw almost always hanging open by now, neck straining to reach back into the pillow, and his breath leaving his lungs only when he remembered he needed more oxygen. Lovingly, she would kiss his neck, or his cheek, or his ear, or his bottom lip, letting her warm breath raise his mind just slightly from his trance. Just enough to speak to her honestly, though clouded by his fog of intimate arousal.
“Tell me, hun”, she would ask. Always intrigued by what his hyperactive mind had come up with, sometimes surprised but never disappointed by his imagination. Through whimpers, moans, and gasping breaths, he would tell her the buried fantasies buried deep inside him. Some nights, he spun tales of taking her passionately by the fire. Others, he told her the ways in which he wanted to decorate her orgasmic body with ropes and wax and the like. Others still, he whispered out dreams of being her soft, comfy femboy for her to cherish and dress and tease. She would keep kissing him, teasing him, listening to the otherwise locked depths of his mind attentively. Rarely would she play while he spoke, choosing rather to let her mind soak up all of his wonderful, adventurous, dark, soft ramblings, coaxing him on with genuine gasps and moans when they particularly riveted her own mind.
When he finished, she would kiss him deeply, holding his face as if a grip too tight might shatter him in the state he is in. Cuddled against his side like that, she would move her lips to his sensitive ear and tell him what she thought of his admissions. At times they were past her bounds of reason, and in telling him that, she would often give him, this deeply entranced version of him, an alternative experience or twist she wanted to share with him one day. All the while, her by-now-soaking hand and fingers played with his vulnerable, mindless body at the edge. She had learned just how to treat him so well without forcing him to lose control after countless nights training both him and herself.
“I think it’s time, love,” she’d say gently but firmly, the way he needed to hear. His limbs would squirm, his marginally intelligible sounds pleading with her to keep going but ultimately allowing himself to be coaxed, guided by her to accept his fate. The way he had begged her to do so long ago – the way she had fallen in love with doing after she saw the power it had over him. She would whisper and kiss and lick him wetly until he straddled his breaking point, dutifully delivering her decision when his body was at the precipice, held only back by the last strands of his will.
“Cum for me, my sweet boy,”… “not tonight, babe,”… “you’re going to explode for me baby but after I finish,”… “I’m going to ruin you so perfectly, baby girl,”… such perfect decisions she would whisper to him as she descended his sweating, tensing body, kissing his skin as she went. He would have only these moments to process what his muse had said, rarely disappointed because the words came from her lips. Kiss by kiss he would feel those very lips near his aching, throbbing, dripping hardness to deliver their intention. His breath would catch at the first contact he felt on the momentary center of his desperation.
Three – that is what she would give him. Through trial and error they had both learned that three was just enough to allow his mind control to move in whichever direction she had decided for him at the edge. Three licks across the most sensitive spot below the tip of his erection, three strokes of her lips wrapped around his manhood, three slow and wet kisses half way down his steeled shaft, three gentle suckles of his willingly-denied balls, three circles of her impossibly-moving tongue as she held him half way in her mouth – always three, and always languidly slow.
On the nights he was allowed to cum, his back arched up off of the bed as he exploded for her, his muscles willingly contracting in absolute bliss while she made love to him as intimately as she knew how. When she decided to ruin him, he would clench at the sheets, clenching everything he could feel just once and holding it while she completed her gentle assault. As the third count completed he would relax and feel himself drop back onto the bed, the fruits of her spiritual labor pouring out into her mouth or onto his abdomen. And when she, most often, had decided to deny him, he would press his tensing ass firmly down as if trying to escape her tantalizing ministrations and will himself to relax the parts of him that demanded release.
However he performed in meeting her choice, it did not matter. There was no punishment, no humiliation, and no disappointment – those were things she refused to impose to this man, this person she loved so deeply. But when he succeeded, when he could take his body, already balanced at the edge of oblivion, and bend it to his beautiful lover’s will; then she would praise him. “Good boy,”… “you did it baby,”… “you’re so fucking perfect,”… “just the way I wanted, thank you love,”… “that’s my good slutty girl,”… would flow freely from her lips; her warm, soft, skilled and smiling lips. She would hold him close and talk him through the aftermath of emotions and sensations he experienced and brought him back down to earth to be with her.
Afterwards, they would cuddle close, pulling the blanket tight over them and clinging to each other however their forms felt most comfortably locked together. She would taste the sweat on his skin when she kissed him goodnight, caring only to have him close enough so he does not catch a cold. He would breathe in the warmth of her hair, giving her appreciative kisses that convey the words his exhausted mind cannot instruct from his dry, chapped lips. The would fall asleep as perfect equals embracing the person that made them feel like any place was home, and with waning consciousness, exchange “I love you.”
—–
**Epilogue:**
Feeling him squirming under her touch, writhing under her half-covering torso and splayed-over leg, she pondered her decision. He had once again been confessing one of his long time desires to dress soft, and comfy, and just a little more feminine. She had smiled against his neck as he spoke, kissing him as she pleased and encouraging him to continue spilling his beautiful soul to her in this moment of blissful tantric suspension she had created for him. And after his half whimpered soliloquies laced with the inkling of fear that she would not accept his softer sides, even after the years they had spent together in harmony. She nibbled his ear, breathed in slowly in time with him, and half-moaned without an ounce of doubt in the love they shared;
“No cumming baby,” she nervously bit her lip hoping her next words give him the reassurance he needed, “remember, good girls don’t cum.”
And she ceremonially kissed down his body to prove to him again that he was hers no matter what. And a single tear of joy left his eye as he prepared to be good for her, whoever he wanted to be.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/mnwwmw/the_loving_game_mf_kinkpositive_extragentlefemdom