Şubat 18, 2021

Argumenting

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Brunette

Author’s note: thanks to B for your story – hope I do it justice!

————

You couldn’t really call it an argument, or then again, you could.

I’m Jane, married for twenty years now to a really good guy, Tom. Our sex life is just fine, or so I would have said until recently. It’s also what I would have said if anyone asked, and still would, as I think Tom would as well, since it’s none of their business, nyah.

Call me a twentieth century oldster, but I’ve always liked the guy taking the lead, and I’ve always liked, I don’t know – reliability, I guess. When it comes to sex, that, for me, has meant I like a mutually understood sort of informal schedule for things, and no kinky stuff, and none of that anal – that’s just not right, you know? With that established, I can relax and just enjoy. And, Tom does a great job of enabling that. I like it when he holds me immobile and does other things to control the action, but we’ve never gone in for actual bondage – no being tied up or blindfolded or anything. Like I say, reliable and, if not adventurous, at least nice and almost playful and, well, fun. At least, that’s how I saw myself.

And it’s not like we’re pure vanilla missionary all the time. Tom’s great with his tongue, and he knows just how to make me come, whether with tongue or fingers or just from fucking (did I just say that? He’s going to love that when he sees this). I like when he moves from position to position, and I never quite know what’s coming (so to speak) next. We do pretty much always manage missionary, but I know he’s going to use tongue and fingers on me as well before it’s over, and sometimes he gets behind me, sometimes he wants me on top. I always have several, sometimes up to a dozen or so, orgasms before we’re done. I also enjoy fellatio – it’s something that’s always turned me on, and I’ve never questioned why; but when I do that, I get pretty well lubricated, so maybe a third of the time, I sense that Tom’s quietly waiting as we get started, and I’ll go down on him, which leaves up to him whatever comes next, but I know I’ll be ready.

What I’ve always been reticent about is being aggressive myself, or being willing to talk – I don’t mind him telling me how he likes things, and I try to accommodate, but I get embarrassed in telling him the same things, so I just don’t.

That goes especially for the kinkier stuff that he sometimes wants to talk about – like the few guys I had sex with before I met him. He asks me about if other guys did certain things, and I just say I don’t remember. It’s not that I can’t remember, but I don’t want to think about that kind of thing when we’re having sex, and it seems that if I did, I’d be cheating in some way, or he would be intruding on my privacy, or something. Over the years, he’s managed to find out a good bit, though, in drips and drabs of bed conversations. Like if there was someone who liked to go down on me (there was), and someone who wanted me to go down on them (there was) but didn’t want to reciprocate (there was one of those too), and like if there was someone who was smaller than he is (there was) and especially if there was someone bigger (and yes, there was that, too – I’ve downplayed that, of course).

Just to be very open here, there were 5 guys before Tom who got to know me past just kissing – hey, I was in college and a bit after, ok? It’s not like I was a slut – no group stuff or anything, and they were always one at a time – I never wasn’t “monogamous.” Guy

was my high school steady – we necked and he got to touch me all over, and I touched him. He came in my hand – the first time practically freaked me out – all that stuff, and all over the place in his dad’s car! That was after our graduation party, and then we continued through the summer on weekends – he always got off, I never did, but it felt nice when he (somewhat clumsily I later learned) touched me, and he really seemed to need the finish, so I was ok with it after a while, but knew by then that he wasn’t “the one,” so I wanted to stay “intact,” and did.

Guy

was in college – typical drunken party / back to his dorm room / lots of hurry-up undressing and before I knew it, I’d lost my virginity – fortunately, not painfully, but sort of not-what-it-was-cracked-up-to-be either. At least I was on birth control (so it wasn’t as if I was really avoiding things), and STDs weren’t something we really thought could happen to us (and, fortunately, they weren’t). We kept it up for a semester, and during that, we explored a lot – I learned to suck and to jerk, and he learned to make me come, which was a whole new world – I was blown away that it could be so much better with a guy than on my own! It’s always easier on my own, but something about someone else making me do that just emphasizes everything about it!

After we broke up (I caught him leaving his room with another girl – ugly scene, etc.), I went a year with no one other than my own hands (I’ve casino şirketleri never wanted toys – figured the vibrators would desensitize me, as would anything too big).

Guy
was the campus lothario, and I’d heard from a friend that he was really good, and pretty big as well. Guys

and 2 were what I’d call average (as is Tom) in size – all circumcised, all probably under a real six inches, but not by much. Of course, by that time I’d seen enough porn-in-the-dorm that I was curious about the size thing. I went after
almost as an experiment – flirted with him one day after class, until he asked me out. Neither of us thought we were serious or anything. I was probably a notch in his belt for him, he was a fact-finding trip for me. And he was big – very big. I got to measure him during our several play times – he loved that sort of adulation – and it was actually 8 inches (that’s topside measurement, pubic bone to tip, which is what I think is the scientific way to do that). He was thick, too – very proportional. That meant that oral was quickly tiring – for me, that is – he didn’t seem to tire at all from it! Screwing was fun, and filled me up in a way I hadn’t experienced, but I sort of wondered that if I got too used to that big thing, would I be permanently stretched, ruining myself for somebody else I’d seriously want, but who might not “measure up,” so we just sort of stopped after about two months. No hard feelings or anything, just science experiment fulfilled.

Guy was Mr. Controller – not big at all, and maybe that was a factor. He wanted to be my slave master or something – I was just fine with messing around, but he wanted me to talk dirty, to call him master or something, and to act the part of servant. He was the one who wanted me to go down on him but wouldn’t repay the favor – I quit that one pretty quickly, since I thought I could see where it was all heading, and I didn’t like it. On the third (and last) time, I let him do me anally, and maybe it was because he didn’t know what he was doing, or I didn’t – anyway, it went from hurt to just discomfort to him coming really quickly, so it didn’t last long – just long enough for me to determine I’d never do that again! Like I said, he was smaller – four, maybe five inches at best (lucky for me in that venture – it hurt enough as it was). His size didn’t bother me in regular sex, it was just his dominance thing, and I’m glad I quit him when I did.

Number 5 was post college, and the best of my pre-Toms. He was a bit bigger – about halfway between the average and
, so I’d say seven inches, though we never seemed to have the time, or inclination, for me to measure for sure. He was ideal for filling me up, yet not so big that oral was out of the question, and he looked really good naked – good abs, good shoulders, sparse chest hair, great smile, a blond blue-eyed guy (I never have tried non-European heritage guys – no conscious objections, just the way things worked out).
was about ten years older, and more than that experienced. He taught me so much, I sometimes think back and just smile.

Ok, so I’m not absolutely truth-telling. As far as Tom’s concerned, I’ve only done 4, not 5 guys, before meeting him, and I sort of combined
and when I told him. I admitted to Mr. Lothario, but downsized him an inch in my telling, and left out the ecstasy that took me to, or the tricks he taught me. Best left to memories, I figured, while preserving that male ego thing, at least somewhat. Once I’d fibbed about that to Tom, though, it made me realize if I kept lying, I’d have to keep track in order not to get busted in a contradiction someday, so I determined to limit it to that one “conflation.”

Like I said, life has been good with Tom, and I’ll admit that I’ve settled into what he might think is a rut, but which to me is just a comfortable life. I’m embarrassed to be in sexy lingerie, like G-strings (aren’t they uncomfortable? I’ve never worn one, ever, but they sure look like it) and flimsy see-through bras and such. And the several sets Tom has bought me over the years (he’s finally given up, I think) weren’t that comfortable and so sat on the shelf, at first rarely, and then never, worn.

Tom also loves to hear me talk, I guess, about sex, at least, and I’m very, very uncomfortable at that, so it was like, he’d ask after he’d provided me yet again with a toe-curling, whole body orgasm, how it was. And I’d say, “very nice,” or something equally generic and brief. Then he’d ask why that one worked, or if he’d done something that I particularly enjoyed, and all I could say back was something like, “I don’t know, it was just nice,” which I realized then and now wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was all I could come up with, sorry.

I always figured that the best thing I could do for us sexually is to be in good health and responsive. I’m lucky that I’m still lubricating just fine, so we don’t need any casino firmaları help there, and I don’t go in for toys. I’ve been on the pill for years with no side effects. I can come pretty easily, and while the staccato back-to-back bam-bam-bam kind of multiple orgasm is rare for me, I can have several serially, with only moments between, and Tom knows how to bring that about, so hooray for that part.

If you’re imagining, I’m brunette, medium complected Caucasian (I tan well) with brown eyes. I stay pretty trim, exercising regularly (ok, semi-regularly), and my breasts are still pretty firm, solid Cs, with only a bit of sag. Tom loves to see and touch and taste them, and I love for him to do it, so we’re fine there. My hips aren’t 18 years old any more, but Tom says he likes them even better now; and when I’m in public in a bathing suit, I can see other men checking me out. So while I wish my rear end was smaller, I guess it’s ok. Tom describes me as a 40 year old brunette Helen Mirren (but better, that flatterer), and he thinks she’s the hottest thing around (other than me, flattering again, or covering his tracks?), and when I look at her, I take all that as a compliment.

I’m also notoriously cheap, which sets me apart from both most of my girlfriends and from society’s stereotype of the middle aged mom. I’m not into jewelry or fancy clothes or a big house, and Tom appreciates that, he says. That’s also enabled us to afford a nice enough house in a neighborly neighborhood, and vacations (the one thing I’m willing to splurge on – other than the occasional chocolate decadence). So, when we occasionally loosen the financial reins for a bit, we enjoy good food, wine, travel, and even better than usual sex.

All that is background to a long weekend trip I took with Tom for his 25th college reunion last fall (the good old days, it now seems). Leaving after he got off work on Thursday and with a 12 hour drive ahead of us, we had plenty of time to chat before the expected reacquainting, reception lines, and me likely being bored to distraction as he re-uned with old friends I’ve heard of but never met and likely would never see again – or at least until the next reunion.

Tom came home from work only slightly early, changed clothes, and off we went. I drove first for about 3 hours, then we took a break to refuel, and he took the wheel for the next leg. I was enjoying watching the scenery while a CD of Tchaikovsky played and the interstate miles slipped by. I was relaxed, not really sleepy, just zoning out, you know?

Tom broke the relative silence, asking me, “Jane, can we talk a bit?”

“Sure,” I said, not registering his seriousness. “About what?”

“How about sex.”

“Uh – ok,” I answered a bit warily. We’d been down this path before, and it was not something I was interested in doing at the time, and it was something that had never really ended all that well anyway. Of all the arguments we had, that was usually the worst for me – I ended up feeling inadequate as a wife, a shrew of a woman, and a bitch for not wanting to do things his way. Why in the world, I thought, would he want to ruin a fun time for him (if not for me) by making me miserable at the outset with a rehash of the same old sex arguments?! I steeled myself and seethed, silently.

“OK, you know I think you’re terrific in bed, and I love fucking you. But we do seem to be getting a bit predictable. You come to bed naked in summer, nightgown’d in winter, never dressing in the lingerie I have finally stopped buying for you after years of noting your never wearing what I gave. It seems you are quite satisfied with turning out the lights, nudging me with your leg to indicate your willingness, and then fucking in the same three or four basic positions we both enjoy – all in silence except for our respective gasps and such. If I try talking, you answer with single words, and even when you’re sucking me, I get the impression you’re enjoying it but somehow not that you’re really doing it for my pleasure but for yours, since you’ve always claimed that as a turn on for you. It’s hard to pin down just what I’m getting at, but there’s an impersonal quality about our current and persistent set of sexual behaviors.”

Before I could fire back, and at that point I was ready to fire, he cut me off, saying, “Now, before you get angry, or apologetic and self-recriminating, or start crying or something, I want to talk this out, not to criticize you, but to see if there’s some ground we can find that can improve things for both of us. I also wonder if there’s anything – anything at all – that I can do to improve things for you. I love everything that we do, I just want to do more, I guess, and I want to feel closer to you when we’re doing it. If anything, this is about reestablishing intimacy more than just the sex – I want to feel intimate with you, which means we share more than we have been sharing. I’ve been trying to figure out the crux of it all, and maybe güvenilir casino it’s that intimacy involves vulnerability. Maybe I just sense that you’re not opening up to me to the point that you’re truly vulnerable, but just enough so you’re pleasured, but not really intimate. I don’t know if that makes a lot of sense, but it seems to scan for me, at least for now. That said, and that’s a lot, please take a couple of minutes, try to think things over without letting whatever’s past interfere, then let me know your thoughts.”

Tom and I both have a tendency toward the quick answer, not always the well thought out answer, and at that moment I was focused on a comeback that would shoot down his whole argument. However, since he’d asked, I bit my lip and did take some time to form my thoughts. During that, I went from “oh yeah?” to “maybe he’s got a point,” to “but I’m not your slave girl,” to I wasn’t sure what. The longer I took, the less any answer seemed the right one. I did realize this was the first time I’d really thought these things out, rather than just reacting defensively, and that in itself gave me more pause.

Finally, not even knowing just what my point was going to be, I answered, “Well, I like things the way they are – and I thought you did, too! I like what you do to me, and I can just sail away on my own sometimes. I don’t fantasize – I know you don’t really believe that – it’s more of an awake, sort of a hypnotic, I suppose, state. You make me come – a lot – and when I do other things, like when you want me to talk about what’s happening, or about some past lover, or what turns me on about this or that, or when I’m wearing something that’s really uncharacteristic for me – it pulls me out of that state, and that attention to whatever you want me to do just ruins the mood. I’m sorry if you don’t think that’s enough, but I’m no good at fantasizing and I really don’t remember much about those guys from years ago (much less enough to describe their lovemaking and genitalia, that you seem to want to hear about), and I don’t miss that, and I don’t want any other lovers. And the lingerie thing is just embarrassing – I’m over forty, for crying out loud – I don’t look 20 anymore, and that silk and lace stuff reminds me that I’m not. Besides, can’t you just fantasize on your own and have it all work?”

He took a moment himself, then said, “Jane, I really don’t think you want me silently thinking about anything else while I fuck you, do you? If I’m doing that, it’s almost as if it’s behind your back.” His choice of words then distracted me, as I had an image of him doing me from behind, his head thrust back while he thought of some hot young bimbo. I had to concentrate to refocus as he continued, “I want our sex to be something that is by turns passionate, but also playful, and while being more open between us, at the same time being something secret to share, something ‘naughty’ at times, something that I can absolutely expose in myself to you, and something that you can expose in yourself to me. Maybe it’s playfulness, maybe it’s vulnerability – I’m not sure what it is, but I sense it’s not there for both of us, and whatever it is, I think we’d be better if it were.”

I could tell by then that this was something that had been building up for who knows how long, and I determined to at least hear him out. On a roll, I guess, he kept on, “It’s a poor example, and please take it only as an example, but let’s say you were turned on by, oh, vampire images. That’s a silly example, but bear with me. Now, I’m not at all turned on by vampire images, but I’d be more than eager to do whatever to occasionally indulge that in you – biting you, dressing the part if that helped, putting on dark music and candles and all the trappings – if it were exciting to you, I’d be glad to do it, not as a regular thing, but as a treat, as something special for you. From what I can glean, there just is nothing special for you, or nothing you’ve been willing to share with me – and that is either just as it is, and my tough luck, or it’s a real withholding of intimacy – I can’t help but wonder which, despite and maybe because of your protestations of lack of imagination. I gotta admit, I still find it hard to believe that someone as intelligent as you doesn’t have an imagination. So, let me challenge you. Tell me one thing that is exciting to you to think about, somehow, something that we don’t do, something new or different.”

I took another couple of minutes, looking out the window, then turned back to him and said, “OK, well, the only thing I can think of is that I may like the idea of being ravished – not raped – but taken against token resistance that gives way to just animalistic passion. My romantic heroes are like the Highwayman in that old poem , or maybe a pirate taking a ship where there’s a proper lady who’s taken with, then by, him – that sort of thing – and never really against her will, never rape. And if I think of those things – ok, when I think of those things – I never get very specific in my mind – it’s just a romantic spin-off. And I never think of those things when we’re having sex – I just like to go with the sex then and not overthink stuff.

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