Off Brand Merlot

Info Lee
22 Mar. '20

At this moment, as I spasm, tremor and shudder, my aching rod spurting and leaking into her mouth, just as she shows me the product of my excitement floating on her tongue, I wish to trade places with her. Of the reason for my strange desire – which only intensifies as she imbibes the warm and sticky mix – I cannot say with any certainty.

Perhaps I am narcissistic, as the smell and taste of my come on her breath as we kiss is nearly enough to raise my spent staff from its exhausted state. Could it be jealousy that pushes me or a twisted need to consume my potent virility? Or maybe I am envious of her ability and how she can bring me to a tremble with such ease. It is hard to say where my unusual craving comes from.

Truthfully, my best guess as to why this queer compulsion exists within me does have to do with a jealousy of sorts. When I watch my partner take me into her mouth; when she licks and sucks and bites and sometimes scrapes and always when she holds in the byproduct of my lust, I feel as if she knows me in a way that I can never know myself. During this act she holds and feels the entirety of my orgasm. She knows the faces I make, the exact way my body reacts, how I smell, how I taste. All the while she remains erotically sober. While I am exasperated, my body recuperating from all of the excitement, she receives the rush of my desire. My energy has flowed into her and she absorbs my pleasure in a way that I am simply incapable of doing. It’s rather frustrating.

I can’t say for sure that my oral efforts do the same for her. Much like I do in the same situation, she shakes and squirms from my tongue probing her sex. Her hips rise to meet my generous mouth, her hands press against the back of my head forcing me into her greedy lips; she whimpers and squeals and gyrates, telling me when I’m off center and when I’m right there and to never stop. But her peak is not the same as my own. When I am spent, my energy is sapped and she is the only thing keeping me invested in further sexual affairs. But her pools of lust reach far deeper than mine. With her at the reins there is a real possibility that I might expire while in her service. She floods my mouth again and again with her fragrance, seemingly having no end to her excitement or her fluids. There are no significant breaks in her waves, no time for her to contemplate the foolish things that pack my brain in such moments. She is insatiable.

Sometimes I wish for her to be envious of me as well, and while she does oblige (unknowingly I think) from time to time, it’s not quite in the way I’d like. I see the feeling plastered on her face when I enter her. She tries to spare my fragile ego by moaning and encouraging my thrusts but the reality is clear. She desires my position; my ability and potential to fuck. It is most telling when I am gentle – slowly moving my hips while nibbling her nipples and kissing her neck. This ‘handle with care’ kind of love positively infuriates her. Were it her, had she been the one with cock and balls, the situation would be far more intense. She would seek to punish me in such a scenario, pounding into my – vagina, anus, or mouth; perhaps all three – with savage glee. Eventually she would kiss me and coddle my wounds while breathlessly praising how good of a lay I was, but only after the attack had been carried out.

The truth is revealed further when she is the one in control. When on top of me, frustration fills her. Even though she guides the action it brings her no contentment. Grinding her pelvis relentlessly into mine just doesn’t scratch the itch tormenting her. What she craves is her own tool, a menacing weapon she can wield that will make her sexual victims cower in fear and arousal. It’s not enough that she can already rule over the hearts of men; her beauty can already bring scores of them to their knees. Yet it isn’t her beauty that she wants to invoke and inflict.

“I want to terrorize my lovers” she says to me one evening. “I want them to gaze upon my massive member and despair. Then, I want to fuck them wildly, each stroke a testament to my brutal and ravage sexuality.” Her dreams of manhood are always filled with bawdy and seething energy. But it’s that energy that I must appeal to. For when I am aggressive with her, when I force her down, shove her head into a pillow, sink my sex into hers and fuck her in the exact way she wishes to fuck, I am able to reach her more docile nature. Aggressive love has never quite been my forte, nor has soft love ever been hers. But we must negotiate in order to see the other side of our sexualities.

I must be for her what she cannot be for herself. I must use my sexual instrument as a weapon and be animalistic in my taking of her. And I must take her. There can’t be an exchange of power here or a moment of role reversal. I must ascertain and maintain dominance over her in that moment. Inflicting my sexuality in this way, she tells me, gives her permission to be womanly and beautiful; all the things I praise her for – all the things she cannot see or be otherwise. For her I am willing to be this monster of a man; to think only of my own needs and use her as a means of achieving my selfish goal. Honestly, it doesn’t fit me at all.

When it comes to love and making love I am soft. I take measured movements, savoring every feeling, taste, touch, smell, and sound that we make in our own intertwining. I prefer to be gentle, to take my time. Unfortunately, this method is typically despised by my lover. I’ve come to believe that sex is a skill that I must grow instead of a pleasure that I can indulge. Once given access to my lover’s body, I have to take on a certain role. Unearthing her deeper self, not simply giving her an orgasm but unlocking the essence of who she craves to be, is my true purpose. If my skill was lacking she would not give me access. Should I have the skill but be unaccommodating, she will push me in the desired direction. Unfortunately, I cannot win.

I suppose at the end of it all, when we are writhing against each other, as I plunge myself into her and she begs me to cleave her flesh, as I ejaculate onto her breasts and she willfully rubs me into her skin, what I truly crave is to enjoy pleasure as she does. To take the brunt of her sexuality; enjoy her lust for me, endure her insatiable hunger and revel in her release; my heart secretly desires such an arrangement. But such is not my role.

Perhaps I too am insatiable just like her. Imposing my sexuality onto my lover isn’t enough. My satisfaction lies in having her impose her will on me. We want the same thing really; she wishes to dominate me and I want to submit to her desire. But alas, this is an unattainable dream. We are locked in our roles, unable to switch in a satisfactory way. The more we try, the less satisfied we end up. It’s not all bad however. Evoking the beast within me always releases the tamer within her. In a sense, in this way, I make her beautiful and she makes me strong. And as we lay entangled in each other, a weave of limbs, pleasant discord of loving affirmations, I decide that this is good enough. We are a pair.