Starting off with getting off

With my arms pinned above my head and a sweaty boy arched over me, a few questions sprout up in my brain.

Should I struggle? Should I not? What would be hotter? Part of me wants to just lay back and take it, but I feel like I should make some sort of effort since Andy went through the trouble of constructing this game. Shouldn’t I reward his initiative with a little performance of my own?

I push back a bit, feigning resistance and feeling self-concious about the rape fantasy implications of this scenario. If I were ever to star in a Lifetime movie, the title would read “When Feminism and Kinkiness Collide: the Jane Crosely story.” My muscles begin to contract, and I try to ignore the sound of all those the First Wave women rolling in their graves. Instead, I focus exclusively on the sentiments of my favorite Third Wave writers (“It’s ok to have rape fantasies” cry the bloggers at Jezebel. “After all, it’s just a fantasy. You’re entitled to what you want!”) Too bad Andy started this and my wants are catching up. As my head fills with the voices of three bickering generations of feminists, Andy tightens his grip and I’m brought back to Earth. Oh yeah, I’m having sex.

“What do you want?” he whispers.

“Mmmm.”

“What was that? I didn’t hear you. Tell me what you want. Say it.”

I moan again, hoping that my tortured chipmunk noises will appease him. He’s always been more into dirty talk than me, which I readily blame on social conditioning. Still, this is part of the game.

“I want your cock,” I say.

“Where?”

The words stick in my throat. He likes to hear me beg, really beg, and getting started is always a challenge. Yeah, eventually moaning these words makes sex more interesting, but the first few sentences are always hard for me. I squirm and twitch, enjoying the sensation of being pinned down (he has both of my wrists in his right hand). Dear God, I think, if begging will get him to keep doing this, then I’m game.

I flip into porn star mode.

“Fuck my cunt. Put your hard cock in my tight little cunt. Oh fuck, I’m so wet.”

A grin spreads across his face and he spanks me with his free hand. Then suddenly the smile is gone, replaced by a serious, eyebrow-furrowed look of determination. This is a prime example of Andy’s sex schizophrenia; his ability to ricochet from sweet and tender to aggressive fuck animal. I kind of like it, actually. It throws me off my guard, which ultimately makes it easier for me to come.

We go at it with him on top for awhile and then move on to doggy style. Since we’re still new to this relationship – and are somewhat shy about fully expressing our desires (we’re still in our early twenties- too young to be selfish and jaded) – we haven’t fucked in this position very often. My stomach churns at the thought of Andy staring at my acne-speckled back and less-than-toned ass, but horniness wins out and I bury my face in the sheets. If I tilt up, his cock hits where it needs to, right against my newly discovered g-spot. I moan and squeal, hoping to bait him into fucking me like this until he comes.

No such luck. Like so many other boning sessions, this one ends with me on top, doing my best cowgirl and trying to control the ripples cascading down my stomach (there’s not a lot of fat, but I have a pouch. Seriously though, who doesn’t? Certainly not girls who eat peanut butter straight from the jar). After a few minutes, his mouth turns downward and he blows his load, leaving me dripping and slightly frustrated.

Unfortunately, this is par for the course. I’ve only officially had one vaginal orgasm in my life, with Andy, and that had followed a rub-athon with my vibrator. To be sure, it WAS a vaginal orgasm, not a clitoral spasm in disguise, since the sensation was way more internal than normal. Truthfully, I’m afraid to ask him to use it again because I know he feels insecure about my lack of coming without mechanical help. Poor kid, it’s not his fault. The guy is really, really good about going down on me and fingering my cunt before we get to fucking, but for some reason, it just never clicks when push comes to shove (heh). Maybe it’s his stamina, or my own psychological barriers. Or maybe I just need a LOT of stimulation before my g-spot delivers. By now I’m kind of at a loss about the whole thing. The only solution I can think of is to keep fucking until we get it right again.

Oh, Andy. I like you. I do. I’ll write more about him later, but I felt it was appropriate to start the blog off this way, since this is more or less how our whole relationship began.