Three Days with a UTI

If it were a movie, at least one of the characters would be from a Mediterranean country, like France or Italy, and the whole thing would take place in a more Mediterranean climate, probably. But other than the lack of such elements, and eliminating some other bits that wouldn't make it into the final cut, I generally felt like I was in a movie, though if it were a movie it would be a weird mix of really cliché male fantasy romance mixed in with very niche musical and political stuff that would probably ruin the thing for most of the potential audience.

It was sort of like a couple different movies. In the one movie, we're traveling around the country, doing our little documentary-musical road show, hanging out with an interesting combination of anarchists, terrorists, socialists and folk music legends. But that would be the shorter movie, if it were to be based on our last two weeks together. In the longer one, we're in our little flat, and during the vast majority of that time, we're in bed.

Occasionally, you'd sit impatiently on the couch while I answered some emails that I really needed to get to, but it would never be long before you were sitting on my lap, with your gorgeous body again in between my face and the computer screen. If you had something to do that directly related to me, such as editing a video of a concert, you could be successfully preoccupied for a while.

But if we were not naked and in or on the bed, there was a constant unsettled atmosphere in the room, emanating from every inch of your body, not the least bit hidden, unless we were among other people.

Even when you had a UTI. I mean, I say "even," but perhaps I should say, "especially." That is, you always really wanted to fuck, with or without a UTI, but we both knew you shouldn't, once you had it. The UTI gave you the perfect excuse to deny yourself that pleasure, and you seemed to revel in that, perhaps even more than I did.

The thing is that what turns me on the most, generally, is a beautiful woman in a state of utter desperation. But when we'd fuck, although I'd keep you on the edge for a long time, eventually I'd generally make you come, out of a feeling of mercy, or because you being in such a state of desperation would become too much for me to handle, and I had to make you come so that I could calm down a bit.

But now you had a UTI, and there could be no fucking for a while. But fucking is the only way I'm able to make you come. You can, and often do, make yourself come, in your life in general, you've told me. But now that you knew what turned me on the most, and now that you were the only one in a position to make yourself come, you seemed to feel almost liberated by the whole prospect.

For three days and nights, you were constantly aroused, never allowing yourself to come, and constantly trying to put my penis in your mouth. You only stopped when we were out in town to eat lunch or something, during what was often our only foray outside of the flat, except to go next door to use the espresso machine, which sometimes resulted in hanging out and talking with our friends there for a while.

Every morning during those days, I got out of bed because my back hurt from lying down for so long. And every morning, as soon as I got out of bed, even if you seemed like you were still asleep a moment ago, before I walked more than a foot past the bed in the direction of my suitcase or the bathroom or someplace, you quickly and gracefully twisted around in the bed until your mouth was engorged with my penis. I let you eat me for a few minutes, and then I went ahead with having a shower, getting dressed, going to make some food.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon, I had to eat something and have some coffee. I had some email I needed to do before too long. I came back and started working on that. Within a few minutes, you were sitting in my lap. But I had missed you while I went to make coffee. Your body is so good to hold, so firm, sensitive to the touch. You always want to kiss me, and you do it so well, with complete abandon. I run my fingers through your thick, long hair, touch your eyelids, your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, all so perfect.

"Come to the kitchen," I command.

There was no sense in asking you if you wanted to come to the kitchen. You much prefer it when I tell you what we're doing. We were going to the kitchen because there's no window that the neighbors can see us through. I unzipped my pants and you immediately started eating me. After a wonderfully long while, you removed your mouth, you needed a little break. If I had waited a few seconds I'm sure you would have been ready for more, but I took the chance to go back to my email. You looked disappointed. You went and lay down.

You had managed to distract yourself with a book and some music. I did email for another hour, then I went back into the bedroom and unzipped my pants next to the bed. Immediately you took off the headphones and started eating me again, until I pulled out eventually.

I could get you talking -- you're extremely intelligent, articulate, with a vast array of interests and areas of knowledge. If I asked the right question or brought up the right subject, that could occupy our time for a while. But if I mentioned anything about sex or touched you during the conversation, that was it. Like a switch had been flipped, you were suddenly both nonverbal and completely sexual, as if possessed. Not just sexual -- sexual in a specific way. You seemed to physically yearn to be the sexual being I wanted you to be.

I remember for at least those three nights when you had the UTI, we went to bed around 9 each evening, and got out of bed sometime in the early afternoon the next day. It seemed like most of that time if we weren't sleeping, our naked bodies pressed up against each other most of that time, we were awake, and my dick was in your mouth.

Every night, every morning, I was in your mouth, and you were sweetly looking up at me, making sure I'm pleased. You knew what was going to happen next.

"Touch yourself," I commanded.

You'd whimper. That's about as verbal as you get in these situations, so I had to learn to interpret your whimpers. This whimper basically seems to mean two things, but it's got to be interpreted in context -- the context being that you immediately do as I tell you to do as you whimper. Your fingers go right to your clit, and start working on it skillfully. You do that because you wanted to do that -- your biggest desire seems clearly to be the fulfillment of my wishes. But there are conflicting desires here, and the whimper represents the other two. If it were translated into words, it would be two simultaneous sentences. I don't want to touch myself because I'm already so aroused and I know you don't want me to come. And I don't want to touch myself because it will distract me from what I'm trying to do with my mouth.

As you touched yourself, not surprisingly, the way you were eating me became a little more distracted. Still very good, but less engaged. And this got more and more so as you moved faster with your fingers on your clit. I started moving a bit more, in and out of your mouth, which seems to remind you to pay more attention to that activity, as you touch yourself.

Another minute passed and suddenly you pulled your hand away from your clit. You didn't pull your mouth off of my cock, but you paused for a moment, your mouth still, as your body contracted a bit violently, pulling together towards a fetal position. You seemed to be in pain, but it's a pain I have learned to recognize -- the pain of denying yourself an orgasm, of pulling your hand away at the last second. You didn't ask me if you should come, and I didn't say you should. I assumed that if I had, you would have obeyed.

You recovered quickly, and ate me with great attention and skill, with your tongue, your lips, your throat, it seemed. I don't want to brag, but I've been eaten by some extremely skilled lovers from around the world, but you have some special tricks that are unique, from my experience up til now. I was enjoying it so much, but I also so much enjoyed the building tension as you played with yourself, and I told you again, "touch yourself."

Again you whimpered, for more or less the same reasons as last time. But again you immediately complied. Again you got distracted, but you kept eating me as the tension built in your clit, as you moved your fingers faster. I could tell you were getting close to orgasm, and, feeling like I should be a benevolent ruler now and then, I told you to come.

Without removing my cock from your mouth, you said, "mm-mm." No. And sure enough, you pulled your fingers away just before orgasm, enduring the agony of this process again, your body curling, your mouth still for a moment, until you collected yourself and began eating me with great attention to detail once again.

You knew that you coming didn't turn me on, and for you, that was enough to disobey my commands, to supersede them in a way. You wanted to be whoever I wanted you to be, to do what I wanted you to do, to want what I wanted you to want -- but only if it turned me on. If I were trying to look after you, to get you to do something for some reason other than that it turned me on -- to come, to eat, to sleep -- you generally would disregard those kinds of commands.

For three days and nights. Every night, every morning, you ate me, you touched your clit, you whimpered, you brought yourself to the edge of a huge orgasm, only to deny it, again and again, each time seeming to cause more agony than the last. You slept through the night in that state, impossibly, only waking up occasionally to go pee, and to eat me some more.

I came in your mouth every morning, and every evening. The timing of those orgasms was like nothing I had ever experienced, actually -- each time I came, you were in the throes of denying yourself for the the third time in a row, eventually also for the third day in a row. Each time I was shaking with the ecstasy of coming in your mouth, as you were eagerly drinking my come, you were curling up in agony, refusing to come even if I told you to, which I sometimes did, sometimes didn't, never to no effect either way.

If there were more time in the day, I probably would have made you do that to yourself even more. If I had it in me, I probably would have come more often in your eager little mouth, as well, but I only have so much sperm, so the rest of the time you just had to suffice yourself with eating me some more, until I wanted you to stop.

I've never imagined that I could get tired of a stunningly beautiful woman who wanted to do nothing other than eat me, while simultaneously, again and again proving to me how much more she is capable of denying herself than I am of denying her, maintaining her pussy and her entire body in a state of unresolved tension beyond anything I could ever do to anyone, no matter how much I wanted to.

Finally, your UTI got better, and we could go back to fucking constantly instead.