In Control

His entire body tensed and shuddered as my fingers tightened then began slowly stroking up and down. ‘Oh Linda, that feels so good!' he sighed, then leaned forward to kiss me.

If my lips and tongue hadn't been so pleasantly engaged I might have replied that it felt almost as good for me too. Having just had my own sexual needs so thoroughly satisfied, right then I was not only able to totally concentrate on him and his body's reactions, but in some ways, and to me that was even more important, I was the one who was in control. And I don't mind admitting that although I didn't actually torment him, I did make the most of that opportunity. I also admit that at least partially for my own enjoyment I made sure I did it very, very slowly - I say partially because from what I could tell from his responses Martin enjoyed me doing it that way just as much as I did.

At first he tried to caress me while we continued kissing, but as our arms and hands tended to get entangled and I wanted to have enough room to do what I wanted to, I pushed his away and indicated he should forget about me, just lean back and make the most of what I was doing.

As my slowly moving hand gradually built the pressure inside him I heard his increasingly frequent gasps and groans of rising pleasure and it wasn't too long before his cock had become absolutely rock-hard, its shaft vibrating from a deep, powerfully throbbing beat, and, if it hadn't been for the steady trickle of pre-cum that was by then oozing from it, its super-sensitive head looking more like a small, glossy, but tautly bloated party balloon.

I loved that time - it's impossible to describe just how much I loved it. I loved the feel of him; the heavily vein-gnarled, but still silky-smooth shaft - the wet-satiny slickness of the head - and the promisingly heavy fullness of his balls. I loved the sight of him; not just his cock, but also the blocky maleness of his chest and shoulders. I loved the responsiveness of him; the sounds and muscle flexing reactions to my caressing. But, underpinning all those individual sources of pleasure, was the even stronger feelings I got from knowing that I was the one who would ultimately decide how, and when the inevitable would happen.

So it's not too surprising that I kept him waiting, but, that time, maybe only just a little bit longer than he would have preferred. Right up until the very last minute or two I'm positive he enjoyed not only the intensely pleasurable physical sensations but also the sometimes equally exciting rising sense of anticipation, and quite understood that delaying it would only make his eventual climax all the more rewarding

.

As the tension and pressure inside approached criticality I watched and felt him tensing even more; his thigh and stomach muscle ridges tightening, his hips trying to thrust his already rearing cock even higher, his hands reaching back to grip his ankles as his upper body arched backwards - I knew he was only a few short moments away from his orgasm.

At such times virtually all men, can most of the time be placed in one of two categories - those who like to be finished off as quickly as possible, and those who prefer it to be done firmly but much, much more slowly - and as many men find it hard to verbalise such things when they're about to come, a woman usually has to rely on her senses to recognize exactly what he wants. And of course as that was my first time with Martin I had no previous experience to use as a guide to his preferences.

But then, given the pleasure I was getting from the feel of having him in my hands, even if I had known, I might still have done what I actually did.

Instead of continuing my hand's steadily rhythmic stroking up and down the increasingly powerfully throbbing shaft, as I brought the hand that had been fondling his balls up to grip the base of it really, really tightly, I slid my other fingers up to encircle the cock-head. It was already slippery from the amount of pre-cum that had been seeping from it, so my fingers slid effortlessly up and over the taut, silky curve - and then, knowing the other hand's tight grip would at least delay the onset of his climax, I, perhaps a little bit unfairly, set about deliberately teasing and tormenting him.

I did it lightly, sometimes almost feather-light lightly, using just my finger-tips - slipping them up and down over the super-sensitive rim, or around and around in the deep groove beneath it. Each little move made Martin's body jerk as though it had been hit by a surge of high voltage, each jolt producing a deep guttural grunt from somewhere deep inside him, each shock-wave further tightening his already tension wracked muscles.

By then his cock looked even more dramatically magnificent; the steel-hard shaft knotted with cords of blue-black veins, the dark purple head appearing to be bloated to the brink of actually bursting, and the whole thing quivering jerkily from the force of the pressures still rising within it.

It was a matter of rather fine judgement as to just how long I had before the intensity of his excited anticipation would switch to something more like angry frustration, so, that time I held him at that almost torturedly nerve-shattering point for no more than a minute or two.

Then, as I released the hand that had been gripping him I pushed that hand back down under his balls - they were swollen and had already risen to press tightly against the root of his cock - at the same time curling my other hand right around the shaft and, slowly but firmly, slid it downwards.

It became clear just how close to the point of climax I had been holding him when, after just three or four of those more determined strokes, and with long, hoarsely loud bellow of ecstatic relief, he erupted. The first blast gave a good indication of just how much semen he had bottled-up inside him, the stickily thick jet shooting high, then hanging momentarily before splashing messily down on to his thigh. And although those that followed were neither as substantial nor quite as forcefully driven, for quite some time each pump of my hand was rewarded with yet another burst - sometimes a large, single gobbet and sometimes just a spray of much smaller ones - each one accompanied by Martin's harsh but obviously rapturous cries.

When I was sure that he was finally done I kissed him, then scooped up my discarded underwear and left him to recover while I headed for the bathroom to freshen up.

Of course by then the coffee I'd earlier started was absolutely stone cold and somehow the very idea of a hot drink at that time seemed inappropriate, so I took a bottle of wine from the fridge, opened it, collected a couple of glasses and took them through to the bedroom. The effect of what I had done for Martin had apparently totally drained him and he had simply pulled a sheet up over himself and drifted off into a light sleep. But whether it was the clinking of the glassware as I put them down on the bedside table, or the movement of the bed as I sat down beside him, he immediately awoke. ‘Hello again, I didn't know how long you'd be gone, so I let myself doze off. What you did for me was unbelievable.' he said before reaching up to pull my head down so he could kiss me.

As both of us, each in our own way were by then completely sated we lay there, talking quietly as we sipped the cool, refreshing wine, and under those circumstances it was only natural that sooner or later the conversation would find its way around to the causes of our particular sexual limitations.

Having told him mine Martin began a longer, more psychologically complex reason for what he continued to refer to as his ‘proclivities'.

I gathered that even as a boy, when first learning about the basic processes of conception and birth he found the very idea of one part of the male being ‘shoved' - as he put it - into a female, distasteful. And the fact that a baby grew, ‘like a parasite' - again as he referred to it - inside the female, even more so. Of course he recognised that nobody else seemed to have any such thoughts, in fact most of his school-friends said they couldn't wait for an opportunity to try out at least the first part of the process, so he had no outlet for those feelings. Even once he had started going out with girls, one or two of whom seemed just as eager as his school-mates had, he found himself holding back from doing what everybody else seemed to find so natural. Naturally enough the time came for him to eventually lose his virginity and although he admitted he enjoyed everything to do with the lead-up and foreplay, and the moment of orgasm had been great, once it was done he still found himself being slightly sickened by the idea that he had had to penetrate the young woman.

However, in due course he fell in love, and married, and even though those thoughts hovered in the background he managed to push them aside and to all intents and purposes he and his wife seemed to have a perfectly satisfactory sex-life. So much so that she became pregnant. But although there had been no previous indications that anything was wrong with either his wife or the baby serious difficulties were encountered during her actual labour, and in fact both mother and child died.

All that had taken place a decade or so earlier and although the pain of it sometimes still resurfaced, he had to a great extent moved-on from it. But I guess that with a history like that Martin's aversion to penetrative sex was, at least to a large extent, understandable - and I readily agreed that his reasons were certainly quite as valid as my own, purely physical ones.

We agreed that the chances of two people with our particular limitations actually finding each other were probably in the millions to one against - but we had, and not only that, without even knowing each other's history we had each seemed to be immediately attracted to the other.

‘In fact, if I believed in it, or them, I would say the gods have seen fit to smile down on us Linda.' he said when we arrived at that point in the conversation. ‘And I understand that bad and evil fates await those who spurn and reject what gifts the gods offer.' he added with his cheekily boyish grin.

‘Wise counsel indeed Martin, we should cherish even the smallest of their gifts - and in my case the gift is far from being a small one.' I replied as my hand burrowed down beneath the sheet to end up fondling the one he had between his legs.

All that happened some years ago now, and Martin and I are still together, still happy, and still enjoying the innumerable variations we have discovered in finding new ways of pleasing, exciting and thoroughly satisfying each other.