It's Not My Kind of Thing

"I don't think you'd like it," she said. Just in passing. Like, I don't think you'd like roasted garlic, or I don't think you'd like skinny jeans.

And it wasn't an invitation, I don't think. Not really. More just an observation.

You know, like: 'I know you. And what I know about you tells me you wouldn't want to be told when, where, and how you can cum. That just isn't your kind of thing.'

And she was definitely right. It wasn't. It isn't. My kind of thing, that is.

I'm not some kind of macho guy, that has to face fuck a girl and then smack her ass twenty times before plowing her. I'm totally cool with strong women. With independent women. In the bedroom and in life. I'm a partnership kind of person. A meeting of equals kind of person. These power exchange dynamics, well, they just really aren't my kind of thing.

So when she said, "I don't think you'd like it," she was definitely right. I wouldn't. Like it, that is.

The next time it came up we were planning a little outing. To a restaurant with a bunch of friends for someone's birthday. She was telling me about this guy she was having some kind of thing with. And I was excited for her, because it had been a while since she'd dated. And if anyone deserved, no, needed, something good in their life, it was her.

And then, in passing, she mentioned she hadn't let him cum all week.

Let him.

"Really? Let him?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, really," she said. "He's slowly going out of his mind," she laughed. "I'll get his cock out and get him super turned-on. Till he's panting and begging. And his hips are starting to go. And then. I'll go make popcorn." She said it with a laugh while working on the computer.

She wasn't watching me. Checking out my reaction or anything. She was just telling me what was going on in her life. That's the kind of friendship we have.

"Oh, sorry," she said. "I know that's not your kind of thing."

"Yeah, sure, it's not for me. But you can tell me about it. I'm just happy to be part of your life. And if you're into it, and everyone's consenting, I'm not judging. I just don't think I'd like it. For me, you know. But clearly your guy likes it," I responded.

"My boy," she clarified.

"Your boy. Your very good boy," I laughed.

"Oh yes, he is. Very good. Very good and very desperate. I'm thinking of putting him in a cage, though. Because even though he's very good, I can't be there all the time."

"When would you sleep?," I quipped.

"Well exactly, when would I sleep?" she answered back.

I asked about the cage. I'd never seen one. Not in person. And she told me about it. How you could live in it. How you could still pee. How you could still wear normal clothes. You just couldn't get hard. It was physically impossible.

"He'll be fine," she assured me. "I wouldn't get one of the painful ones."

That caught me by surprise. "Painful ones?" I asked.

She told me about the ones with spikes on the inside. A punishment for getting turned on.

"That's a bit mean. Even for me." she said.

She showed me a picture of the one she had in mind. It had a little gap on the underside, just below the head. Maybe the size of a quarter.

"What's that about?" I asked.

"Oh," she said distractedly, "I can lick my finger or whatever and rub there. It's the most sensitive spot ... Well, presumably you know that."

And it's true. I did.

"But I thought the point of the cage was that you weren't allowed to get turned on?" I wanted to know.

She let out a short laugh. "Oh no. The point is very much to get turned on, but then to not be allowed to do an-y-thing about it."

"That's fun?" I asked.

"It is for me," she said with a laugh.

I asked when he was going to start wearing it and that's when she explained he hadn't agreed yet.

"That's why I'm not letting him cum. When he agrees. Then he can cum. Once."

The edge in my friend's voice. My friend who'd held me when my cat died. Who helped me pick out birthday presents for my nephew. It surprised me. To be honest, it thrilled me a little bit.

But, really, it wasn't my kind of thing. Calling a partner Miss or Mistress. Or, god-forbid, mommy. Jesus! Then it's not even a partner. It's some kind of master or something. I dunno. It's just not my kind of thing.

I asked after her boy and his cage two weeks later. We were playing a game together online. She was beating me soundly and taking a ton of pleasure in giving me shit about it. Which is fine. I love her and I'll take shit, when deserved.

"Oh yeah," she told me. "He folded like a two-dollar bill. A week and a half of teasing and denial and he could barely walk straight." She laughed at the memory. "I let him cum all over my tits. I made him ask first, of course. And then forbade him from cumming before I said it was time. But he's a good boy, and did what I asked. He ate me to three pretty decent orgasms. So he got to cum and now he's in the cage."

"Is he ok?" I wanted to know.

"He likes it, deep down. I know it isn't your kind of thing, but some guys want to be told and to be managed, and to be treated like a thing. I'm sure you'd hate it," she said.

And I would. Hate it, that is.

But then she told me the cage was old news. The new challenge was getting him to eat his cum.

I almost lost it.

"What!? What are you even talking about?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," she said. "That little bitch boy is going to be eating his own cum by the end of the month. I tease him at night in his cage. And when he begs to be let out, I make him swear he'll eat his cum."

"I can't believe anyone wants to do that," I said.

"Well," she answered with a laugh, "there is literally someone for everything. But as far as cum eating goes, no. He really does not want to do it. Or he wants me to believe he's not into it. But I know something. I know that it's the thrill of being made to do something he really does not want to do, that drives him. That makes him devoted. That makes him good for me."

"So, you let him cum and then he eats it?" I was completely flummoxed.

"Oh no," she answered, "I let him beg and plead to be let out. I let him swear up and down that he'll do it. And then I tell him I don't believe him and I turn out the lights and go to sleep."

"But if he promised...?" I wanted to know.

"You just don't understand," she said. "It's just not your kind of thing."

"Poor guy," I thought.

The last time we discussed it, we were wrapping cookies, little iced duckies and chicks in little cellophane packages for my nephew's bake sale at school. I made an unfortunate association between the iced cookies and her boyfriend, or whatever, and asked how her little training regime had worked out.

"Oh, he's still a good boy. He resists. He doesn't want it. But he'll eat it all up if it means he gets to cum. I make him lick it off my fingers."

"But how can he even accept being told?" I said, half to myself.

"Told?" she wanted to know.

"When to cum. IF he can come. Where, how, the whole thing. I just don't understand why anyone would want that. And he must want it. I mean, I know you. You wouldn't make him do something he really didn't want to do."

I continued, "And doesn't he hate to be so weak?"

"It's not weakness. It's vulnerable, but it's not weakness," she answered.

But this time, she was looking at me. Really looking at me. In a way she'd never looked at me before. In a way I'd never been looked at by anyone before.

"If you saw the size of the cock I'm pegging him with, you wouldn't ever doubt how much strength it takes to be the sub. But, I'm a little surprised how much thought you're giving this. I didn't think it was your kind of thing."

"Well, I mean, no, it's not. Not at all. I just thought ... that is, I wondered what it would be like and why anyone would like it and how the terms are and ... and ... and I just ..." I sputtered to a stop.

She got close to me. Right in my space. In a way I don't ever remember her doing before. I'm not sure anyone's done before.

She wasn't mean, or pushy, just close. And confident.

"It's not your kind of thing, right?" she whispered.

"Yes?" I said. But was it a question or an answer? I wasn't sure myself.

"But maybe you're... curious? It's ok to be curious, you know?" she went on.

I'm at least four inches taller.

I've never felt smaller.

Standing there. With her right in my space. Me, completely unable to even look her in the eye. Hearing my own heartbeat ringing in my chest. The heat rising up to the very tips of my ears.

I took a step back and quipped, "careful, the duckies and chicks might get weird ideas."

Defuse. Retreat.

She followed me forward as I stepped back.

"No."

That's all she said. "No." Her eyes right on mine.

I have never felt so unsettled. So stalked. So excited.

I stammered something about being friends and how it wasn't really my kind of thing.

"Clearly," she said.

Short. Direct.

Then: "I'm going to put this hand on your cock. Just over your pants. It will tell me what I need to know. Though, I think we both know what I'm going to find. You only need to say stop. Say no and I will stop. But say nothing, and I'll do it."

I couldn't get words out. Did I want her to touch me? I was so far out of my depth. My stomach was fluttering. I wondered if she could hear my teeth chatter.

I didn't even know what I wanted, much less how to answer her. Which, of course, decided the thing.

Her eyes were still on mine. Her hand was just holding the outline of my cock in my pants. She said: "Dude. You are hard. Hard. As. Fuck ... Maybe, maybe this all could be your kind of thing?" She raised an eyebrow at me. "Maybe you would like it?"

We'd kissed once, years ago. And we obviously talked - about our sex lives and partners and all. But this was the most intimate and charged experience I'd ever had with her. Or anyone, really.

"Wha ... wha ... what are you trying to prove?" I finally got out.

"Darling, I don't need to prove anything," she answered. "This isn't about winning. Or about changing you. This is about opening you up to the possibilities."

"Possibilities?" I asked.

"Who you really are. Who you can be. Don't live your life telling yourself this isn't your kind of thing, only to wake up at 40 and wish you were someone else. I love you too much to let that happen to you."

That. That really struck me. Right in the fucking heart. I may have let out a sob. There was definitely a hitch in my breath as I spoke. "I have no fucking idea what I like."

She finally took her hand off my cock and wrapped her arms around me. She spoke into my ear: "I know, baby. I know. Let's take it one step at a time."

I took a few deep breaths and found a bit of control again.

"I'm not fucking eating my cum," I laughed.

"We'll see," she said. "We'll see."