Switch Ch. 03

Dario's hand encircling my cock. Not stroking, but just lightly embracing it in the curve of his fingers. "You fuck her."

"Kiss. Fuck. Come in her mouth. Eat her. Everything. And then she leaves, and I wait for the next one to come. Or for her to come back."

"Actually, that's not banal at all." He sounded thoughtful. "It's kind of lovely, really. But I'm a hundred percent certain it's not your dirtiest fantasy. Or you're leaving out the dirty part." He still wasn't moving his hand on my cock, which was slowly expanding in the embrace of his gentle grip. "Don't be shy. Now and then you get yourself off to something truly obscene. Confess."

The way he said it, like he was hungry for it, his voice full of want, planted a little seed of want in me that seemed to sprout and grow and flower all in the space of a few seconds, and I pushed into his hand, pleading for him to move, to stroke me.

"Be still. Confess."

My dick was rock hard in his hand, now.

"I'm ashamed of the other one."

"Good. Now I'm really eager for it," he sighed.

How could he have me so desperate less than an hour after we'd fucked? I could barely keep myself from pumping my hips toward his warm but cruelly static grip. "There's a woman. Very young. A servant in a mansion or maybe a castle. A cliché setup for her powerlessness, I guess. She's innocent. Not just a virgin, but, you know, she doesn't expect anything shameful to happen to her. But out of nowhere, while she's serving dinner or polishing the mahogany table, the master of the house or the lord of the castle has her bend over the table, and he watches as one of the male servants or a male visitor from a nearby property lifts the back of her dress and her slip or her petticoats, then pulls her underwear down, and fucks her. And then the master has another man fuck her the second the first one is finished. It's not like they're raping her. She's not crying, or in any pain. But she's humiliated. She feels ashamed to have her ass and her cunt bared to the master, who's just standing there being a voyeur, and more than anything she's ashamed that she's wet, that her cunt is dripping with her own fluids, and now also with the semen of the two, or three or four men the master's given her to."

I couldn't say the next part. I was sorry I'd even started, because it felt like such a pathetic cop-out to quit.

"Baby, if you don't tell me the rest," Dario growled, "and if it doesn't get dirtier than that, I'm going to keep you like this all night, without letting you come."

I wanted the reward. I was fucking dying for him to stroke me off. Or better yet, go down on me the way he had the night before. I would have done pretty much anything if he'd told me the prize would be him letting me push my aching cock into his mouth. But I couldn't get a fucking word out.

"Where are you in this scenario?" he asked, giving my cock one taunting squeeze.

"I'm a servant, too."

"Duty-bound.," he teased.

"Yes. Not a slave. Not really afraid of any particular punishment. Just, I have to do what I'm told."

"What are you told to do?"

My face burning, I told him, "The master, the one whose mansion it is, tells me to lick her clean."

He started moving his hand, just a little. "What do you do?"

My need was so intense, and his touch was so tormenting I could hardly talk. "I walk over to her, where she's bent over the table, with her skirts up, her ass and her cunt exposed, everyone looking at her. I go down on my knees behind her, so her cunt is just at the same height as my face, and I start to lick her." He was really stroking me, now. Still too slowly and gently, so I had to fight myself to resist my urge to rub my cock against his hand. "The master tells me to undo my pants, to take out my cock, which is obviously hard. He tells me to stroke it while I clean her with my mouth."

"Do you do as he says?"

"Yes."

Dario took his hand from my cock, and I was on the brink of crying, I was so frustrated and needful, but then he grabbed the lube, and then wrapped his hand around my hard-on for real. "Then what?"

"I start with her thighs. The insides of her thighs. They're slick, sticky with her wetness and with the cum that's dripped down." Dario's hand, slippery with lube, working over my cock. "I start licking her clean, inch by inch. Her left thigh, right up to the crease of her groin. Then her right thigh."

"And you're stroking your cock while you do that?"

"Yes."

"And the master is watching you lick her while you jerk off."

"Yes."

"Are the men who fucked her still there? Watching you too?"

"Yes."

"Do you like it? Cleaning up that dirty mess with your mouth?"

"Yes."

"What next?" Stroking me in earnest, making it hard to think, hard to speak.

"I put my mouth to her cunt. She sort of whimpers, because the men all fucked her from behind, so when my tongue touches her clit, it's the first real contact she's felt there. And it's a pleasure she's never experienced before, being kissed there. I start licking, teasing her clit with my tongue sometimes, sometimes lapping up the wet mess seeping out of her, sometimes pushing my tongue as far up inside of her as it will go, my whole face pressed into her crotch."

"Is she going to come while you lick her?"

"Yes. The men tease her about liking it, and her embarrassment turns her on even more."

"Tell me how you make her come."

Dario's hand stroking me, I was so close I could hardly think, hardly speak. "She's never come before, so when it starts to happen, it startles her. When I hone in on her clit, when she feels the strange new feeling building up, she starts to squirm, trying to get away from my mouth because she's ashamed of what's happening to her. The master comes over, and just presses his hand down flat on the small of her back to hold her still, and he tells her to let me lick. He tells her that I'm going to make her come. With his hand on the small of her back like that, she can't move, and she starts to whimper as I eat her, and then I feel her cunt spasm under my mouth, and hear her crying out, quietly, like she wants to be silent but can't. I keep licking her, and she's quivering, shuddering, almost like she's seizing. Fuck, Dario, fuck," I whimpered, ejaculating as his greased-up fist slid slowly up the length of my cock, milking me for every last drop of cum. And without a word, just coaxing me gently, he pushed me down toward his belly, and wanting to, lost in the haze between the confessed fantasy and the throb of my subsiding orgasm, I licked Dario's stomach clean.

His lean belly quivered as I licked up the glistening threads and pearls of semen, the line of dark hair above his navel matting down under my tongue. On purpose, because I wanted to know how it would feel, how I would feel, I let my cheek brush against the florid, swollen crown of his stiff cock. The rosy skin of that tumescent head felt like the softest, silkiest thing that had ever touched my face. Tempted, terrified, I feathered my lips over it, just once, almost as if I'd done it by accident. Dario sighed. Groaned, actually, then touched my chin and lifted my face to meet his gaze. His sweet smile. "I wasn't asking for that, baby."

"I know."

"I mean it, I don't want you to push yourself to do anything before you really, really want to."

"I know."

I wasn't sure I wanted to really give him a blow job, but I was absolutely dying to just touch him a little with my mouth, to brush the tip of my tongue tentatively over the tip of his cock, see how it felt, see how it tasted. Maybe it wasn't fair, maybe it was expecting way too much of his already strained patience, thinking it would be okay to mouth him a little, then stop, but I told myself it would be fine. I nuzzled into his hand, then kissed his belly, then brought my mouth back to the flushed, engorged head of his cock, and brought my lips just into contact, breathing in his spicy scent, feeling that impossible softness of that delicate skin against my lips. I thought he would sigh or groan again, but he was silent. So still, it seemed like he'd stopped breathing. Then he let out a strained, desperate little gasp when I parted my lips and touched him, just for a second, just lightly with my tongue. Such a different texture, that firm, silky flesh. Nothing like eating pussy, except for that unique but related musky scent and flavor. I took the tip of him in my mouth, drinking in his fretful grunt, bewildered and thrilled by the sensation of holding that fleshy bulb on my tongue, against the roof of my mouth, then sucking on it a little as I pulled it past my lips, tasting the little pearl of clear fluid that had seeped to the tip before I'd licked and sucked it away. Still not sure I was ready to really go for it, I drew him back into my mouth, exploring the smooth firmness of the head of his cock with my lips, my tongue, then exploring the sensation of sinking down on him a little further, feeling his hard girth gradually filling my mouth until the sensation of his cock against the very back of my tongue, almost at my throat, made my stomach clench suddenly and violently and I backed off, terrified I was going to retch.

Sorry," I mumbled, instantly knowing that was silly.

He laughed. "Fuck, don't be sorry. I'm in heaven."

"Obviously I don't know what I'm doing, so feel free to offer your sage advice."

"You don't need any advice. If you keep at it the way you're going, I'm going to come. Soon." Compliment? Warning? "Just, you don't need to deep throat me to get me off. Don't feel like you have to choke on it to be good at this."

I smiled, embarrassed. Turned on. Happy.

"I'll warn you when I'm close. Promise."

I kissed him just inside his hip bone, feeling incredibly full of tender warmth and want, then took him in my mouth again, wondering what he'd been doing when he'd sucked me off, the best head I'd ever had, playing with different ways of licking, of teasing him with my tongue while I had him deep in my mouth, playing with sucking, trying to create that strange, wonderful pressure I'd felt when he'd had my cock buried in his mouth. I thought about getting the lube and fingering his ass, but figured one thing at a time. I did fondle his balls a little, though, the way I'd tried to teach Avalyn. Dario was grunting and huffing already, and I felt like I was feeding on his whimpers and moans, on the way his belly and his thighs were quivering, as much as I was feeding on his big, tumescent cock.

"Soon," he gasped, and I was dying to hear him, feel him succumb to me. He caught my free hand, the one not massaging his balls, and held it tight, raking his other hand into my hair, not pushing me down on him, but I felt his urgent need in the way he caught a fistful of hair in his grip, the way every now and then his hips spasmed upward, that desperate seeking, and then he said with an urgency that could have been orgasmic anguish or alarm for my sake, "I'm going to, baby," and I gave him all I had, nursing diligently at his engorged cockhead, then sinking down, sucking, rubbing at his rigid shaft with my tongue, and he huffed, "Now, now, I'm coming," and a warm gush splashed into my mouth before the words left his lips, shocking how much of it there was, and another spurt spattered against my tongue and I struggled to keep my lips sealed tight around his thick, twitching girth as he seized and shuddered under me. When he finally collapsed and went lax, I drew the thick length of him from my mouth, still sucking lightly as I finally drew the fat flushed bulb free of my lips with a little slurping sound, then struggled to swallow the huge mouthful of his cum. For a second I didn't think I'd be able to get it down, but in two swallows, I finally managed.

"Fuck, baby. Fuck," he panted, gazing down at me, caressing my hair. "That was fucking delicious." He drew me up to him and gave me the sweetest, gentlest deep kiss imaginable. "It's sexy as fucking hell, tasting my cum on your tongue." I felt my face turn red, and he smiled. "And it's indescribably adorable how you keep blushing." Then his smile faded and he was looking at me with his earnest, searching gaze. "Are you alright?"

"I'm euphoric. My jaw aches, but I'm euphoric."

God, that smile. "I almost didn't let you."

"Afraid I felt like I had to, or something?"

"A little. Especially because of how I'd kind of shoved you down there. It wasn't for that, but I didn't want you to feel like I was asking, or hinting, even."

"I knew you weren't. I know how patient you're being."

"Not just patient. You should know that when I decided to pursue this, I was resigned that there were certain things you might never want to do."

"Like give you head?"

"Giving me head. Letting me fuck you." I was blushing. Again. And he was smiling again.

"Yeah. I've been thinking you're likely to get pretty bored pretty quickly with me."

"I deserve credit for a little more creativity than that, if you think not being able to put my cock in your ass is going to end in boredom any time in the foreseeable future."

"It's more than that." It came out more serious, sadder than I meant it to.

"What do you mean?"

"The difference in our levels of experience. The difference in our range of . . . interests."

"You think you're boring." Another diagnosis from Dr. Dario.

"I'm realizing that I am pretty dull by comparison. Yeah."

"I know what it feels like to be intimidated by a more experienced lover. A more adventurous lover. But believe me, some of the most daring, kinky people, the polyamorous switches with a huge closet full of gear and toys are some of the dullest lovers. You've got that spark that makes every encounter exciting and arousing. Your newness to a lot of this, your shyness is actually one of the sexy things about you. Don't you get how fucking hot it is, bringing you blushing and trembling over each new threshold?"

We made out for a long time, that wonderful, languorous, sleepy, sated kind of making out, until we were too tired to go on and we curled up together and fell asleep. I woke up to him kissing my neck in the early morning light. Kissing my ear. My shoulder. We made love for an hour, and I was almost thirty minutes late for work.

The weekend was impossible. I couldn't take it. All night long—from ten until three or four in the morning Thursday, Friday, and then Saturday, that fucking tragedy of a Saturday, pretending there was nothing between us, pretty much avoiding him because I knew if I got anywhere near Dario anyone who paid the least bit of notice would see that I could barely resist my urge to touch him, just to make contact, to close up that fake distance between us, distance that had been real for three years, distance that hurt physically now that we'd spent those three nights whispering and touching and kissing and stroking and licking and sucking and fucking each other into nirvana. Since I'd started to feel closer to him than to anyone else in my life at present. Closer, suddenly, than I'd ever felt Avalyn.

It hurt watching him talk to person after person in that easy, intimate way he had of making anyone who came close feel like they were heard. Seen. Cared about. It hurt watching a handful of the women and—since probably a third of our crowd was queer—most of the guys flirt with him, more than a handful very obviously trying in earnest to seduce him. I wouldn't have even gone Thursday or Friday, except I had some delusional fantasy that somehow we would sneak away just the two of us, not necessarily to fuck, but to make out, to continue nourishing whatever it was between us that was so new and that felt so, so fragile. At least to me.

I confess that as my workday came to an end on Thursday, I was more or less convinced that three consecutive days of us not sleeping together was going to mean the end of it. But sneaking off was impossible, between his vigilance and dedication as a host, and my total incapacity to play it cool when making up lies about things like that. So I was stuck there, not talking to him (not really, since fake small talk in front of an audience doesn't count), watching Sung, the unbelievably tall, luminous, quiet emigre from Korea and sculptor of elaborate towers of dolls' heads and water pistols talk to Dario for fifty minutes straight (I timed their conversation), then watching Joe Burke from one of the bands that played that night hunt Dario before and after the set, finally very publicly and not at all discreetly putting his hand on Dario's crotch at one point, to which Dario's response seemed to me (from half way across the loft) to be an amused smile that could have meant, "You wish," or maybe "I'll text you in five with a place and time to hook up."

Each night I waited and waited, wishing the place would empty so that at the very least we could talk, just us, just for a couple minutes, or maybe even crawl into the cozy nest upstairs and curl up together, maybe not even fooling around first because we'd both drunk too much and smoked too much and talked too much to everyone but each other. But each night as it got later and later, I reluctantly gave in to the reality that there was no way to linger behind until the others had left, without drawing more suspicion than I was ready for. And each time I left I was convinced that there was no way he'd end up spending the night alone, that some other guy was lying there in that bed where he'd touched me so gently, where he'd kissed me so tenderly, where he'd gazed at me and given me that luminous smile of his, and that this other guy was gleefully doing all the things that Dario liked and that I was too scared to try.

I didn't sleep at all Thursday night, thanks to the waking nightmare that was a ceaseless succession of images of Dario fucking Sung or Joe Burke, or maybe both of them, tying them up, fucking their asses, their mouths, sticking dildos and butt plugs up their asses, until they all collapsed in a sweaty, cum-laced heap, Dario smiling in a perfectly sated bliss I could never give him. Friday was pretty much the same, except that I was even more on edge thanks to my endless night of perpetual torment on Thursday, and sleep deprivation has always reduced me to a state vaguely resembling the emotional and mental fragility of someone going through morphine withdrawals (according to my education via Trainspotting).

Then there was Saturday.

I was more or less out of my mind. Out of my mind with insecurity. Jealousy. Sleep deprivation. Dario and I had texted a few times, but those texts felt so casual, so distant, so cold compared to the way he'd looked at me, compared to that soft, intimate voice that had told me how good he felt with me, how drawn he was to me.

If our band wasn't playing that night, I like to believe I would have done the smart thing and stayed home. But we were playing, so I went. In the mysterious way these things happen, all the sleep deprivation, my frayed nerves, my jealousy, my certainty that the unprecedented and nascent joy I'd just started to feel with Dario had already been crushed under the untenable weight of the universe of the art collective all came together in a hideous confluence which, against all odds, made me play my best set in memory. Probably my best set ever. My voice, despite (or because of) the fact that it was a little raw from too much smoking and drinking, sounded more ethereal than ever. My guitar felt like an extension of my arm, like every note that passed through my mind was instantly born under my fingertips wailing and thriving. And I was on. Turned on to every phrase, every chord, every deep thought, every exhilarating thrill and every soul-wounded sadness of each song in the set, turned on to the mood of the crowd, turned on to the rest of the band, which maybe by coincidence, or maybe because they were feeding on my crazy energy, also played the best set we'd ever done together. By the end of our set I felt like a fucking god. A terrible, Nietzschean Übermensch.