Wreck Me

"Fuck you," He swore, quietly, intensely, and then he bit my earlobe and started twisting his fingers just right to get at my g-spot, and I focused on straining into it at just the right angle so I could cum.

Afterward, while Heath was taking a cold shower, I texted Kyle.

Heath had met Kyle at a gay bar where he had started going a few months into our relationship. He'd known about his latent bisexuality since college, but had never really gotten into exploring it for real. Now, he was growing curious. Bi myself, I strongly supported this endeavor; on the nights when he went out, I was always his rescue plan in case he went home with someone and things started getting weird.

Kyle was not Heath's first success at that bar, but he was the first to find out about me; from what Heath had told me, there had been an important basketball game on that night, and their boning had lasted a little longer than planned, so by the time they were finished, the game had already started. Kyle offered Heath a seat on his couch to watch it, and the two bonded over beer and what turned into a crashing defeat for their favored team. Over all this, Heath forgot to text me why he was taking so long, and he also didn't reply to my texts, so I got worried and called him. He told me where he was and apologized for not texting me back, and then he hung up and explained to Kyle what had just happened, and that was that.

Kyle was also the first -- and, so far, the only -- guy to make repeated appearances in Heath's sex life. The two quickly became something like bros with benefits. Kyle thought it was a little weird that I had no qualms about my boyfriend screwing other people, but he was content to let us do whatever we did, and after a while, he even started texting me. I thought it might have been intended to test me at first, to see if I was actually as okay with all of this as Heath was making me out to be, but with time, he seemed to take an actual liking to telling me what he had done to my boyfriend. We had never yet met in person, but from what I knew about him, I liked him quite a bit.

So, I was not nervous that day when I texted Kyle, "You free tomorrow night? Heath needs it bad 😉"

He replied that he was very busy at the moment, but he sounded on the fence about it and I was not about to give up so easily. So when Heath finished his shower, I snatched him, still naked, up from the bathroom, put him over our bed and started rimming him, which he quickly resigned to after some protest about how he had just cooled down a little. When Heath was properly relaxed and glistening, I sent Kyle a snapchat of my boyfriend's spread and naked ass.

Five minutes later, I had a text that said, "Fuck ... Okay. He can come over at six, but it'll have to be quick."

"Baby," I told Heath then, smiling brightly, "You've got a date."

Heath had come home the next night with a slightly awkward walk and a completely different attitude; the anger and aggression had been replaced by a meek, fucked-out look and he didn't pester me about thunlocking his cage again until the weekend. In his mind, there was something about being dominated by someone physically stronger than him that I could not mimick.

***

I lead him back up to the bedroom and put him over the bed just like that night again, his legs spread a little more than comfortably across the width of the bed, his cock trapped underneath him. Then I make him tell me about what exactly Kyle did to him on that day, while I work his ass with his favorite dildo. It's so big that I wouldn't let it anywhere near my pussy, but he loves the way it stretches him to the point of pain.

He is reluctant to talk to me about it at first, the way he always is, but I'm used to this routine. I know that all I have to do is wait and continue to work him more and more open, and before too long he is whimpering out answers to my curious questions.

When he mentions sucking Kyle off in the end, I can see him physically shaking at the memory, and I know that this is exactly where I need to lay my finger.

I make him tell me the details. The position he was in -- kneeling, with Kyle leaning against his closet -- how it felt, how it tasted. How much he liked it. How much he hated it.

The room is bristling with erotic energy all throughout our quiet conversation, and I can tell that something important is happening. This experience has touched him somewhere deep and vulnerable, and I must be adequately careful with it. Almost holding my breath, I ask him why he hated it.

He is barely coherent about it. Sometimes minutes pass between one word and the next, but his breath and his pauses speak volumes of their own. I get the picture anyway: The dark part, the part that has him quivering as he speaks about it, was being so devoted to another man's cock while his own was being kept from him. Witnessing, caressing, bringing about the signs of approaching orgasm, while not being able to display the same. And finally, after such a short time, Kyle's climax itself, swallowing his cum and it all being so damn easy for Kyle while Heath himself wanted nothing more than to be allowed the same but knew that he would be denied the privilege.

I love him so much in those minutes, with such tenderness and rawness that it almost hurts my chest. But I say nothing. I do not want to insert myself into that memory in any way; this is something that belongs to him, deeply, and I can only cherish the gift of knowing it.

***

I ordered the cage and equipment with considerable second thoughts; I wasn't about to expose Heath to low quality gear, and the higher-end stuff cost a little more than I was normally comfortable spending on vague ideas that might not even work at all. But I took a deep breath and hit "confirm" anyway, telling myself that it was worth knowing this about Heath even if it turned out he wasn't as into it as I thought he might be.

After his very first day in the cage, though, it was clear that I needn't have worried.

Heath was positively glowing that night. He was giving off a sexual energy, a confidence even, that was hard to pinpoint yet equally hard to miss when you looked at him. Curious as I was, I asked him to tell me all about how it felt and how his day had gone, and his eyes gleamed happily as he told me how terrible it had been. And then, finally free of his cage, he made love to me with an intensity and urgency that took my breath away.

Then it got better.

Heath had never, not once, woken me up for sex before. But that night, he did, even though just hours ago we'd had some of the best, most mutually satisfying sex since we'd been together. He was very sweet about it, asking very meekly and then taking his time with eating me out so I could slowly wake up to the idea, and soon I was more than happy to straddle and ride him.

It was slow and lazy, quite appropriate for 4:27 in the morning, and he sighed and hummed underneath me and held me very tightly. As we were slowly, unhurriedly, ascending to our climax, he told me about the dream he'd just had. The one that had made him wake up needing more sex. It was quite vague and fuzzy and my attention was a soft and half-bred thing, but the gist of it was that he'd dreamed he was locked up for a whole week.

He breathed that word as carefully as though it were a prayer.

Then he asked me to push him harder. He said he had a vague idea of how much deeper this path might lead him, and he wanted to experience that depth. Just the way he said this was making me wetter.

So he wanted to do this for a week. A week during which I would have to take care of him, maintain his spirits, watch his health, ride his temper. It felt like a huge responsibility ... but not one I was unprepared for. And it was fucking hot too.

The room was beginning to fill with a slight ambient light around us, though the sun was still far from rising; it was enough for me to be able to clearly see his eyes. My heart was beating fervently in an echo to the courage and trust he was displaying in asking me this.

I said, "Two weeks."

***

I massage him. I rub him down with lotion, rub myself all over him. I let him watch porn while I cool his penis a bit, just to fend off the ever-increasing risk of him coming unwanted.

It is too late, I am fucking up our sleep schedule completely, and the later it gets, the more I delight in reminding him how long we have been doing this for, and how many more hours of this are still ahead of him until the glorious finale tomorrow. We have been going for far too long, by all rights I should be bored out of my mind but I am hypnotized by his body. My hands are addicted to the heat of his skin, the gentle mounds and dips passing underneath them. My ears are addicted to the sounds of his breathing, hard and strangled at some times and deep and relaxed at others.

I tell him all of it. We have endless time and I tell him exactly how he looks and sounds and feels, even the way he stinks of sweat and pre-cum and my juices. I do not know if he is listening at all, or if my voice has become just another sensation bearing on his mind, perhaps something to hold on to in order to keep from losing his control.

I take a picture. I know it will not do this moment justice, but the wish to keep something of the essence of this night is too strong. I want it to never end. I suspect that in a way, it never will; what is happening is going to change both of us forever.

The business of photographing him requires me to take my hands off him for a while, and he seems to shake himself to his senses somewhat, looking at me and begging me to let him cum now or let him sleep. When I tell him no, he doesn't even protest; he just goes back to closing his eyes and whimpering when I join the heat of my body to his again and start kissing down his neck.

"This is not about you, my love," I tell him gently. "This is about your cock, and your cock clearly wants more." As if to prove my words -- as if that were necessary -- I reach down with two fingers to gently peel back the foreskin, just that simple movement, and he lets out a half-sob and thrusts his hips upward.

His eyes glaze over. When I ask him questions, he no longer responds. My tongue is on the shell of his ear, on the hollow beneath his Adam's apple, on the base of his penis for the hundredth time. I stop using toys on him entirely, because I know that I need the utmost control over everything I do to him; a part of me can't believe that we have made it this long without fucking up.

When I scratch him, he moans. When I tickle him, he moans. Sometimes I leave him in peace for a little while, sitting motionlessly on the bed next to him and watching him breathe; when I touch him again, no matter where, no matter how, he moans. His whole body has become one big erogenous zone, nothing is safe anymore.

At some point, I have him thrust into a slick little circle that I form with my fingers, held so far above the tip of his penis that he can only just reach it. It is the most pathetic thing I have ever seen. I tell him to go as fast as he can, enraptured, and he obeys. He's shaking more than thrusting, his whole lower body worried by ripples of motion, and I have to force myself to take my hand away before this goes too far ... and suddenly, he can't take it anymore.

Releasing a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob, he rolls away from me onto one side, his left hand closing around his erection and losing no time in stroking it feverishly.

He's caught me off guard after such a long time of compliance. It takes me too long to reorient, to figure out the conflicting emotions of No no no this is terrible this will ruin everything and Oh my god this is so hot, but before I've consciously make sense of what is happening, I already find myself on top of Heath, gripping his wrist with all my strength and yelling, "Stop!".

Heath groans again, his curled shape convulsing -- and then he goes limp underneath me, releasing his penis. For a moment I think he has climaxed, but a look down tells me he somehow hasn't. Somehow, he has stopped just short of his orgasm ... again. I can barely believe it.

The sudden action has adrenaline rushing through my veins and blood pumping loudly in my ears. Maybe ten seconds have completely changed the atmosphere in the room -- the one which I have so carefully been crafting. I feel disoriented and don't quite know where to go from here. For the first time, I really feel how tired I am.

Heath is staring at the ceiling, breathing irregularly and audibly, and I think I can see the sparkle of tears in his eyes. The sight makes my throat tight and raw with care. Are these good tears or bad tears? Have we gone too far?

Keeping my voice steady -- much steadier than I feel - I ask him if he remembers his safeword.

He turns his head to look at me, his exhausted gaze abnormally focused on my eyes, and exhales deeply. Then he nods, and slowly raises his arm over his head, grasping around like he's searching for something -- oh. He's reaching for the rope dangling from the bedpost. I walk over to get it for him, place it in his searching hands, but instead of taking it he just holds his wrists together.

"Please," He croaks. "I'm so tired. Help me obey."

That sentence echoes through my mind again and again.

***

Tying the knots is almost a meditative act for me, a distinct change from my activities for the past hours, and I tie them with the focus of a religious exercise. It helps me to regain control. Throughout the whole process, Heath puts up no fight whatsoever; his eyes are closed and his breathing slowing down to normal.

We start over. I would have expected our scene to be broken, but it only takes a few minutes for us to slip back almost to where we were. Heath is a naked, shivering, moaning mess once again, except now he's pulling on his restraints as hard as he can, groaning as if in despair. But the ropes hold, and whenever he looks at me I think I can see relief mixed in with his frustration.

I cover him with a blanket and cuddle up to him as well as I can. I pet him softly, kiss him softly, lick him softly, and he responds with hard yanks on the ropes. In scattered grunts, he tells me what he'd like to do to me, how he wants to bend me over and fuck me brainless, take his revenge for all my teasing. I press the gentlest kiss to his neck and continue running butterfly touches over his cock and balls.

Time ceases to exist. I feel a thousand miles above the ground. This is not me, this is not my life, this can't be reality, but a dream could never feel so immediate, like it's seeping into every pore of my being and never letting me go again. I cling to him as to a piece of wood in the aftermath of a shipwreck, and hope the current will eventually take us home.

***

At some point, Heath starts crying. The water that has been gathering in his eyes rolls down his temples in glistening stripes, his chest heaving in silent sobs.

And I feel it in my gut that this is far enough. He still hasn't safeworded, which honestly baffles and concerns me a little, but either way I'm not willing to go on anymore.

So I use my own safeword.

And immediately, the atmosphere changes again; I can almost physically feel the shift, like a change in temperature. Heath opens his eyes, shaking himself out of his trance for a moment; even now, even with all his limbs tied up securely, he's still checking in to see if I'm okay. It makes my heart overflow with love for him.

I crouch over him, holding his face in between my hands, and wipe and kiss his tears away. I tell him everything is okay, that it's over now, that he did amazing. That I love him. I tell him to look inside himself and do what he truly wants to do, and then I release his bonds.

***

He stretches his limbs first, testing his capacities, pushing himself up to his knees. He is so tall, and so much stronger than me, and I no longer have any technical advantage on him. He is a god, and in that moment I feel less like a goddess and more like a sacrifice.

It's almost over before it begins, but the intensity still burns itself into my being irrevocably and it's probably lucky that he isn't physically capable of prolonging it long enough to actually hurt me. Maybe five deep thrusts and he's screaming his soul out and pouring out and out and out into me, a seemingly endless stream of both sound and semen.

When he's done, he collapses and lies very still for a while. The world is so quiet that my sleep-deprived brain briefly wonders if we might have broken it.

Then, he stalks to the window and opens it, letting the cool night air stream into the smelly and overheated room. His silhouette is black as death before the panorama of stars behind him.

After a long, long time, he comes back to the bed, just stands at the edge of it, and stares at me for an eternity.

Then he says: "Marry me."