I’m certain I was yammering as we walked through the door. There was a plan: to drink, to cook, to eat, and to fuck.
I had assumed in that order, and therefore, was not expecting to be held by the hair and drag/pushed into the living room. That was certainly a surprise.
But when he pulled the pillows off the sofa and dropped them to the floor before me, I had an inkling.
And when he pulled his phone out and fiddled with it after ordering me to masturbate, I had another inkling.
Some time after the orgasm, after he’d given me a taste of him, after he’d told me to get dressed and make him a drink, he’d nonchalantly told me that it’d taken me 93 seconds to orgasm.
“Because you were watching me,” I explained.
Manual override on my own could take an hour. Any sort of stimulation when he’s watching me takes significantly less time.
Dinner was decent.
It was during the fucking when I was asked how long it took me to orgasm earlier.
I don’t know how the fuck I remembered the number.
But I did. “Ninety three seconds, Sir.”
He started to smack me. Slowly, then quickly, altering speed and intensity.
And then he stopped.
“How many is that?”
Well. I don’t know. Maybe it’s like the pillows and I’d had some sort of nonverbal cue. Or maybe it’s something I always do, the counting.
I could hear him smile. I felt the swell of my own pride in getting it right.
Here’s what he doesn’t know. I think I lost count somewhere after the next 20. I dropped into some altered state for a moment and when I came back….I could have sworn we were at 83, not 93.
But those last five smacks were double handed and hit hard.
Maybe they counted for two.
Erotic fiction writer. Phi (pronounced “fee”) came into kink at early age and renewed her connection with the lifestyle in 2014 after a decade-long hiatus. A somewhat popular and undeniably avid blogger on fetlife.com under the name phi-is-me, she lives in the suburb of a suburb in southern California with two cats and six pillows.