[Image from The Sandman. Click here to view full comic page.]
Kissing the Professional is akin to eating fried pork intestines. It tastes good, and you draw a large amount of satisfaction from it, but there’s an undertone of dirty wrongness about it that prevents you from enjoying it the way you would, say, the delicate deliciousness of a chocolate truffle.
You linger in his room after everyone else left, and he invites you to sit on the bed with him, “where it’s more comfortable.” When you do, you lay next to each other companionably for a while before he reaches over and pulls you on top of him.
“Sorry about that,” he says, smiling behind his beard (“beard” is too unctuous a word, but if there’s a camp-er word for “beard”, you definitely don’t know it). “You were just too far away from me and I needed you to be here” – he hugs you to him tightly – “right away.”
When you kiss, you don’t know what to do with his body. “What do you want?” he asks you, and he has his hand in your panties and instead of saying “I want us to 69 and then I want to fuck you in the ass with your dildo,” you decide to take things one step at a time and say, “well… um… you could… perhaps penetrate me”, meaning with his fingers, but he misunderstands, and smirks, and says, “Right. I’m going to fuck you,” and gives you such a smoldering look that you’re too embarrassed to correct him.
When you fuck, you retreat into yourself, suddenly shy. You’d already ridden out your drunkenness and so are no longer bold. He enters you from behind, the two of you kneeling, and his hands cup your breasts and move down your body, urgently, like his hands were meant to cruise all over your skin. You feed off of his pants and jerky body movements, feeling like you’re being worshiped, feeling like this is worship. There has to be something spiritual, religious, even, about all of this concentrated attention.
You end up on your hands and knees, and your body feels nothing except red hot shards of pleasure at your core. He grunts. Swears. Comes. You don’t. But you revel in the fact that you’ve reduced this articulate, overly-intellectual person to one word: fuck.
Time for sleep. He rolls away from you, turns out the lamp, says you can feel free to stay. Not that he wants you to; but that you can feel free to. He plays classical music on his iPhone.
You close your eyes. Afterward, you’ll look back on that moment as the moment that he lost interest. But, for a few minutes at least, nothing else existed for him except you; and your quota for… whatever it is, was filled a little more.
—
One week later, the Actor has wrenched your legs open uncomfortably wide, and is sitting in between them, brandishing a vibrator at you. You are, to say the least, extremely annoyed. You keep grumbling at him to stop it. Eventually he gets annoyed at your annoyance and stops; offended that you don’t want him. Well, Christ, you want him, you just don’t want him to treat you like this.
You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve had this very one-sided discussion: “Don’t treat my body like a plaything; haven’t you heard of foreplay; please treat this a bit more seriously; I feel like you don’t care whether you turn me on or not; I don’t know why you want to do this with me anyway because you’re not attracted to me; getting to touch me that way is a privilege so treat me with a goddamn bit of reverence!”
You know that he’s merely curious, and doing these things with you is fascinating for him, but everyone deserves to be touched with respect. Well, maybe reverence is pushing it just a little.
The Actor doesn’t heed your requests until he catches you complaining about him on GTalk to Girl. (That probably was an unfair thing for you to do.) First he’s angry, then he’s upset because he actually feels guilty, then he’s simply sorry. You fall asleep twined around each other, and the next day he takes more care not to upset you, and you’re happy.
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18 Responses to Object of Desire
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What a beautiful post.
It speaks of connection, and hotness, and the many layers between the simple physical act and what it is in the brain that actually draws you in. I recently was asked what my “fantasy” was, and had to decline answering, even though the person who asked was capable of fulfilling any purely physical desire I wanted. Thing is, it wasn’t about the physical trappings – my fantasy was about the connections between people, and that just couldn’t be arranged.
Thank you for the post.
.-= GRAYDANCER´s last blog ..Coming to Dark Odyssey: BONDAGE SLAM! =-.
[...] object of desire Kissing the Professional is akin to eating fried pork intestines. It tastes good, and you draw a large amount of satisfaction from it, but there’s an undertone of dirty wrongness about it that prevents you from enjoying it the way you would, say, the delicate deliciousness of a chocolate truffle. [...]
wow.. I’m actually surprised he said it was a domme thing. Me, i figure its a woman who wants some respect kind of thing. A woman who wants to feel more than just objectified.
.-= mina´s last blog ..This Wasn’t The Plan =-.
@ mina – yeah, i’m not sure how i feel about that. i think wanting to be appreciated and valued is a pretty generalized thing, except i have weird issues with being touched that i didn’t go into in this post, that i think makes me feel more intensely about this sort of thing than most. who knows…
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