Pillow Toss

Pillow Toss

Apropos of nothing, he drops the pillow on the floor, reaches for his belt buckle.
Not that I didn’t know what we were in that hotel room for. What I had made up a fictitious meeting for, what I was in a town 30 miles from my home for. Hell, we had been talking about it for what? three years?
Had texted it, emailed it, discussed it to death. Until we came face-to-face. Then it was the proverbial elephant in the room, the sex we didn’t mention at the bar, but both intended to have.
We had talked like the old friends we are, we could have had the same conversation in front of anyone. Almost.
In the room, still no discussion, no seduction. Did we kiss before his rather unsmooth gesture? I cannot recall, if we did it must have been less than breathtaking. But, as he said later, we both knew what we were there for.
He tosses the pillow on the floor, which makes my breath catch in my throat, I hope he doesn’t notice. I am trying to give the blase, could-take-it-or-leave-it appearance he wears like a cloak. Like he does this kind of thing every week (does he?), as if it is almost incidental to his day.
But it got his point across, his overt gesture. It was time to stop this verbal foreplay we had been engaged in, time to see if the smoke was indeed indicative of the fire, put up or shut up. I had said (admitted) that I wanted to suck him, he was daring me to prove it. We looked at each other, at the pillow.
“Just like that?”
I don’t remember his answer, if there was one, it would have been superfluous. Yes, just like that. That pillow in the floor is for your knees, get on them, suck my dick. Yet he tosses it indifferently, with an attitude that suggests that, if I choose to deny his demand, he would simply pick up the pillow and discuss the weather, with no reference to the reason we are in that room. No harm no foul.
Part of me wants to say, fuck you. The part of me that makes men work for it, beg for it, at least ask for it. He does not. He demands it. And I do not tolerate demands.
But, I find the will to throw his pillow in his face is accompanied by a stronger urge, one that twists in my belly, brings color to my face, floods my pussy. Even as I am smirking and trying to impart an attitude of offense, my knees betray me.
I fall on the pillow, face lifted to receive him. I try to be cognizant of the moment, after all I have anticipated it for so long. But I find I cannot concentrate, slow down and enjoy, imprint and create a memory to take with me when he is gone.
All those intentions fall to the wayside, I am consumed in the moment, greedy for this man, greedy for his sex to be precise. Not just his cock, but his sex, his desire, his erection as it applies to me. I don’t think, I act, I cannot get enough of him in my mouth fast enough. I want to literally swallow him whole.
Technique? Finesse, skills? Fuck skills, I’m not showing off, impressing or pleasuring him. Throwing the pillow on the floor, that was about him. Sucking him, eating him, claiming his cock, that is all about me. His taste, his feel, the involuntary reactions whet my appetite. It occurs to me, when conscious thought returns, that I need to slow down, I want to enjoy this.
I take control, as much as I can, I suck, we fuck, I suck some more. It is both everything and nothing like I envisioned. It is all about him – my pleasure is for me to find, not for him to provide. I ride him as if proving a point, he seems almost afraid of it. Detached. More observer than participant. Fuckee rather than fucker. I take what I need, chasing his orgasm as well as my own, he seems almost to try to deny that release to me or to himself.
But in the end, he gives it to me, comes in my mouth, and I find it satisfying in a way I did not anticipate. I wanted it, craved it, the power of owning his orgasm. It is the fox hunt of the thing that elevates it to more than a sexual act, I have won a power play of some kind, although I don’t know what or how.
He seems immediately to want to snatch it back, call for a do-over, an instant replay that will overturn the call. Too bad, not happening.
You challenged me by throwing a pillow on the floor. You can’t pick it up now.