Life for Mr. Right and I became a whirlwind of packing and moving. Shopping for an apartment in Portland’s abysmal rental market. Doing all the honest talking and processing of us deciding to shack up.  So utterly commitment-y!  Especially for the girl who promised to never live with a partner again.  Who baulked at the idea of having a drawer at his place.  Now a year later we’re comfortably ensconced in our shared living space. We seal the deal and shop for a couch…even more commitment-y.  

And after a month so busy we didn’t have time to come up for breath long enough to even celebrate our anniversary, it’s finally a week after we unpacked, hung up the art, and bargained for space on the bookshelves and elbowed one another for kitchen space for our various cooking tchotchkes. We sit on the couch exhausted, bodies aching and realize we don’t have any pressing issues for the first time in a long time.

So I retrieve a too long neglected bag of rope and drag it to the living room and push Mr. Right out of his clothes.  And slowly, savoring every moment, every pull through of the rope over my palm I bind his wrists together and then bend them behind his head, leaving his under arms vulnerable.  I push him back on this commitment couch, heathered grey with a mid-century modern feel and funky chaise lounge style back rest.  His shock of curls, reddened with the even the briefest of Northwestern sun fall against the cushion.

I grin to bind his cock next, already hard and at attention, cinching it tight until it’s even harder, almost shockingly so.  It’s beautiful there poking into air, untouched before him, dancing to beg for attention that I deny it and him as I undress and stand before him.  He looks at me myopically, waiting, taking my blurry form in.

“Ready to break in this couch?”

No answer, just the barest smile which I line my body up with and sit on his face where he gamely licks at me while I tease him with my tongue, giving him just the slightest attention possible, tasting him so that I’m desperate for more.  My hunger for him never allows me to tease him for very long; soon I lift myself from his face and lower my mouth over his cock, taking him in so deeply I’m choking on him, that sweet drool from the back of my throat coating him shamelessly. 

He looks so delicious there, arms and legs bound that I can’t help myself, I know what comes next.  I want this to last, to use him until I can’t use my tired legs any longer.  So I untie his arms from behind his head and replace his still bonded wrists to the far leg of the couch, stretching him across it, leaving him with only tip toes on the bamboo floor, trying to find purchase to raise himself up, hips bucking in the air. 

I can’t help myself; it’s been too long since we’ve had more than the bare minimum brand of sex.  There’s been no time for kink, just naked need and release.  So my desire is so great I have to have him, swinging one leg over each side of him and lowering him slowly inside of me.  We both sigh and close our eyes; a year later and we haven’t tired of one another.  Not even close.  He feels good in his familiarity, his ability to know what I want, what will get me off and vice versa.  So much so I have to remind myself to hold back, to make this last, just because I know how to get him to the finish line doesn’t me I want to visit there post haste.

Raising myself up and down along the length of him, again and again we’re both groaning, but quietly as we’re trying to be polite with the wide open windows and new neighbors.  This double holding back, withholding desires has us wound up tight.  I can’t help it; I want to come so I release his hands from the couch, still bound and guide them between my legs.  A suggestion that he rub my clit which he takes and I redouble my effort bouncing on his cock until I can tell we’re both ready. 

And soon we’re going through the motions of pleasure given and taken, wetly and enthusiastically.  After, spent and sticky with come and sweat we smile sweetly at one another. 

“Well the living room is broken in.  Want to tackle any of the three bathrooms next?”  He rolls his eyes at insatiable me, thinking I’m kidding, where as I’m imaging what I can tie him to in the guest bathroom….  Mmm, next time.

As soon as I got done smoking, I realized mistakes had been made. They weren’t my mistakes but I would be the one dealing with them.

Instead of my cramps going away, the room was melting. I was seeing in 4 dimensions. I couldn’t stop giggling and it was really difficult to concentrate. This wouldn’t have been a problem except I was trying to do my taxes. I was trying soooo hard to be responsible after losing a week of my time to house sitting some very needy animals. The constant meowing wasn’t really conducive to focus so I’d missed my self imposed deadline. Then again the fact that my laptop screen seemed to be undulating and changing colors wasn’t conducive to focus either.

I had issues. Mr Right did his best to help me put the finishing touches on my taxes but I could tell this wasn’t going to happen. It was difficult to remember my address let alone if I had receipts for my book release party. And I knew from past experience that if I fought too hard the pleasant buzz was going to fall over into depression and anxiety. Besides my brain was so scrambled that the pain had technically gone away, so that was a plus.

Instead of trying to force myself to adult, I sighed and accepted that the dispensary had given me something much different than the CBD I’d been in need of. The ACDC strain was close to the ATF and the bid tender had sold me the latter by mistake. It never occurred to me to read the label after the hour long conversation we’d had about the strains.

I laughed like a maniac and hid under a blanket as Mr Right consulted the internet to see what was going to happen to me. Thankfully it seemed like I just had silliness and relaxation in store, no paranoia reported as a likely side effect. (Side note: how cool is it to live in the future where you can ask the internet anything and nerds somewhere have already typed it on the internet somewhere?)

Then he told me the full name of what I’d just consumed: Alaskan Thunder Fuck. I groaned. “Ew,no! I don’t like that at all.”

“Fraid so.” My face must have been overly serious and thoughtful because he started laughing at me.

“This isn’t the day I was trying to have! No thunder fucking.”

“None? Not even a little?” Mr Right raised his eye brows and made the noise that in our idiolect comes directly after innuendo laden flirtation, so I slapped him as he laughed harder at my accidental wordplay. The room was moving too fast for me to make out with him let alone fuck him anyway so I settled down to lay in his lap so he could distract me with some dumb TV. Which had become quite necessary as my imagination became convinced that I was growing wings.

Mr Right and I been working our way through a semi dry albeit entertaining series called the Americans. Spies, intrigue, costumes, and Keri Russel in 80’s outfits. There was something for everyone but not nearly enough sex or butt showing for my tastes in dumb TV. Until today when boom stoned Emily is watching every character in the series fuck. Though I don’t find any of these people attractive, by the third on screen coupling my body had other ideas. I couldn’t keep my hands off of Mr Right.

“How you doing?” He asked. More us language for are you just making out with me or are you instigating sex.

Quickly he understood what I was up to as he paused the TV and helped me close the blinds. As soon as we weren’t scandalizing his neighbors I had his pants at his ankles. He had a confused, titillated look on his face that quickly transported to full on bliss as I took him in my mouth and gave him passionate head. I felt no pain so kneeling on hard wood floors held no consequence allowing me to stay there a good long time, taking his hands to put them in my hair. He isn’t has rough as some of my past lovers (something I enjoy about him yet sometimes I get hankerings) but there are ways to pretend, and his hands on my head are enough to help me pretend he’s forcing himself deeper in my mouth as I gently choke myself on him.

When I come up for air I pull off my shirt and he takes off my dress and his shirt. He tries to drag me to the bedroom but I want more cock which he lets me have (poor suffering man friend) until I take a breath again. He leaves for the comfort of a bed and I join him, stumbling gracelessly out of my tights.

His hands are between my legs stroking me to a confusing level of excitement. I'm not used to this level of intensity. This is like the first time, not like the first time with a new lover but like the first time being touched ever. As if this is all new, all my nerve ending awake and on fire in a way they haven’t been in a very long time. The simple pleasure of being fingered or kissed have long since lost their sharp edges over the years, after many lovers, after nearly a year with this beloved. But now in this moment I feel and want and crave everything.

Luckily Mr Right isn’t offended by bedroom giggling because I'm so overwhelmed that’s all I can manage. I really want to know what his cock feels like but he’s trying to make this last, to tease me, to hold back my eagerness, dirty old ocelot I am. Occasionally I’ll catch a handful of his cock and stroke him until he wiggles away. Eventually I can’t take it anymore and break free of his ministrations to grab a condom, put it on him and position myself on hands and knees in front of him.

Nothing is left to the imagination and yet he asks, “Is there something you want?”

I look back at him and position myself onto his cock saying,”You to fuck me silly.”

He does and again it's like the first time, shocking and overwhelming. He’s a nice fit ordinarily but today feeling this way he feels porn star ridiculously large, almost too much. But I like too much, I like rough, I like passion, I like having and feeling everything. So I buck against him until our bodies are slapping together and we’re sweating and exhausting one another.

I fall onto the bed to grab lube and he breaks away to grab a vibrator which he applies to my clit while fucking me. This would ordinarily be a nice treat but not enough to get a huge reaction. Today I can barely take it, my legs shake and I can’t stop squeezing so tight he pops out. I’m almost falling out of the bed. So he takes his cock out of the equation for the moment and uses his fingers. He’s good with his hands and knows what I like and I’m an easy target at the moment so it doesn’t take too long to get me there.

Except orgams are an odd concept in this state. I will get to the edge of one and feel it fall away only to repeat the process until I’m nearly mad with frustration. So I put my imagination somewhere filthy and far away and it does the trick. I come so hard that the pleasure seems to fall in on itself in an endless colorful loop of synesthesia and delight. When I can’t take it anymore I pull him towards me and toss aside the vibrator so that I can come with him inside of me in missionary, me on top, every which way until he comes as I whisper filthy nothings to him. Odd since though I type dirty talk well I don’t do much of it with my mouth in the moment during actual sex and yet here I was chatting away. Mr Right doesn't seem to mind.

After as we cuddle both of us spent, he says “Um maybe that pot has some benefits. I’m not sure I want to trade it in after all.”

“Yeah we should probably keep it….after all getting me high is of course the only way for you to get lucky”

“Shush you.” More of our idiolect for you're hot and can't wait to fuck you silly again soon.