I get a very calm, quiet, deeply satisfying sense of pleasure when my boy is suffering to the point that he is whimpering or moaning, or even stifling a scream, and I catch those sounds in my open and seeking mouth.
I often don’t start out to intentionally cause pain to my boy. Some animals hunt their prey for the pleasure or exercise of the hunt, not intending to cause misery to their victims.
Some stalk in order to sharpen their prowesses.
And it’s true that animals don’t always intend to devour their prey because they didn’t have devouring in mind when they started. But it is as though some switch gets triggered when the writhing of the victim begins. When the sounds of distress start to rise from the restricted throat, and beautiful eyes widen in alarm and fear, the instinct to subdue or silence overtakes and it is with my own open mouth that I catch his lament.
I am one of those animals at times.
But it doesn’t often begin that way.
Not at all.
There are times when my boy and I lay together in bed, entwined in tangled sheets, buried beneath late afternoon covers, surrounded by down pillows in crisp cotton cases. Often we find ourselves there in order to share a tender embrace or because I have allowed him the semi-sleepy time he so enjoys on a Saturday morning and I climb back into the bed in order to get him out of it.
I like these times. My boy is sweet in the way he likes to pass moments with his face pressed against my breast. Sometimes we lay cheek to cheek, me enjoying the masculinity of his beard while his hand seeks the curve of my breast. I see us from above, I can envision what we look like….and if we’re lucky, we have timed our siesta so that it matches the afternoon sun coming through our windows, splashing warmth across our bed. I have always loved the smell of him, the taste of him. He is water to me….clean, soft, a taste that holds nothing and everything at the same time.
Kissing him is pure pleasure. It is romantic and sexual delight. It is often our gateway drug if we have the time to indulge in its pleasures.
That is often the trigger for me. That kissing. That deep, exploring kissing where I taste wind and water as I drink him in for more.
It will start this way, and everything about us is focused on this moment.
My hand will wander to his chest, my most favorite spot on his body. My fingertips will trace all his familiar angles and curves. I will encircle a nipple and tug at it lightly. I will find the other and do the same.
The tugging becomes less tugging and more clamping. One small, lovely nipple between two well aimed finger tips.
The clamping becomes pinching, ever so slowly. I steer him away from the discomfort by deepening the kiss. I make him pay attention to my own mouth consuming his.
But soon he struggles to concentrate because that tiny nipple is now trapped between two manicured nails that I sink more deeply into his tender flesh.
I press. I dig. I express no movement at all except to press two small tips into one small place, and yet the pain for him becomes enormous.
This is what I like to swallow. This is the pure waters he offers me…..his suffering.
I take large mouthfuls of his discomfort.
And sometimes if the pain is significant enough….if my fingertips torture cock instead of nipples….the wailing spills out and over the edges of his lips, my swallowing mouth unable to keep up with the cascading fall of sound.
I will ease off the pressure long enough to finish cleaning up the spill of agony and to administer some sexual healing. Talons become feathers, pinching becomes caressing, digging becomes stroking.
Tortured panting becomes soft panting.
Eyes that begged me to stop now implore me to continue.
He is what I love to consume. These entangled moments between us may not last but for a few moments, but they are a delight for me. Many times, the more I drink of his suffering, the more thirsty I become.
So much blissful agony from the smallest of touches.
I can get drunk on such pleasures.