Tastes better on the way back down

His place was made for play.

I walked past the stacks of mattresses, the Liberator furniture, the mirrors and stacks of mats. Boxes of lingerie and stilettos in the back, framed fetish art wrapped in heavy brown butcher paper beside them.

He hired a group of graffiti artists to tag the walls of his place with huge murals. His bed rests against a large purple and neon green tag, lamps light up the walls with wire arms directing illumination.

Bottles of water, stacks of towels, a liter bottle of grapeseed oil. Body pillows, tan comforter, shag rug for my knees.

There's a motion sensor in the bathroom that flips on the light when I walk inside. Sanitized Sybian attachments drying on the sink.

He gives me a tour, takes me to the vault, takes me through his office, past the motorcycle collection and various items picked up over the years. He's doing renovations, stacks of things in boxes and plastic. I can't identify it all, I don't try.

Five minutes later, we're in bed.

He's fun, and he knows what he's doing. God, does he know. He can make me squirt in, thus far, four different ways, without the aid of toys. He's had so much practice in his lifetime, and I soak in all of it that I can.

We shift through positions, through angles and thrusts we ride. For a break, he takes out the Sybian and sends me through a near-screaming orgasm while he watches and slowly strokes himself, lying back across the bed.

Four hours pass, we don't notice. Each time we think about getting food, one of us pulls the other back with fingers and tongue driving deep and stroking.

We drive out to Mel's Diner and refuel, sore and tingling, checking out the people that walk in and out while we talk. I check my cellphone and find that Glasses texted me. If I hadn't been already occupied, I know that conversation would have led me down to his bed that evening.

We drive back to his home and fall into bed. I'm at the edge of exhaustion, been running all week, out every night, up too early each morning. He tosses me on the Sybian for a bit, then covers me in the grapeseed oil. Full body massage, I moan when his fingers stray.

He lies down on his back, tells me to kiss him all over. I translate this to my usual biting and nipping, tongue rolling down the grooves of his spine with careless twists and turns. My teeth graze his ribs, my lips tug gently on his earlobes and I tease him with light kisses and lips wherever I can reach, straddling the side of his thigh, grinding gently.

My energy runs out around 3AM. I've been pushing myself too hard.

We wake at 9. I go to brush out my post-sex hair and I find that he's placed three different bits of lingerie, still happily in their packaging, on the bathroom counter. Each piece of clothing is open at the sides. He loves my tattoo, loves to run his hand up my side, up those black squares, over my hip to my underarm. He found the perfect pieces to display it.

He finds me in the bathroom, comes in with a pair of leopard print stilettos dangling from his fingers. Not my style, but I love to please him. A sheer black tube dress with open-sides, I lean against him while I buckle the heels, painted maroon toenails peeking out.

Directing me to the Sybian again, he lubes it up and I slide down onto the attachment. I'm sore, but the oil feels good. I take off the shoes, leave on the dress, and he stands in front of me, cock inches from my lips. How could I say no to that?

I grind against the machine and lick him from balls to tip until I can't take the stimulation anymore.

I continue to blow him. He's wonderful for this, perfectly responsive. I ask him if there's any movement he would like, anything he would want me to add in, and he instructs me perfectly, tailoring my mouth and hands to his needs. A few minutes later, he's shouting, knuckles turning white as he grabs the sheets while shooting load after load down my throat. This continues for about ten seconds, and I begin to worry that he's gotten too sensitive, that merely being in my mouth now that he's orgasmed is too much.

Then I catch more semen and realize he's still going.

He can orgasm an average of nine times in a night. His refractory period is, at max, ten minutes.

I curl up next to him. Warm chest, rising and falling rapidly as his body goes back to normal. I press against him and wait, trailing nails over his body until he rolls over and asks for a massage.

Afterwards, I'm beneath him again, ankles locked behind his lower back as I use that as leverage to lift my hips and drive down on him. Perfect angle, even as he flips me onto my stomach and begins to rub his cock at the enterance to my ass.

"Which hole do you want?" he bends down and murmurs into my ear.

"Either. Just get back in me."

He does.

We don't get out of bed until 1230, only leaving because we're so damned hungry.

He hints to me, throughout the time we're together, that he wants me to help him run his business. That he wants me to take control of parts of the company so he can focus on growth. I begin to wonder if this is going to be something he will be slowly driving towards, even though he knows I'm going to be going back to school for my Master's in the fall. It could work, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea.

When I go to leave, he stops me and wraps his arms around me.

"Mine," he says.

I smile at him, kiss him, kiss his neck. I do not say what I'm thinking:

I'm only yours when I'm with you.