Morning Glory

The key turning in the lock wakes me. I left it outside yesterday in case she couldn’t drive after her night out, but I had fallen asleep, and she had not come over. I feel nervous leaving my key outside for her and often spend the night guessing if she will make an appearance. Usually, I am secretly hoping for one. I imagine her face and the elegant layer of makeup she uses. Her lips with the remnants of her lipstick on and the classy, yet sultry way she styles herself when she goes out. She knows her beauty and how she affects me and doesn’t shy away from using it. I have these snapshots of her in my mind: Her arriving downstairs, panties in hand. Or the look as she starts unbuttoning my trousers as we drive down the motorway, big dark brown eyes pleading with me to let her suck me off while we cruise along. 

We’ve been seeing each other off and on for a while now. Right now, we are off, but we care about each other tremendously and our sex is nothing I have experienced before, so the key stays outside, hidden neatly under the cushion in the small smoking area I tried to create. The hallway isn’t the most beautiful space but a large red plant, a small cactus, and the drawing I had made of us in the woods make it bearable for a cigarette or joint.

I didn’t hear her come up the stairs—I wake only as she enters the room. The shine of leather running neatly under her unbuttoned shirt and over her sternum catches my attention. The sheepish feeling from the mess cluttering my sofa and floor, the remnants of a bad study day on the desk and my unmade bed can’t even distract me. She doesn’t care if my T-shirt drawer doubles as a desk or if my plants are homed in reconstructed water bottles and decorated with unusable shirt material. She also doesn’t care that my body is different from other men. When she looks at me, she sees a man, not breasts or a vulva, just a body with a man inside. She says she forgets sometimes. I have tried to picture myself from her eyes but I can’t see myself exactly as I want to.

Her olive-brown skin contrasts with the deep mahogany wood of my Beirut apartment’s double-paneled doors and the rising sun from my bedroom window illuminates her like wild mountain honey. I am already dripping. I still haven’t fixed my squeaky bed frame to be more neighbor-friendly, so I know I will be throwing the mattress onto my messy floor. I don’t want to get out of bed to greet her, however, even though I know she wants me to. My recently awakened mind is desperately trying to catch up with my already hard, testosterone-enlarged, hypersensitive clitoris. My loose boxer shorts are stroking me with every subtle movement and are not helping clear the fog. It takes a lot of energy to not feel embarrassed in my twenty-seven-year-old body with the hormones of a pubescent boy raging inside me. It’s a daily occurrence: trying to figure out what turned me on this time. 

This morning I do not doubt that my erection has everything to do with the beautiful Lebanese girl waiting for my reaction from the doorway. I have seen this harness before, it’s the half-length one that accentuates her waist but leaves her boobs untouched and free. Her nipples stand erect under the black shirt. The harness splits after the sternum and runs along her deeply accentuated collar bones. A snapshot flashes in my mind of my fist wrapped firmly through the leather over her chest and the lights out in her eyes as I took her hard with my black strap-on. My tongue is already begging to feel her nipple in my mouth, between my teeth, but I recognize the glint in her eye and the way she is holding her body. My internal dilemma of whether I feel confident in my dominance today quickly dissipates. I don’t foresee having a lot of choice over the next few hours, and I am glad I did not get out of bed to say hello. My inner brat still likes to be defiant to her control. 

The latch of the door clicks into place with the back of her heel neatly pressing it closed. Her bags fall onto the armchair with the other clothes and towels waiting to be folded. She walks over to the bed and my heart starts to beat hard. I am not familiar enough with this side of her to know what is coming next. Her long legs remain straight as her slender fingertips grip my jawbone and she bends down to my ear. The deep curve of her back and the shape of her ass in her shorts distract me till she snaps my head back to her and demands, lips an inch from my ear, “Have you masturbated yet?” I swallow and wonder what the punishment would be if I lied and said yes. Usually very dominant during sex, I feel nervous enjoyment when this side of her comes out. I crave her body right now, I crave her teeth on my chest, nails raking the skin from my body, and the deep aching purple of the rope marks on my wrists. Feeling the pain already present in her mind, I shake my head. 

“Good,” she replies and pulls my lips up to hers. Suppressing the compulsion to overpower her until I have her underneath me, the urge to use her harness as a handle and fuck her till she sees lights, I try to appear calm in my kiss. It ends far too soon though and she turns her back to me and walks across the room. I know my place and stand quickly to move the mattress deftly onto the floor. The thick brown ropes are already out and waiting under the bed frame and she doesn’t hesitate to push me down onto the mattress, tying my wrists together and then securing them firmly to the bed frame. The same goes for my right ankle after removing my boxers. I can see her confidence stutter as her eyes crawl over my body, resting on my erection, like her eyes are eating me as her tongue wants to taste me. She lights a cigarette to refocus herself and drops the shorts and shirt to the floor before sitting neatly over me. 

She is driving my body and mind into oblivion. My hands are tied and the pressure builds, the trapped blood restricted in my efforts to touch her, have more of her, the urgency of the moment making me forget the more useful parts of my body. She is wearing the purple G-string I like with the pattern cutting her ass cheeks and the three straps running high around her hips. She knows these straps arouse me, especially when I can’t touch her. A stinging pain brings me back to the moment as she slowly places her burning cigarette on my stomach. I tense and my chest expands as I hold my breath through the pain, “please fuck me,” I manage to gasp. My mind is past dysphoria, past caring, past thinking. The pain holds me locked into every sensation my body can feel, she ashes a last time beneath my shoulder and I feel the ropes tighten around my wrists as my arm tenses. Her curly dark hair is tied in a messy knot at the back and she positions herself to the side of my body how she knows I like it. From here I can watch the curve of her back from the nape of her neck to her ass, her small waist and the cheeks of her bum which look somehow lonely without the usual red fingerprints I leave behind. The rope strains again against my wrists.

She parts my lips with two fingers and immediately takes me fully into her mouth. Her soft tongue teases my tip as her lips close around the base. My hips arch as she sucks me, her saliva thick around my dick, she moves her lips slowly up and down and my breath catches as she speeds up, locked in my throat, ready for my brain to kickstart again. Eventually, the oversensitivity in my clit engulfs my body and I pull back, her pout is obvious. She isn’t happy. Immediately my nipple is held firm between her fingertips, and she pinches hard. Again, I am consumed in pain and pleasure, “harder” I gasp as her tongue is back on the tip of my clit, teasing me as her fingertips close harder on my nipple. 

Her body is an orgasm for my eyes, her long legs beside me with her ass in the air make the ropes around my wrists tighten further—my hands scream and fight to touch her. Her back is in a beautiful deep arch and her sharp jawline is left defined with her messy hair knot holding fast. The harness is loose over her waist, begging to be grabbed and used but her face is still buried between my legs. I can feel her fingers entering me. I clench tight, not wanting to give her the pleasure of making me cum immediately but eventually, I give in as she fucks me harder, her tongue still working my dick, fingers penetrating deep inside me. I can feel the pressure building inside my mind and body—she fucks me harder, and I can hear her moans as she feels my orgasm build and I get harder in her mouth. She pulls her hand away as I cum, and her brown eyes look smugly at me as my cum drips from her chin. She has an ungodly sexiness about her, but my brain hasn’t recovered enough to process it yet. She unties my ankle but, knowing how much my fingertips are craving her skin, she leaves my wrists tied as she lights another cigarette. 

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy