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Taylor's Time



Hello again!

Hope you're having a good new year's weekend - are you staying out of trouble?

No?

GOOD!

Staying out of trouble's no fun, and you can start it Monday, can't ya?

In any case, Taylor has a little microfiction here - complete story, no To Be Continued - and boy oh boy, is she going out of her comfort zone!

Yeah, she's playing with a little smexy time!

But she still has the emotional grounding she always does, so get ready to be touched.


No, not that way! Zeus take it, I mention smexy once...


  • Kendra


Proud 


I was right on the edge. My stomach contracted, my pelvis tingled, trembling with tension, begging me to release the build up of orgasm. He felt it, too. He moaned as I tightened around him, as my legs shook beneath him. His thrusting slowed, and so did the build up. Euphoria came and went like waves crashing onto a beach. My clit throbbed, begging me to give in. I resisted, relaxing my body and melting into the heavenly build up of pleasure instead. This was just how I liked it, and he knew it. He was hardly thrusting now, letting the pleasure fill my already tipping cup at a snail's pace. I whimpered. I stretched my neck and dug my fingers into the skin of his arms. 

God, I was so close! I wanted him to get me there, and I didn't want him to get there. I wanted this build up to end and last forever. 

He buried his face in my neck, his breathing trembling and hot. I wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. He grunted and gasped ever so softly, indicating that he was close as well. Oh God, that was amazing! Together, we tipped and tilted on the brink of orgasm until - 

His throbbing ceased, the hardness I craved softening inside me. 

He slid out of me with a labored sigh. There was no warmth or satisfaction, nor was there the fulfilling sensation of his ejaculation. The build up, oh God, that wonderful heavenly build up, that urgency to let go, faded slowly away. Emptiness and disappointment were all that followed. I wanted to cry, to beg him to keep going, but I knew he couldn't. Nothing was said as he collapsed on his side of the bed and covered his face with his arm. 

He lay there, catching his breath and hiding his expression. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I pulled our blanket up to my breasts and lay back against the pillows. Disappointment flushed my cheeks as the questions swam through my head. I could hear nothing but his breathing and the rain falling softly outside. It all gave me time to think, to analyze everything that happened.

Why couldn't he finish?

Was it because of me?

Had I done something to kill the mood?

Had he known he wasn't going to cum?

Was he faking?

As much as I enjoyed being on the receiving end of it all, his pleasure mattered to me too. He seemed to be having fun. His noises sounded as genuine this time as they had every other time we'd made love. The trembling of his body, the shaking breaths, the will it had taken to hold back, to ensure that I would finish before he did, was all too real. Just the memory of it was getting me excited, so much so that I could've easily finished myself off, but that would've been selfish. Sex wasn't intended to be selfish. Now here. Not now. Not ever. His satisfaction was just as important as my own. 

I inhaled and touched my fingers to his elbow. My voice was hesitant. “Are you okay?” 

He shuddered at my touch. Without looking at me, he said what should've been an obvious answer to me. “It's not you.”

The more I thought about it, the more I believed him. His casual acts of physical affection hadn't faded; they'd grown. Little things, like placing his hand on the small of my back as I stood cooking in the kitchen. Touching my face before he kissed me. He embraced me from behind every single night, his body cradling mine in a cocoon of warmth and safety. He was right, It wasn't me. 

I took a moment to analyze my sexual shortcomings. With a twinge of shame, I remembered the night I couldn't get wet enough. It was the first and the only time I'd ever complained of pain. No matter how long he tried to help me get ready, my body wouldn't cooperate. The moment he slid into me felt like hundreds of knives, a sharp pain that made me whimper and wince. He pulled out immediately, asking me what was wrong. I hesitated, then told him everything. 

I’d learned that COVID-19 had struck my sister. Her already weak immune system couldn't fight it on its own. I wasn't turned off. I was scared. 

Now it was my partner who was struggling, and I had to be there for him. I snuggled against him, resting my hand on his naked chest. 

“Talk to me.” 

He sighed, moving his arm away from his eyes. I rubbed my index finger against his skin, against the fine dark hairs that ran from his chest to his stomach. “I'm sorry,” he said. 

I shook my head. “Don't be. I had fun tonight.” 

And I really did. Orgasms were amazing, euphoric and at times, intoxicating, but they weren't everything. Sex was about the bonding between us, the soul-connecting experience of our bodies becoming one, the physical and emotional intimacy. Orgasms were a bonus. 

“Did you really?” He looked down at me. 

I gave him my best set of puppy dog eyes. “Absolutely,” 

He sighed again. “I want you to enjoy it too. It's not the same excitement if you're not having a good time.” He seemed to be thinking hard about his next words. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Do you ever think about leaving me?” 

I rose up and glared at him fiercely. My response came out more defensive than I'd intended. “Of course not. Why would you think that?” 

He stayed quiet, considering his answer. “Sometimes, when we make love, I just - I feel like it's wrong. I feel like I'm wrong.” 

Now it was my turn to stay quiet. I knew immediately that he was having issues with self-worth. I knew this because I had those issues, too. I caught myself remembering something my therapist told me years ago: “Unlike guilt, which is the feeling of doing something wrong, shame is the feeling of being something wrong.” 

My partner, best friend, and lover was ashamed of himself. For years, he told me stories of his abusive father, of how his father always told him that he'd never be good enough, that he would never live up to his expectations, that he'd be a failure as a partner, as a man, and as a person. 


He needed to learn to value himself. He needed to love himself before he could love me fully and truly. 

His body tensed. He wasn't done talking. “I just want him to be proud of me,” he said. “I just want him to say it. Just once, ya know.” 

I ran my hand up the length of his chest until I felt his heartbeat and kept it there. “He may never say that, Love.” It was the truth. “But you can.” 

His eyes found me again. They were softer now, like pools of melting chocolate. 

“Say it, Love.” 

He did. He said it in a tone of disbelief. “I’m proud of myself.” 

“Again,” I urged. He did, and slowly, his tone grew into one of belief, if only for a short moment. It might take years for him to be proud of himself without his father's validation, but this was a start. 

I took him in my arms, kissed him where he liked to be kissed, touched him where he liked to be touched. He inhaled, turning over so that he was on top of me. He pushed me down into the mattress and smiled down at me, his hand under the blanket, long fingers lightly stroking the sensitive skin between my legs. 

I shivered. His eyes were full of the passion and intention and fire, and I knew he would bring me in the love that would be made tonight. 





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