1. Python
Waking in the middle of the night, out of god knows what dream, holding onto you and something dark and purple beginning. Holding onto you and you holding me so richly, and some kind of tearless crying, moans that were connected to nothing, some feeling without a name. And then some kind of transformation, so that I was dropping down down down into a thick deep pool of viscous, syrupy squeezing and pulling and pressing — a new daimon rising out of the depths, bearing some resemblance to the earlier one, the panther creature, but also quite different — slower, heavier, larger, stronger, not so sharp or frantic, an expression not of fire but of something thickly liquid, something absolutely inevitable. The energy focusing in my hands and arms rather than my mouth or teeth, the energy huge and unstoppable, the sheer size and force of it demanding and compelling, broad and wide, so that I found myself pressing into you not with my fingers but with my arms, my elbows, my knees, broadbrush energy, so that when I did finally bring my mouth to your cunt it was not a matter of licking you here and there, but of taking the whole of your cunt into my mouth, as I might more familiarly do with your breast, sucking all of you deep into the cavernous suction, my mouth open so wide — or of surrounding parts of your body with everything of me in the vicinity, enclosing you in all of me and then tightening myself around you, squeezing, compressing. Call me latex; call me bondage bag; call me, I suppose, python — wrapping myself slowly and quietly around you and then tightening the enclosure with slow, continuous determination.
If the other was panther, then this was python: slow, slithering, sinuous, insidious, continuous, gradual, inevitable. It was absolutely intoxicating, to be pulling you, pressing you, opening you, compressing you, stretching you, pushing into you with such complete and undiluted determination. And then all of that multiplied by feeling your immense surprise, your amazement, your fascination, the edges of your fear and your resistance yielding to the willingness to be washed, to be transported, wanting to be taken in this way. And so we were both gone, obliterated, transformed, churned with the ocean of it, the power, the undertow pulling us both far far out to sea.
And then, as mysteriously as this force had come up out of the shadows, it turned and subsided into the depths, with one last almost comic promise to return, and I was restored to being a simple human again, wrapped into your body, the two of us panting, amazed, amused, bewildered. Which somehow then evolved into you sucking and licking and rubbing my cock into what has to be the most perfectly shaped orgasm I have ever known, the wash of it fitting my form so precisely that afterwards there was not even the slightest trace of incompleteness, every millimeter of me touched, opened, emptied, satisfied, so that I didn’t want to move a single muscle to disturb the feeling of utter, total peace.
Say what you want: these are the realms of the gods, no two ways about it. These are places of being inhabited by the primal forces and energies of which the universe is built. There is sex that comes from physical need, and sex that comes from emotion, and sex that comes — deeper — from earlier needs and emotions, cravings that have been cured and aged, gathering power and intensity and soul along the way. And now there is also sex that comes from something beyond, or so it seems, beyond personhood, beyond self, beyond the specifics of me and you and here and now. You turn yourself over to me, and I also turn myself over, to whoever/whatever this is that comes to find me, to call me, to dare me to yield, to give over my body in the service of the particular force that is making itself manifest.
At these times, literally no one is in charge, only the primacy itself, and it is only by trusting the sanctity of these energies that I can yield to them without fear or resistance. Or maybe it is only when I can trust them and be ready to yield to them that these energies arise at all. These are the forces the Christians call devils, the forces they demonize (not just the Christians, of course), the forces that can take us over in the middle of the night when all is darkness and shadows, and the defenses grow soft. The wisdom which is my body can only kneel, offer honor and thanks, and murmur blessed be.
2. Chains
This is about Sunday. About taking out the toy bag and the bag of chains. About showing you the screw eyes in the corners of the bed and watching your eyes go wide with delight. About the inspiration, the sudden knowing of what was right, of wanting to give you a taste, an anticipation to carry into next week. The moment when the wandering ceases, where direction emerges, undeniable. When I put on the robe, make the transformation, become the Other One.
All at once I know exactly what is to be done. I tell you to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. You know immediately that we have changed worlds and you give yourself over without so much as an instant’s hesitation, flames licking your eyes even before your mind catches up and gives its blessing. You sit at the foot of the bed and I get out the chains and the cat collar cuffs and everything is going sacred and you are already radiant with delight and expectation, your excitement mixing with my own so infectiously that I have to take a minute to breathe, to center, to honor what I am beginning, to inhabit the responsibility along with the giddy delight.
“Just a taste,” I say, acknowledging the constraint of our limited time together. The lengths of smooth chain, the carabiners, the smooth black collars around your minuscule wrist. Giving you the feel of cold metal against your skin. The story of the man at the pet store when I bought the four cat collars, of the man who bought a crop though he had no horse, of the old man at the hardware store asking what we wanted the chains for. The smooth black encirclement of your wrist, your eyes sparkling, taking in everything. The chain hitched to the eyebolt in the bed, then to the band around your wrist. The look of your face against the heavy wooden beam of the bed, your arm up and to the side, the silver gleaming. You holding on to it already, playing with the feel of it, the first tug of restraint. Then the second wrist, second chain, second arm held up and out. The look of you racing to catch up with the experience of it and not quite making it, of you watching me, watching my face for clues. Letting myself like the look of you there, helpless and not helpless, the complexity of your face, allowing me this with you, excitement and just a little uncertainty, amazement, wonder, the willingness to be uncertain, trusting what you know of me to not need to be certain of anything.
I pull your body out from the bed. The chains are awkward and uneven but it doesn’t matter. This is just a sample, just a taste of magic. Already you are wriggling, reaching your pelvis high in the air, for the stretch of it. You cannot touch yourself there, have no way to guarantee yourself any kind of satisfaction, any kind of release. I stretch you out on the floor, hold your ankles apart and down to the floor to show you what it would be like to be spread-eagled on the bed, where even the ability to arch yourself would be largely taken away. You light up at being held down this way, testing the strength of your legs against my hands. I hold your ankles still, pin them to the floor, give you this to pull against as hard as you want. I unzip your jeans and pull them and your underwear down around your knees, exposing your newly naked cunt and your much-worshipped ass, but letting the tightness of the jeans restrict your legs, binding them together. I press your ankles down toward your face, luxuriating in the picture of your naked cuntlips pouting from between your thighs, and the perfectly smooth curve of your ass that comes rising up from the floor every time I press down on your ankles.
Do I start playing with your cunt then, or later, pressing your puffy lips and swelling clit between my fingers, pressing down around them deep into the flesh of you? The string of your tampon dangling incongruously against your skin. The tip of my finger working itself just inside you, playing, moving, making you squirm, then moving into you more deeply, sharing the cave of you with the cotton swab, stirring you, heating you. Slapping your pouting cunt lightly with my hand, licking you briefly — outside, around your clit — when you ask me to.
I take out one of the latex strips, wrap it several times around both your ankles, and tie the ends through the two screw eyes, lifting your legs and raising them up over your head. You can pull against the straps, and they stretch so that you can bring your legs all the way down to the floor, but when you relax they pull you up again. Stepping back to enjoy the sight of you, twisting on the floor, all awkward in the tangle of silver chain, the stretched black lines of latex framing you, your face a wonderful mix of tension and pleasure, determination and helplessness. Later I take out the camera and shoot several pictures, the first I have taken of you, wanting to preserve this icon. If they come out they will be superb. You will get to see you in that state.
Time is a jumble, as usual. I remember playing inside you on and on, remember you straining, reaching, taut with the impossibility of using your hands for relief, stretching further, and finally coming. I remember, later, with you excited again, releasing one of your hands so you could finally have that specific release. I remember taking out other toys, fixing the nipple clips to you, and pulling the chain, tugging both your nipples at once, while you moaned with delight. Taking down my pants and offering my cock to your hungry mouth, your head stretching as high as it could reach to get me, to take me in. Moving my cock in your mouth while I pulled the chain to your nipples. Pushing my cock deeper into your mouth, moving into you and then away, giving myself to your heat and holding myself back, and eventually coming all over your chest while you watched.
The next day you will tell me that you were awake all night, playing with the possibilities. I cannot tell you how delightful it is to do this with you, how delightful you are to initiate. You are so present, so alive, so willing to travel, such an incredible mix of vulnerability and strength. I know it is a rare honor to be allowed so deep inside you, and I know too that it is and will be more a deep healing for you to open these doors. These are all the things I want most from this world — to be so completely received, to open new worlds, to heal the deep wounds. To receive all of this from you is such a profound holiness for me — my own confirmation and healing. You lick me nineteen times, wound after wound after wound.
3. Orgasm
There is so much of you flying in my head, demanding to be remembered, clamoring for the attention of memory, that I cannot focus on any one bit for more than a few seconds before the others rise up and take over my consciousness.
From today there is the power of your legs locked around my wrist, my wrist that still smells a little of you, the hot fury of your mouth devouring my cock, your head bobbing up and down in such total concentration and desire while I stretch out, reaching for you, reaching for the obliterating heat of you, for the wet slipperiness you bring to me, for the sound of the wetness, the sound that throws civilized propriety, image, self-consciousness aside, the wild animal of you calling me out from under decades of good boy, the crazed look on your face when you are staring inches away from my swollen, aching cock, when you say “Look at you!” And I do. I look at me, at you, at you looking at me, at the intensity that streams from your eyes, from the taut muscles in my back, from the glistening, leaking, pulsing, purpling head of my cock, from the feel of your hair thick in my fingers, curling, locking, twisting tight to hold onto you, pulling against you, toward you, toward me, toward whatever it is down in the center of me — twisting, turning, screaming to be set free, aching, waiting, wanting, begging, resisting, refusing, yielding, breaking, tearing, falling, crying, screaming, shattering, screaming, washing, washing, washing away.
The river of it, the sounds that come from me as if from someone else, and from you. The delight of you with my heat, with your power, with your power to dismember me, to take me beyond myself, to reduce me to the quivering, aching bursting, to the spasms in my back, my throat, my cock, my neck, my head snapping side to side beyond control, and then the collapsing, the falling, the way it all implodes, the movie of it rewinding, accelerating, swallowing itself as it goes down, down, down, the entire tower of energy collapsing to rubble, to mud, while I hold onto you for my life, dear life, for the dear life of this, for the dear life of you, for the dear life I take from you with unrestrained gluttony, give to you with all my soul — holding on to you to find myself so thoroughly and deeply shaken, needing to know that you are right there with me, right there where you are, shaken in your own way, “soaked” you say, companion to the yet again miracle of it.
How to write about these things? This is what I want to learn, yet another part of what I want to learn. To open myself this way to the sky and to be able to tell about it in some way that is true to the experience and that also can be heard by another, by you who were there, by an outsider who will have only the words for guidance. The urge to take the most personal, inexplicable heart of the matter and make it known, make it public, make it visible, the ultimate act of exhibitionism, of intimacy with all the world, or at least with those who are able to bear witness. The deep, deep urge to be seen, utterly naked, in this very particular way.
Copyright © 1996 David Steinberg
Libido, Summer, 1996
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