I first noticed it last summer, although to this day I have no idea what caused it. Instead of just opening the front door and staying in his penthouse apartment, Big was waiting in the hallway. The black haircut appeared slightly longer, and the eyes had a friendliness that conflicted with their icy blue color. But more than anything it was the wordless longing that was expressed in him being there, literally meeting me halfway. I felt like Dian Fossey the moment a gorilla acknowledges her presence; it moved me. I was grateful, yet I had no hope this change was permanent. I was still living on one night of alcohol induced I love yous from last year, so I expected this second cameo of his soft side to be short lasting. Soon he would be the tough, married business man, who did whatever was required to be successful in the field of finance, family life, and pleasure. He was able to downsize himself, to make me feel at ease. And I still needed that casual ignorance and the lighthearted jokes to relax around him. But I had never mistaken his behavior for vulnerability. But the moment in the hall? I immediately treasured it as his second slip of the heart, as evidence he loved me, not knowing how long I had to go without signs this time. But something had changed.
He grew more consistent in asking me out, and in sending messages every couple of days. And for the first time in our entire affair, he allowed me a glimpse of the drama that was the cause of havoc in his marriage and family life. I cried. Early this year, I had decided: “Whatever reasons he has to do this, I can trust them to be just.” I didn’t doubt he was a cheater, or as I had diagnosed it: a closet case polyamorist. But I could feel in my bones our affair had not been planned this way. That it exceeded the level of secretive fun with lady friends or exes he picked up in bars, something I hoped he still did because it turned me on. I wasn’t justifying his cheating, no excuse was needed there. But it was because after our night of I love yous I was certain he was crazy about me, and didn’t understand why he didn’t crossover.
That’s when I decided; “He has his reasons.”
The thought had comforted me. Except now that he had told me what was going on in his family, it was far from comforting. And my part in it, the unacknowledged mistress, was already the long end of the straw. Regardless of if, or how, or which, things would end.
I wrote him a love letter closing with;
I will cherish every moment we have together. And I want you to stop thinking that a man who would choose for me would make a better partner. I am my own woman and I made my choice. And it’s you.
It is a rainy November night and I’m going to see Big. He greets me in the hallway with the words: “Hello, Red Riding Hood.”
And his smile and light tone of voice make the mockery sound like a love poem.
He takes my red woolen coat, and I snuggle my scarf and gloves over the heater.
“If you ever break up with me, I ll only have black men,” I announce, apparently looking for an acceptable alternative, should the highly arrousing Big leave me.
“You already did that. Before me.”
“I was still pretty versatile. How do the other women do that? Don’t they miss you?”
“Like they would tell me!”
We go into the kitchen and he makes us hot coco with whipped cream. And I explore my favorite topic a little further.
“I was serious though. Even if it’s just after one night, I m sure they all want more.”
“Not really. I’m always very clear.”
“Sure. The next day. That’s what makes you evil. You fuck them and then you’re clear.”
“No, I always say it upfront. So they have a choice.”
Big ensures me it’s common sense and simply serves his own interest. He learned early in life, that if you leave that open, there’s going to be trouble.
“Sometimes they didn’t want sex anymore. That’s okay.”
I think back to our first dates. Which were marked by him wanting sex, and me trying to refuse because it was going so fast, and he scared me both emotionally and physically. I’m sure that if he had warned me it meant nothing, he would have gotten nowhere with my tensed up body and anxious mind.
“I didn’t get a disclaimer,” I state, like it’s evidence of some sorts.
“Now what does that tell you?”
His smile is devilish and loving.
The past weeks went by fast, and were marked by an uncanny number of intimacies. Big hung out on my couch with my cat Max, who he fist bumped because Max supposedly craved male companionship. He mastered Max’s wide eyed facial expression, and used it to get my hugs and kisses on demand. He supported me, cracking jokes when I had to call the GP’s office to get my STD results. And I finally conquered my shame, and asked him to play doctor with me. I would say “bringing in the big guns”, but that would probably be too graphic.
We’re on the couch with our coco.
“I masturbated a lot, after last time,” I say.
That happened often. My libido could dry up easily, both within a relationship or with regard to masturbation. But after seeing Big, it would flare back up. And sustain, sometimes for a whole week.
“You fulfilled my deepest fantasy. Even though it was just the try-out.”
“A try-out? I did stuff I had to Google!”
“Well you know! We didn’t really role play. It was just the technical side.”
Big had thrown in sufficient doctor lines to turn me on, but it had been clear I was running the show. We had been at my place, and I had brought up some concerns with regard to sex. And Big came with a tempting invitation saying:
“Maybe you should determine what we’re going to do today.”
“Really? Well I still have something. Just not sure if you’re into it.”
Between taking out my minimalist but deliciously intimidating toy collection and displaying it on the nightstand – unpacking every item like Christmas had come early – I would exuberantly jump on a wide smiling Mr.Big who was lying on my bed.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” I exclaimed.
No wonder the high lasted a week.
“What’s in the bag?” Big asks, nodding to the backpack I use for everything from grocery shopping to city trips. Just never on dates.
“Everything….” I say. And smile so widely, I can already feels last week’s excitement. “I don’t want to miss out. Should the mood strike.”
“Judging from your smile, it already has. You always grin when we play.”
“I know! Because it’s everything I fantasized about. You do all the hard work, being dominant. That’s why the dominants can be hired. No one hires a sub to have a good time.”
“We could make you the first,” Big suggests. “I could pay you to abuse you.”
I’m so excited I almost shake my whipped cream out of my mug.
“Really? Are you gonna pay me?!”
I never asked to play out my escort fantasy. Most of all because I suspected it would require me to be in control, and I wasn’t sure how to get pleasure from that. I had never thought of being paid to be submissive.
“You would of course, be submitted to anything I want to do with you,” he drags his voice.
After making me wait outside, he comes to get me, blindfolding me before I enter.
He’s undressing me. I shiver, although the apartment is not cold. He caresses my skin, touching slightly longer than necessary to unhook my bra. To pull down my jeans. Holding me steady with one arm around my legs as he asks me to step out of my panties. There is something so masculine about him, so steady and determined. The anticipation, adds to the excitement. What will he do?
He places a hand on my back and maneuvers me to the table, and makes me bend over. I lean on my forearms. Waiting. He caresses my pussy.
“Good, you’re wet. You ll need that.”
I moan when he slips his fingers in me. As he slowly moves them deeper and back, he starts to talk. In that husky, enchanting voice.
“I’m going to make this as pleasurable as I can. But I m not going to stop. Do you understand that?”
I feel a warm wave towards his fingers, and say yes I do. My forehead pressing on my fists. For a moment I lose him. He just leaves me there waiting.
“Now this will be a bit cold.”
I gasp as he wets my ass and pushes a finger in. Damn, I didn’t expect that. My mind immediately catches on to what this means for our session. I think I know what he picked from the bag. The finger slips out.
“This should feel alright. Just relax as much as possible.”
A soft, slim, toy entering. Oh, I know what he picked.
More than a year ago, I joined him on a business trip. On our way to dinner, he suggested hopping into a sex shop. We cheekily browsed through the shelves and he showed me a box that said anal starter kit, which I welcomed with inappropriate enthusiasm. I was still studying all the different props on the back of the box, when he said: “Or maybe this one.”
It was called the anal stretching kit, and it had three black butt plugs. Slim, average and extra wide.
“After all, you’re not exactly a beginner.”
I liked the rich content of the first box, but I knew the second would be much more practical. The first box was a bit like how they sell boxes of assorted fireworks in the Netherlands: it looks like a lot, and it makes you greedy, but if you sieve through it, you realize there’s only a few really good ones in there.
I chose the second.
We rarely used it, because they were kept at my place. And when we did, we never, ever, used the XL.
He pulls the toy out.
“I think you’re ready for the next.”
I ve had that one. Two, maybe three times. And it helped a lot. Because anal sex had been painful. More than Big knew.
I had talked about the props with my gay best friend.
“It doesn’t hurt when he preps me first! But do you have that too? The after-cramps?”
But my friend shook his head.
“I think men and women are quite different down there.”
“Want some more lube?”
“Please,” I squeek.
And I feel a slippery finger in, and a warm palm massaging my buttcheek. He pushes in a second finger and I gasp again.
It’s standing here like this, that arouses me. Giving up everything. Suffering everything. An emotion I feel quite alone in, but in a positive way. Like the perfect solitude of masturbation. Even Big, being dominant, will never understand this dark pleasure of being allowed to surrender. Just like I will not understand his.
“Okay just relax. I will go slow.”
I bite my hand, say “Oh God”, and confess “It’s scary”.
“I’ll be gentle.”
I can feel the tip of the second plug go in, and then he pulls it back slightly. This one is stressful already. Probably because I know he’ll go for that third one after. He pushes it further in and a sharp pain, scary and vicious, makes me gasp and beg, in one collapse of body language. My mouth just says “Ow!” but only after I have recovered. After, I have found the strength in my legs again and have quickly shoved back to my position leaning onto my forearms. And before I start to cry blindfolded tears.
I hesitate if I want to step out of the game, depending on what it is that’s causing this. This grief, so bitter sweet. The dildo must be fully in now. Two hands caressing my broken back, stroking my soft hair. Fingertip following my paranoid jaws.
“Are you okay?”
The voice so comforting and strengthening. I nod. I say “It’s a bit much” only to have that confession suck me in even deeper into that lonely haze of unnamed grief.
“It’s a bit much,” I repeat.
Still not knowing if I want him to stop, and rescue me from whatever is triggered here.
There is no more talking when I feel his fingers in my pussy. Gentle at first, then a two fingered twist. I hear a condom foil, and bite my upper arm in longing. It never feels as if he initiates, or forces, but as if he’s hot wired to my brain. To the part I don’t have access to. The part that has the answers, and knows which grief to soothe, what pain to end, and when despair is a cue to give you your first double penetration ever in your whole fucking life.
I bite my arm again and the tears increase because it’s all so damn perfect. Yes, I’ve chosen.
He makes his cock linger at the entrance. My body and mind are still confused, both in their own way. Dripping wet but tensed up. Crying but aroused. His cock moves in, and my “Oh God” has never been more real.
“I love you!”
And with that confession I bury my face in the my arms, the blindfold, and the unforgiving cold hard table. The hotness between my legs and the grief leaving my body, both fighting for attention. And then I surrender to both of them, and they mix, and become my personal version of heaven.
I beg him to stop to recover from my orgasm. But he ignores it. A minimal slowing down of his thrusts, but he grips my hips more firmly. Whenever I start overthinking it he hurts me. Moves the butt plug painfully. Fucks me too deep. Pinches my nipples. He delays his orgasm in the most horrible, delicious, magnetizing way. Until finally, I feel his body leaning forward, his arm wrapping around me, his head buried in my neck, when in bull-like fashion, he comes.
There are no tears or moans left for me to utter. Worn-out, I wait until the panting stops, the heavy hug tightens, and the husky voice gives me the ultimate pleasure.
“I love you too.”
The Choice will very likely be my final story on Big, a journey that started early 2015.
I will publish my English erotica together with my 2015 and 2016 diaries in a book called Big. (book 8)