I’m certain I was yammering as we walked through the door. There was a plan: to drink, to cook, to eat, and to fuck.
I had assumed in that order, and therefore, was not expecting to be held by the hair and drag/pushed into the living room. That was certainly a surprise.
But when he pulled the pillows off the sofa and dropped them to the floor before me, I had an inkling.
And when he pulled his phone out and fiddled with it after ordering me to masturbate, I had another inkling.
Some time after the orgasm, after he’d given me a taste of him, after he’d told me to get dressed and make him a drink, he’d nonchalantly told me that it’d taken me 93 seconds to orgasm.
“Because you were watching me,” I explained.
Manual override on my own could take an hour. Any sort of stimulation when he’s watching me takes significantly less time.
Dinner was decent.
It was during the fucking when I was asked how long it took me to orgasm earlier.
I don’t know how the fuck I remembered the number.
But I did. “Ninety three seconds, Sir.”
He started to smack me. Slowly, then quickly, altering speed and intensity.
And then he stopped.
“How many is that?”
Well. I don’t know. Maybe it’s like the pillows and I’d had some sort of nonverbal cue. Or maybe it’s something I always do, the counting.
I could hear him smile. I felt the swell of my own pride in getting it right.
Here’s what he doesn’t know. I think I lost count somewhere after the next 20. I dropped into some altered state for a moment and when I came back….I could have sworn we were at 83, not 93.
But those last five smacks were double handed and hit hard.
Maybe they counted for two.