Switch

CN: masturbation, zoom dates, some dirty talk including slurs (bitch, cunt, whore), D/s and power dynamics. All characters are over 18 and consenting adults.

I tried to forget you were there. Watching me. Or, you could be, any time you looked over from your work meeting to our Zoom window. I tried to just fuck myself and get off how I would if no one was watching. I flung my arm over my eyes, I let myself bite my upper arm (and suck, the way my mouth craves, so deeply, lately.)

I couldn’t entirely forget, ever, of course. I wanted you to see me, wanted to distract you, wanted your attention on me. (Fuck, how I crave that gaze of yours, that way you look at me as if I am the only thing that matters.) The sound was muted, but you know my noises well enough by now. You could fill in the moans and growls, the gasps and heavy breathing.

Maybe what you don’t know is how much I talk to myself while I jerk off: that’s right. Good. I need it. Almost over; just a little more for me. You’ve heard me say those things, but maybe you haven’t heard the slurs and brutality that can also come from my mouth: you dirty fucking bitch. Such a cocktease. You knew this is what happens, when you get me all worked up like this. Now, you’re gonna get it. You’re going to fucking take it, until I’ve had enough. Give me that cunt, you fucking whore. Until I’m done with you.

I haven’t talked to you like that.

(Yet.)

I covered my mouth as I said this things, while you watched. (While you could be watching.) I thought of you, watching me be brutal with someone else, watching the way my hips thrust and my tongue gets loose, watching me take and demand — that pleasure of surrender that I just can’t get enough of. I thought of your gaze on me, the way we would kiss after we tended to whoever it was, gave them snacks and praise and something warm and sweet to drink, and called them a car. About how swift you’d come to me, close the distance between us.

“You’re in your power,” you’d say. “I love seeing you in your power.”

And I love seeing you in yours.

I’d be in that bleary, tender, open place of post-orgasm, drunk on the bliss of my trust fetish fulfilled. Pliable. Channeling. Eager. Strong.

When you had enough snacks, when you had enough of looking at me and wanting, that’s when you’d kiss me. I’d palm the back of your neck that way you like me to, and you’d take me to bed, to our own safe, crisp sheets. To our own skin, electric and thrumming for each other; to the literacy of our bodies knowing, recognizing each other.

And you’d say, “Our turn,” and switch off the light.

After the orgasm quaked through me, after I let the aftershocks come and rush through all of those stuck places that are screaming with grief, loosening them just a little, dislodging some of the buildup that I can never seen to wash clean away. 

After all that, I looked up, and you were watching me. You’d seen everything. And you were beaming, just for me.

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