Memories and Orgasms

10 Jun

Before Sir, before my brief second marriage, there was Mike.  Mike Moore. 

When I talk about Mike, I say something like this: 

“Mike taught me about dominance and submission without ever using any BDSM terms.  He never spanked me, restrained me,or punished me, but he  surely directed me.  And I obeyed him – joyfully. 

“He set me free emotionally to express my submissive sexuality, and I’ll always be grateful to him for that.  He’s dead now, but I’ll hold him in my heart forever.”

Mike used to say, “I want a women who’ll mind me,”  – in that old-fashioned sense, like my grandmother who was from Appalachia used to say it, “Mind me,” meaning ‘obey me.’  

And then sometimes he’d add, “You know the best way to make a woman mind, don’t you?’   Whoever he was talking to – and he didn’t care who it was – would shrug or say no and Mike would say, “The best way to make a woman mind you is –   don’t tell her to do anything she doesn’t want to do anyhow.”  And he’d throw back his head and laugh.

Of course that’s right, and most of the time I was delighted to do what he wanted.   He had a few rules,  but they weren’t hard to follow.  I wasn’t allowed to undress myself, but he was quick to do it for me when it needed doing.  He shaved me.  Sometimes I wasn’t allowed to wear panties.  Just little things.  Sometime maybe I’ll tell some of those stories. 

But mostly he made me have orgasms.  Mmm-hmmm.  Pretty tough, huh?   

 “You are so sensitive,” he’d say.  “Someday, I’m going to be able to make you cum just by touching your arm, right here, by just touching your arm, and saying, ‘Cum, Aisha, cum now for me.”  Of course, usually when he said that he was making me cum in more direct ways, which made the whole thing pretty believable. 

But I’ve been thinking about this one story he used to tell me, a fantasy, I guess it was, although you could never be sure with Mike.  He’d be making me cum while he told it.  My skirts around my waist, he’d have one hand between my legs, making me cum “over and over and over,”  leaving me in a melted heap by the end.  And all the while he’d be telling me this story, talking in an almost Irish lilt, close to my ear.

“In the special forces,” he’d say,” They taught me how to make love to women, how to please them.  Most men don’t know how to do that, most men prob’ly don’t care about doing that.  They just want to fuck.  But in the special forces, they taught us how to please women so we could seduce them.  We had to know all about their bodies, the anatomy of it all, and just how to touch them, where to touch them, to make them have an orgasm.”

He’d pause a moment, “Like this,” as he took me up and over another peak.  “See, you like that, right?  Don’t you?”  

I could barely talk, but I”d manage, “O, yes, omigod, yes.  I do.”

And he’d go on with a smile.  “Women do, generally, like that.  Now, this wasn’t the special forces the government talks about, this was the special forces they don’t talk about, the one they keep secret.  So they taught us things about pleasing women so that, say we needed a place to stay, we could always find a woman who’d want us to spend the night.  Particularly if we might need an alibi.  They just taught us all this so we could use women.

“They would have liked to use you in their training, when they were teaching us what to do.  Did I ever tell you what they used to do, how they trained us?”

I’d make some “mmmm” noise that could have been yes or no.   If I could get the words out, I’d say, “Tell me.”

And he would.  “They’d be in a big room, like an operating room where people can observe.  You know, where the operating table is down at the bottom like on a stage almost, and there’s a gallery that runs around the top of the room that’s glassed off.  And the students sit in the glassed off area.  They can see everything going on down below on the table, and there’s speakers so they can hear everything.

“Except these aren’t ordinary students.  These men and women would be working for the government, learning how to do all kinds of things that people wouldn’t expect the government to want their people to do.  It wouldn’t be a big group – maybe there’d be ten of ’em, men and women, up in the gallery, all watching you.

“The instructor would make you lie on the table.  You wouldn’t have any clothes on, maybe a sheet over you at first, but he’d take that away once they got started.  There’d be a couple of guards in the room maybe, for your protection really, and they might have you strapped down to the table.  You wouldn’t be able to get away if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t want to go anywhere, at least not once they got started.  They might strap your arms down, they wouldn’t want you to be touching yourself, even if you wanted to. Because you’d be the model, the demonstration. 

“It’d be warm in there, there might be a little bit of sweat right here, between your breasts, but not too warm.”

Remember, while he’s tellin me this, his hand is still between my legs, fingers deep inside me.   Sometimes he’d pause and just hold me simmering for a minute or two , thumb brushing against my clit, making me whimper, before he pressed deep into me again and took me over the top.  Again.

“At first,” he’d say, “You might feel embarrassed, laying there on the table with your legs wide open, all shaved and exposed, while the instructor talked about what he was doing to you, while he commented on how you were responding.  Maybe pointing out when your nipples get hard.  Maybe showing ’em when you get wet, pushing your knees back up to your chest so they could see.  And they’d all be able to see you responding, hear you making noises, those little whimpers and moans that you do.  Moving your hips.  Just like now.

“But after a while, you’d get caught up in it and you wouldn’t even care that everyone was watching you, watching you cum, over, and over. and over.

“And after a little while, it starts getting to them, the people in the gallery.  They can’t look at each other, they’re just watching you, fascinated.  You know, men love it when a woman can cum over and over, makes them wanna fuck her real bad.    So they’re getting a little uncomfortable now, shifting in their seats.  The women watching, their pussies are getting wet and the men’s dicks are hard, but they’re trying to act like it don’t bother them.”

And remember, while he’s telling me this, we’re sitting on his couch, and my legs are open just about as far as they’ll go, he’s leaning over me, manipulating my pleasure with one hand and almost whispering in my ear.  I can see the gallery he’s talking about and people watching me – I can see myself on the table, open and being probed – just like he’s doing.

“A woman in the gallery breaks first,” he says, “She’s sitting a little ways away from the others anyhow, and she pulls her skirt up.  She’s not looking at anyone around her, like if she don’t look at them maybe they can’t see her.  And she slips her hand between her legs, slips it under her panties and begans to rub herself.   Her head falls back a little bit, she’s still watching you, but she’s starting to get lost in her own pleasure, rubbing her pussy right there.

“And pretty soon, another woman’s doing it too.  So wet and hot, she just can’t stand it anymore.

“Then one of the men.  He’s been watching you, and now he can hear the woman who’s rubbing herself, and kind of see her out of the corner of his eye, and he can’t stand it anymore either.  He unzips his pants and starts stroking his dick.  It’s warm in the gallery now,  they’re all warm and starting to sweat a little bit.

And they’re watching you.  The men are wanting to fuck you, and some of the women are too.”

And I can see it, the way he tells it, I can see it – me on the table, having orgasm after orgasm, whether I want to or not, while some faceless man describes what he’s doing to me.  And  above me, all these men and women, watching and playing with themselves.

And then he’d make me cum one more time, riding another wave of pleasure.  They weren’t big orgasms you know, not “rock-my-world” orgasms, and they weren’t even g-spot orgasms.  They were just that nice series of peaks that finger fucking can give you, that wave of orgams that you can ride for a long time. 

And then he’d pull his fingers out and pat me lightly on the pussy.  “Come on, now,” he’d say, while I was sitting there feeling all wasted and drained and perfectly happy in a puddle of my own juices.  “Pull your skirt down, let’s go get something to eat,” he’d say.  As if I’d just been sitting there with my skirt up for no good reason.

Mike used to say he wanted to make up for every time a man hadn’t treated me right.   And he surely did.  I tried to count up how many orgasms I thought I’d had with him, in the 3 or so months we were together, and decided it was something like – well, help me do the math.  I saw him about 5 days a week.   And every day I saw him, he’d make sure I had maybe 5 or 6 orgasms before I went to work.  And at least 5 or 6 when I came over right after work.  And another – yes, really –  another 5 or 6 before we went to bed.  So that’s – 5 days a week, times 12 weeks is 60 days, times 15 or 18 orgasms a day is – somewhere between 900 and 1,080 orgasms. 

I am not making this up. 

I walked around in a daze of pleasure.  I glowed all the damn time.  I lost weight without even thinking about it, even that last 5 pounds I can never lose.   I used to think that he really did give me at least one orgasm for every time in my life that someone else had “gotten his” and I hadn’t.  I felt like he gave me a level playing field to start from – I could never quite feel like I’d been cheated sexually again.

The problem was – there’s always a problem, isn’t there?  The problem was that he wanted to seduce me into his brand of Christianity.  He wanted me to accept a God who’s an angry white man, a God who  judges us all harshly, all the time.  Who judges him especially harshly.   

I, on the other hand, was moving closer to finding a God who was both Father and Mother, who loves us all infinitely, and who wants us to be who we are, express all the ways we are, with joy.  A God who forgives and understand.   A God who loves Mike infinitely.

One night, in the early days, we’d come home and he decided he wanted to read  to me from the Bible.  Which was fine with me, so I settled in on the couch to listen.  Of course – you saw this coming, right? – he started reading the passage about women submitting to their husbands.  Which made me angry. 

And – long story short – we had this big argument and I left , certain I would never come back again.   Which I didn’t.  Until the next day when I discovered I’d left my jacket at his house.  And when I went to get it – well, after that, we came to an agreement. 

I agreed to listen to him talk about his beliefs sometimes , and to pray for guidance, and he agreed not to pressure me to accept his beliefs.  It seemed like – it still seems like – a good deal.  And it mostly worked.

So it was weeks later when he said to me, I don’t know why you get so upset about the idea of women submitting to their husbands, Aisha, you’re about the most submissive woman I’ve ever met.”  

Shocked, I could only stare at him.

“You are,” he insisted.  “You’ll do any damn thing I tell you to do.”

I started to protest, “I do not – I” and then I was stuck.  I couldn’t think of anything he’d told me to do that I hadn’t done.  “But,” I said, “I wouldn’t – I mean, I work, I’m independent, I’m not ever going to stay at home and just take care of some man.”

“Well, of course not,” he said, “And I’d never ask you to do that. Being a housewife, that’s good for some women, but that’s not who you are.   Your job’s important, and you need to do that.  Hell, since I’m retired anyhow, if we was married, I’d prob’ly have dinner on the table when you came home from work.  That’s not what I”m talking about.

” You mind me,” he went on.  “You do whatever I tell you to do; you want to please me.   I don’t understand why that would make you so mad, there’s nothing wrong with it, that’s just how you are.”

And I wanted to argue about it.  I even said, “Well, I’d never do what you said if I thought it was wrong.” 

But he just snorted – “Of course you wouldn’t – and you shouldn’t.  But I haven’t told you to do anything wrong, now, have I?”  And I had to agree.

Before Mike, my sexual world was divided  into live vanilla sex and fantasy.  For the first time, I opened my mind to the idea that there might be some live kinky sex out there, and I might want to get involved in it.  

But that’s a story for another day.     

 

One Response to “Memories and Orgasms”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Submission « Aisha - August 5, 2010

    […] last.  If you’ve read my previous post on Mike, Memories and Orgasms  https://beingaisha.wordpress.com/2010/06/10/memories-and-orgasms/ , you know that he died several years ago.  i’d quit being involved with him before that, […]

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