I got to Robbie’s Friday night after an unutterably long drive. (Note to self: don’t leave the city at rush hour on a holiday weekend. I arrived at 2:10am after 10 hours of solid driving; 7 is the norm.) I was sure we were both too tired to fuck and in the car on the way up I even toyed with the idea of safewording if he insisted. I didn’t think he would.

Obviously, I was wrong. After being apart for awhile his need for me is so intense it’s like an aura around him. I can taste it and smell it on him–and he swears he can taste it and smell it on me. He must be right, because no matter how “not in the mood” I am from the driving, on seeing him I am mostly instantly interested.

Lately, our play together has been so amazing that I don’t even remember it. I’d love to write about it, but I’m not sure what to say about three hours of fucking and 22 orgasms (two for him, something like 20 for me). I can’t really distill a particular narrative out of it. All I can collect are moments: me sitting, bare-assed, in front of him on a plastic chair with my legs spread wide. Me totally losing control as he hand-fucked me and squirting all over the concrete patio beneath me. Him smoking, drinking whisky, and toying with my cunt, saying, “This is so interesting, I want to spend more time here talking and playing–but you need to get fucked and I need to get blown.” Him telling me all kinds of raunchy fantasies, whispering in my ears . . .

At one point he whispered one of his favorite phrases: “You are sooooo fucked.” I used to think all this meant was that I was in trouble for something. Then I thought it meant a lot of pain. Now I understand that the trouble is a game, the pain is pleasure, and the “so fucked” is literal. He wants me fucked “every which way and loose,” as he says. He delights in taking me over every edge, getting me to be greedy, watching me take his fucking in all kinds of ways.

I remember him, in the bathroom, brushing my hair gently, as though entranced, before grabbing me by the throat and making me look at myself in the mirror. Him kissing me all over; hand-fucking me again; attaching clothespins to my nipples and labia; kindly letting me choke myself on his cock, repeatedly. Him lying on top of me in bed, and behind me, and in back of me.

And I remember coming again and again, wild with the pleasure that comes when every nerve seems to be firing orgasms. And I was so totally, utterly, and profoundly fucked.

Belatedly: Found the source of this photo . . . it’s on bunny cat’s flickr stream; photo, it seems, by Martin R. Class.