Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "A Fucking Machine May Not be for Me (Part 1)."]

The next night I went back to Nadia’s place to give the machine another chance. The second night was to be a mixed crowd: Nadia and I, the British Gentleman, and the Marketer.  They all worked together; the fuck machine and I were to be the interlopers.

I knocked on Nadia’s door.  I knocked again, harder.  Finally, the dog George came to the door.  And then the British Gentleman.  He showed me to the bedroom where Ms Boots was lounging in bed.  She looked exhausted.

Apparently they’d had a tough day at work.  So tough that the Marketer went home instead of attending our little party.  I offered to leave.  They had had a shitty day; they didn’t want to have to entertain me.  They insisted I stay.

We went to the kitchen where we proceeded to chit-chat over wine (for them) and vodka sorbets (for me).  I’ll need to come up with a better name for my drink, but it consists of a tall glass full of ice, then some vodka, then some sorbet of any flavor, then some soda water.  The bartender is to combine all ingredients so it’s a cohesive – shaken, not stirred – if not milkshake-like drink.  Best consumed through a straw.  They’re fucking good.

We chatted.  The British Gentleman was sweet enough to pretend like he was fascinated with me … which was so damn flattering.  Both Nadia Boots and the British Gentleman are such cool people; I feel so lucky to be able to talk to them even a little bit.

We made our way to the fucking machine.  He started to fuck me.  It was obvious I was feeling shy.  My hosts left us alone at my request.

Only I couldn’t figure out the fucking machine.  There were four dials:  depth; speed; velocity; and the other one.  All I knew was that it wasn’t doing me right and that I couldn’t really get into it.  I asked my hosts to rejoin me.

They did.  I was very happy to have them take over the controls of the machine they knew.  Nadia was clearly much more relaxed than she had been earlier.  She began fucking herself with a metallic dildo, the brand of which I blocked out because it was so hot but I knew I could never afford it.

The British Gentleman asked if he could play with my ass. Uh, yes.  My ass can be played with.  With which you can play my ass.  I want my ass manipulated.  I want it.  I want it.  Some day I want my ass fisted ….

I began to feel like I could come, only that I wasn’t going to come.  When I care too much what the others in my presence think I can’t come.  At least not easily.  I began to feel like I could come but that it would take a shit-ton of time and concentrated energy.

I hate that coming is sometimes that much work for me.  The fact that I was thinking that much almost definitely assured that I wouldn’t be able to come easily.  So I did a bit of a freak out.  I curled up into a fetal position and begged for blankets.

Both Nadia Boots and the British Gentleman comforted me and assured me that everything was fine.  I couldn’t help but feel that I’d turned what should have been a sexy night into a night where they felt compelled to comfort me (which I don’t find sexy).

I definitely find both Nadia and the British Gentleman sexy and fun and interesting and fascinating, which is probably why I was having trouble coming.  I can come without problem when I’m with someone about whom I do not give a shit.  The other night the Consultant made me come, twice.  I like him, but I don’t care very much if he likes me, which gives me a lot of freedom.

Freedom I thought I’d have with a fucking machine.  Apparently I need something between a completely impersonal machine and someone whose opinion I value.  Nadia later told me I confused her; “Is it deep fucking you really want or personal attention??? I seriously want to hook you up but you’re hard to figure out ;)”

The answer is both.  Some I just want for a deep fucking, some I want for personal attention, some I want for both.  It really does matter how we get along.  I’m not playing games; I’m being completely honest.

I may try a fucking machine again, but I don’t hold out much hope.

I swear.  True story.