A Present To Myself

I can’t stop myself from playing with them – not, I admit, that I’ve tried very hard.

It was a joke, the first time I suggested it. He had been browsing the internet in bed, choosing pictures of women for me to quietly ogle – I liked to see his tastes, liked to know what got him hard – and I was looking over his shoulder. One of them caught my eye, even before he sent it. I tapped the screen of his laptop gently, playfully, just at the girl’s nipple. ‘One day,’ I said, ‘I’m going to do that to you. And won’t you look pretty when I do?’

He hadn’t said anything after that, but that might have had more to do with the fact that I started gently nibbling at his neck, replacing any answer he might have given with moans and whimpers. He always did have a soft spot for having his neck teased.

But the idea seemed to take hold. The pictures continued, but now almost all the girls seemed to have pierced nipples: some bars, some rings; some simple steel and others more ornate. Just a coincidence, I was sure he’d say if I ever asked him about it – but I didn’t. What would be the point? After two years, I could read him like a book.

I made the appointment for him six weeks before my birthday. The way he blushed when I told him what I wanted from him made it clear to me that it was the right decision – that it wasn’t something forced or coerced, but something he wanted just as much as I did.

Poor boy, so ashamed to admit what he wanted – and why.

I gave him the option to tell me to cancel the appointment, but he never did. Some days I could tell that he came close – when the reality of it crashed up against the fantasy, when the thought of the momentary pain overwhelmed the promise of pleasure – but he kept his resolve. He knew what it meant for me. He knew what it meant for him.

Six weeks to heal, they had told me – not even him. Keep them clean. Use an antiseptic if need be. Keep his hands off them as far as possible.

It wasn’t easy to go without my favourite toy for so long, but I had timed it for a reason. When he was healed, when he was back to where I needed him to be, I’d have him just the way I wanted him. What better way to celebrate my birthday than that?

He got me other gifts, of course, even though I told him not to. Nothing big, nothing flashy – a book I’d been putting off buying, a small bottle of the perfume I had been wearing on our first date (so thoughtful…) – but he knew what my main present was. He had been teasing me without knowing it for weeks now. Every time he had slept in the nude, his firm torso pressed against my naked back as we spooned; every time I had seen him slip on a shirt before work… all of it, promising something that was tantalisingly close and yet just out of reach. I had found my mind drifting away during the day, distracted in the knowledge that he was out there somewhere, dressed in the immaculate suit and clean-pressed shirt that I had seen him wearing when he left – and that under that pristine, businesslike exterior, two small steel bars marked him out as mine. It was our little secret, safe in my imagination and the moans he no doubt had to suppress when the cotton rubbed against them.

Six weeks, I told myself. A birthday surprise. A treat for yourself. You can wait that long, surely?

I had surprised myself by finding that, in fact, I could – but now it was time to collect.

‘Hands up,’ I said. ‘Don’t move until I tell you to.’

He nodded, and did as he was told. It wasn’t a position he was unused to; his fingers wrapped around the metal loops and whorls of the headboard, finding that familiar, comfortable spot. He knew instinctively that he’d be there for a while; no need for ropes or cuffs when he was this eager to please.

I leaned down and kissed his neck, tracing a delicate pathway along his collarbone. I felt him shift beneath me, my tiny weight nowhere near enough to hold him down if he decided otherwise – but he never did. He wasn’t fighting against me. He was only fighting against his own desires. When I sat back up, he had his eyes closed, and his lips were trembling as though in some silent prayer.

‘Eyes open,’ I said. ‘I want you to look at me.’

I want your undivided attention – and I know just how to get it.

He kept his gaze on me as I lowered my head to his chest, planting soft little butterfly kisses along his skin. I flicked out a tongue and watched his body shiver with delight.

‘Sensitive?’ I said without stopping, without looking up.

‘Fuck.’ The word came out almost by itself: a long, slow drag on a cigarette. ‘Fuck.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

He nodded. ‘Extremely.’

‘Good.’

He always did love having his chest played with. He had been embarrassed about that too, in the early days – how sensitive the small pink buds of his nipples could be, how easy it was to bring him to full hardness with nothing more than a gentle stroke, a teasing lick, a just-over-the-line-of-painful bite that would make him forget the rest of the world even exists.

I felt his cock stiffen beneath me as I straddled him, suddenly firm against my thigh.

All that, from one little lick…

‘You look beautiful like this, you know,’ I said, tracing a fingernail across the taught muscles of his chest; he worked out, and the work wasn’t in vain. ‘Decorated. All for me.’

The blush that crossed his face just made me want to eat him up.

‘And it is all for me, isn’t it? All because you want to be pretty for me.’

‘Y… yes,’ he stammered.

‘Say it.’

‘I want to be pretty for you.’ I could feel the catch in his breath, but there was no hesitation.

I smiled. ‘Good boy. Such a good boy. And good boys get rewarded.’

I brought my fingers in, achingly close to the bars, and then stopped. He must have known how desperate I was to touch him and feel him writhe beneath me, but it wouldn’t do to let him think that he had any sway – not today, of all days. Sometimes I craved the fight, the back-and-forth of a lovers’ duel, but not now. Now, that was the last thing I wanted.

I watched him lying there, perfectly still, his eyes never leaving mine. I watched him bite his lip as I stroked my finger gently across the top of his nipple, watched it give way into a low, soft whimper as I gripped and pulled – a whole new sensation for him, familiar and yet strange, everything ramped up to eleven.

‘You like that, don’t you?’

‘Y… yes.’

‘Do you want more?’

He nodded, an eager puppy. ‘Please. Always. Please.’

I had denied him long enough, denied myself even longer; the hardness at my thigh was more than I could stand. I lifted myself off his hips just for a moment, and then he was inside me.

‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘Don’t you dare move. Not an inch, OK? You’re here for me. All mine.’ He nodded, and I gave him a playful tap on the cheek; not quite a slap, not quite a tease. ‘What did I just say? Not. An. Inch.’

He learned.

I enjoyed the sensation of fullness, the thickness of his cock as it twitched inside me. The way I could tell the difference between his reaction to the gentle tease and the painful pinch. I bit my lip as I watched him struggle to keep his calm.

I love you.

The way he whimpered and moaned as I rose him. The way he let me mark him as mine. The way, when we were done, I would rest my head in his chest and state at those fresh adornments and know absolutely that with every beat of his heart there was nowhere he’d rather be.

This beautiful boy.

This beautiful toy.

Marked, and mine.

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