Relax
by sentientscribble
1.
It's always hard to relax after work.
I strip off my clothes like I'm mad at them, and my bra like it's pissed me off twice, and I flop down on the bed in my underwear to glare at the internet for a while.
But then I start to wonder if you're up. It’s late where you are, but you might be. My mind rushes out to you, eagerly, like a puppy, and to calm it I start taking slow, deep breaths.
It's an invitation. Maybe you'll take me up on it.
I hated the relaxing exercises when you taught them to me.
It was our first night together after three months of texts and sexts and long, long calls. I was so anxious to please you that I’d thrown up at dinner. You asked me to carry your toybag up the stairs, and when I blurted out “yes sir” and you laughed I felt dizzy. At two in the morning I was bruised, overstimulated, too tired to fuck, too tired to sleep, somehow too tired even to stop thinking, desperately in love and pacing around in my own brain like a zoo animal.
And you curled up around me from behind, wrapped your arms around me, held me tight, and taught me what to do. Deep breath, hold it, let it out. Deep breath, hold it, let it out.
I loved your arms around me, and I loved your voice in my ear, and as I felt the stress start to ebb out of me, I thought “God, I’m so mad that this works.” It seemed too basic, too insultingly simple, the sort of thing you'd teach to a tantrumy kindergartener. Deep breath, hold it, let it out. Now clench your toes reeeeeaaaallllll tight, squeeze them, and let them go loose. Deep breath again. Now your whole feet: squeeeeeze, and let go.
It worked, but I hated it, found it silly and juvenile.
You even said it in teacher voice when you taught them to me: reeeeealllll tight, squeeeeeeze now, deep breath, that's my good girl. An especially calm teacher, to be fair: no cooing and squealing, still calm, still confident. Just... encouraging. I did like the encouragement. I liked being a good girl, and I was desperate to be yours. Once, when you were about to cum, you took the word “little” that had always been there silently between “good” and “girl” and slipped up and said it out loud. It wasn’t quite my kink, but I liked that too. It matched the teacher’s-pet longing you stirred up in me, the frantic urge to make you prouder than anyone else.
So okay, they were juvenile. They made me feel small and silly and uncomfortable. (“You just hate being out of control,” you told me, and you weren’t wrong.) But somehow I loved doing them anyway. I kept doing them every night after the visit was over.
And I’m doing them for you now, thinking about your body against mine, thinking about belonging to you. My mind wanders. My body tenses. I start again. Deep breath, toes. Deep breath, feet. Deep breath, legs.
Inviting you in.
2.
You taught me another game besides the breathing one. It’s called the limp noodle test.
When we'd been together about a year, and you'd been my real, official, we-exchanged-vows-and-everything owner for exactly two days, you picked up my arm by the wrist, and told me to let it go limp. I thought I'd done it, but then you opened your hand and dropped it and it stayed right where it was. Oops.
"A limp noodle arm drops right away when someone lets go." Nice level teacher voice again, still calm, still patient, and I still wasn't admitting how nice that felt.
A limp noodle arm goes where you put it. I wasn't supposed to anticipate, second-guess where you want it, tense up and rush to get there first.
I wanted to anticipate, the same way I'd fantasized all month about ways I could serve you preemptively when you got here, the same way I strained forward to kiss you when you grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face close. "No," you said. "Again."
We practiced until I could do it—until I could stop trying to move my arm at all, let you take my wrist in your hand, and let you steer. Then you did kiss me, and told me you were proud.
Then you told me to go sit on the floor. Sulking a bit, I did it, climbed down and sat, my pussy hair feeling unromantically weird and scratchy on the bad carpet.
"Okay. Eyes shut. Limp noodle arm," you said.
I shut my eyes, relaxed my arm, and from across the room, without touching me, somehow you made my arm raise straight up out of my lap. Like I’d raised it myself, like it had been my own idea—you made me move it and it moved.
My eyes shot open, I tensed up right away, and right away my arm stopped moving.
I wanted to burst into tears. Someone had done magic to me—actual, real, live magic—and I broke it.
"You can do it," you said. No consoling, no jumping up to fix things, just... confident. Like it was the most ordinary thing in the world we were doing. Encouraging.
I tried to feel encouraged. I wanted to be good. Eyes shut. Deep breath. I squeeeeeeezed my hand and relaxed. Deep breath, squeeeeeezed my arm and relaxed. Deep breath, squeeeeeezed my shoulders and relaxed, and my arm moved up into the air again.
You said we were going to practice until you could move me like a puppet.
You raised my arm and it went up where you wanted it. You waved my hand, and it waved how you wanted it. You put your hand on my head, I tensed up and second-guessed and kept waving because I was sure that was what you wanted, and fought back tears, and we started again from "squeeze your hand and relax."
But by the end of the weekend, you could waltz me around the room.
You could also make me fall to my knees—not like a strings-cut puppet in freefall, but like a normally-careful human climbing down, too distracted, too overeager, as fast as she could. Like I would have anyway, like I’d been wanting too since we started. And I could have done it as soon as I wanted to, under my own stubborn power. Or I could have stopped when you made me, tensed up, stood stock still, walked away.
Instead I relaxed, and you put me where you wanted me, and I was yours.
So yeah, now I like the relaxation exercises. Grudgingly.
3.
And here now, here, half-undressed in my room after work, I start to relax. And I realize you are up, because I feel my hand start tracing lazy, teasing circles on my skin. I’m moving, but you’re the one steering. Gradually, my body wakes up under my touch.
Normally, when I masturbate, I’m, uh. Focused on results. I used to think it was hilarious when porn stories talked about someone's "hands trailing unthinkingly down to their" whatever, "wandering around their" whatever, "as if they had a mind of their own" or whatever, because that's never how I am. I know perfectly well where my hands feel good, they feel fucking amazing there, I like to put them there on purpose, and usually it’s a great decision.
You like me to wander. You have me trail my fingers lazily back and forth along my chest. It feels like I'm moving them, the muscles engage like I was flexing them, the joints bend and the tendons move. But as long as I don’t rush, don’t anticipate, it’s all you.
I want to rush. I want to cum for you. I want to cum for you now, soonest, desperately. I want to be so, so urgently good, strain, push, finish early, fucking excel.
But you’ve told me time and again: now that I belong to you, being good means relaxing.
So I relax, and my hand moves, with a mind of its own for real, and slowly works its way down to cup my breast.
And when it does, I can't help it—I arch my back and sigh luxuriously. Even at my most frantic, wound up, and in control, I have to admit the wandering feels good.
That arched back is a problem, though. You wouldn't like that.
Well, you would—you love the way I move my body when I'm horny and want more. You'd chuckle and watch greedily as the small of my back rose off the bed and my breasts and tummy pushed into the air, and I'd feel your eyes traveling over them and down to where my panties hide my cunt. (Cunt. Cunt cunt cunt. That's your word, not mine, and you say it in the absolute opposite of teacher voice, nasty and sharp, and it still makes me feel like your very favorite pet.) And your eyes on me would make that hot urgent feeling burn hotter.
So no, it’s not a problem that my body’s moving. The problem is that I’m moving it. I'm arching my back. I'm pumping my hips a little, idly, the tiniest tensing and thrusting in anticipation of what's coming. It might feel involuntary, but I'm the one doing it, my dirty mind and eager reflexes and singing nerves.
(The memory comes back now of what you said to me one night, holding my face in one hand, slapping it hard with the other for punctuation. You said my back—slap—and my breasts—slap—and my tummy—slap—and my hot little ass belong to you—slap—and I’d better not buck until you make me buck. I feel the wetness start to spread into my panties as I remember it.)
So if I’m going to be good for you, I need to stop.
Or no, not stop. Relax.
I refocus. Deep breaths again. Tense and relax again. Tense and relax.
I get back there faster. The more submissive I feel, the easier it is to let go.
I'm good and wet now, and I’m still desperate to touch myself where I like and squirm around how I please—half of me still the overeager girl who can't wait cum for you, half of me just desperate to cum, dammit, any way I can. But the more of me you control, and the better you make it feel, the easier it is to let go, enjoy the burn of unsatisfied desire, and let my body move however it moves.
So now, with you steering this time, I move my hips the way you want me to. It’s like I do when I’m alone, but slower, deeper, full swelling waves instead of desperate quick thrusts. You have both of my hands on my breasts now, and under your control I'm rubbing them in sync with my hips' rise and fall.
My mind wanders for a while, blissfully. And then something calls my back to my body. With you steering, I’m trailing my hand down my belly, drawing circles, teasing. Inside me, part of me is straining, gasping, impatient, begging please sir please sir fuck please sir fuck fuck fuck please fuck please, and I want to race ahead, or tense, or even just stop. Anything but wanting this hard and not having.
But the rest of me trusts you. I relax and my hand keeps going where you send it. With you steering, I linger. I pause. When I reach my pussy, I enjoy the wetness of the hair before I touch the skin.
Then I grab my nest of pubic hair in my hand, already knowing what’s coming next, and I pull until it starts to hurt, and it makes me want to race ahead again (please sir please sir yes yes yes please yes).
You like to make me test myself. It would be so easy to stop, or to rush, or to tense.
But I trust you, and you’ve taught me well, and I stay surrendered to you—breathe in, and out; in, and out—still totally relaxed, still bucking and squirming at your tempo.
Now you reward me. I let go of the hair again, and I start moving my hips faster, closer to the hungry pace I would have set for myself. You’re still steering. You’ve just decided to let me speed up. (I remember hearing your voice in my ear. “Remember, cunt. You get this because I want it.”) Fuck thank you sir fuck thank you yes thank you fuck fuck fuck
I pull the hair harder this time, whining in pain, then you reward me: with a loud moan, I push my hand down and press my fingers deep into my cunt.
I draw my fingers away again (no no please no fuck please don’t stop), hold still (fuck fuck fuck fuck), bring them to my mouth to lick, no rushing, no rushing, just breathing, and then you reward me: I put my hand to work again, fucking myself greedily (yes yes yes yes oh god fuck fuck yes...
4.
"You know what else is a muscle?" you like to say — "Your fucking mouth." Opposite-of-teacher voice, usually right before you slap me, mostly when I've been sassing off like I shouldn't have. But it’s true too.
I notice from a great distance that my mouth is moving, the way someone might not hear themself having a screaming orgasm until half the orgasm is over. As you set my hips to bucking faster and my fingers to thrusting into me, I’m saying it out loud now: "please sir please please sir please sir I want to cum sir please sir…"
And the thing is, when you said it was a muscle, it wasn't just a smartass way of saying "Hold your tongue." It's true, your whole mouth is muscle, your lips and tongue and throat and all the pieces that fill your lungs are muscle.
The last time I saw you, you made it clear this was also a piece of me that you owned.
Which means I need to stop now.
Or, not stop. Relax.
I try to pull my thoughts together through the wash of pleasure. Breathe in. Breathe out. Squeeeeze my lips reeealllll tight (not hating your teacher voice at all now, but feelings warmly cradled in it), relax. Squeeeeeze my eyes real tight, relax. Squeeeeze my jaw real tight, relax. Then one more deep breath in
and out
and out more
and out more
like I've dropped my breath into a deep well, is how you taught me. Not pushing it out, not sucking it back in, just letting it go and go and go
and as I fall into the well, you catch me.
I'm breathing at your pace now.
I could stop any time I wanted. All I'd need to do is take control of the tiny muscles below my lungs and between my ribs, the ones I'm so used to controling that I do it in my sleep. But I don't. I relax. And you don't stop. In, and out. In, and out.
Sometimes when I was a kid I would have panic attacks about breathing. I'd start thinking about breathing, and then start trying to breathe, to make sure I did it right. Then I'd worry that maybe if I stopped trying, I'd stop breathing. And then I'd try the experiment and sure enough I'd get so eager and so intent on the result that I would stop breathing. And then I'd spend the rest of the day breathing very carefully on purpose, knowing it was irrational but still scared I was going to have to keep breathing-on-purpose for the rest of my life, scared I'd broken myself.
Now I'm yours. You won't let me break.
I breathe in, not because I want to but because you’re steering now, and hold it.
And I relax, I relax, I relax, I relax even though my body wants to thrash and struggle
and you catch me. I breathe out.
I breathe in and I fall and fall and fall
and you catch me. I breathe out.
The orgasm builds slowly. My fingers are moving faster now, pushing into me the way you know I like, and my breaths are coming fast and ragged because you're letting them, and my hips are straining up in the air.
The last part of me to relax is the little eager-to-please voice in my head, the impatient one, the begging-to-please-you-before-you're-ready-to-be-pleased one, when I think of how genuinely pleased a teacher you must be, and how fucking hard this make you, and with that the orgasm starts rushing up faster.
I feel my lips moving, and it's your voice—no, my own voice, but with your accent—saying "Come for me. Come for me. That's my good girl. Come for me."
And I do.
5.
I leave you in control for a while, and you make me whisper "good girl" to myself for a long, happy time.
Slowly I get myself back.
I start to time my own breaths again. I'm not afraid that I'll forget once I start. You’re here to watch over me. I move my own face to smile, and my own arms and legs to stretch, and wiggle my fingers and toes, reminding myself that I could have done all these things any time I wanted, and it feels silly that I forgot. At the reminder, the rest of my brain, the not-fucking parts and the not-being-your-property parts, start switching themselves back on. And when I've come down from the heights of post-orgasmic bliss, I reach for my phone to text you a heart.
"Love you, my girl" you text back.
As I drift off to sleep, and my body relaxes in the oldest and deepest way, you reach out one more time, gently. I stir just enough to tuck myself in.