The hand on the back of his head

I put the harness on in the bedroom, with him watching. He stood by the door holding the towel he had just dried the dishes with and watched me tighten the straps on my hips — left first, then right, then the one between my legs. He kept holding the towel.

“Hang it up. Then come here.”

He went out, came back without the towel and stood on the rug where he always stands — a step from the bed, facing the window. I took my time. Checked the buckles, straightened the silicone so it sat level, sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. That happens rarely: usually he is the one looking up.

We have one harness, black, with a wide strap across the hips. I chose it myself three years ago and tried it on in front of him — he stood in the corner of the bedroom then and didn’t know what to do with his hands. The silicone is the second one: the first was too big for him, and I swapped it because I need him to take all of it. He knows why I swapped it.

“Kneel.”

He went down. Knees on the rug, palms on his thighs, back straight. You could see the cage under his house trousers — the fabric lay on it differently than it lies on bare skin. I stood, stepped in and put my hand on the back of his head. Short hair, warm. Under my palm he breathed in and did not breathe out.

The rhythm

The first time I did this was two years ago, and he turned his face away. Not a refusal — he turned away for a second, and I waited until he brought his face back. He hasn’t turned away since. He opens his mouth on his own the moment he feels the hand.

I went in shallow. Silicone tastes of nothing, I know, I’ve tried it, but taste isn’t the point. The point is that he is on his knees with my cock in his mouth while his own is locked in steel and can’t so much as stir. I watched him understand it, the way he does every time: eyes closing for a second, then opening, because I had told him to look.

The hand set the rhythm. Not my hips — the hand. I pressed, he took more. I eased off, he came back to where he had been and waited. I wasn’t moving myself; I was moving him. That is a different thing. When you move yourself, you are busy with yourself. When you move him, you are busy with him, and he feels that at the back of his skull.

Within a minute his breathing broke. He was breathing through his nose, short, and on each inhale his throat closed around the silicone — I felt it through the base, through the strap, through myself. The base of the harness pressed between my legs with every push. I wasn’t thinking about it, but my body was.

I stopped completely. Took the hand away. He froze with his mouth open, didn’t pull back, didn’t swallow. Spit gathered on his lower lip and ran down, over his chin, onto his chest. He didn’t wipe it. His hands stayed on his thighs.

I counted to thirty in my head. He waited. Around twenty his shoulders twitched — not from tiredness, but because he didn’t know whether it was over. I watched him not know. Then I put my hand back on his head and pressed.

The question

He asked once, when I let him up for air.

“Too deep?”

Quietly, without raising his eyes. He wasn’t asking about himself — he was asking about me, whether he had made it awkward for me. I knew from the tone, and from the fact that he was looking at the straps and not at my face.

“You decide.”

He nodded. And the next time the hand pressed, he took more than I was pushing for. On his own. His throat clamped, his eyes went red, but he didn’t pull back until I drew him off by the back of his head. I held him there, a hand’s width from me, and watched him try to breathe evenly and fail.

His face was wet — spit, tears from coughing, sweat at the temples. I wiped his chin with my thumb and wiped the thumb on his cheek. He closed his eyes. Opened them.

“Enough.”

I stepped back. He stayed on his knees, palms on his thighs, mouth still half open. Looked at the rug, and I let him look: a minute, two. He needed that time, and I needed to see him live through it. The front of his trousers had pulled tight where the steel was pushing into the fabric. They weren’t wet; the cage doesn’t allow that. I could see it was tight on him, and I knew he knew I could see.

Mine

I didn’t take the harness off. I sat on the bed, leaned back on my elbows, opened my knees and nodded at the floor between them. He didn’t stand and walk — he moved over on his knees, and looked at the silicone sticking out in front of his face.

“Not that. Lower.”

I unclipped the strap between my legs myself and pushed it aside. He understood. His tongue went in under the base, where everything had been wet for a long time — from his throat, from my hand on the back of his head, from the twenty minutes I had spent doing things to him without once thinking of myself. Now I was thinking of myself.

He worked with his tongue the way he had taken me in his mouth: unhurried and deep, distracted by nothing. The silicone above his forehead swayed in time. I looked down at it — at my cock above his head, at the back of his skull, at my own hand settling there again — and came fast, looking at the crown of his head.

“Again.”

The second time was longer and quieter. He didn’t change his rhythm until my fingers closed in his hair. Then I let him go.

I unbuckled the harness standing up; he held the straps while I stepped out of it. Threw it on the chair. He stayed on his knees.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Not for any one thing. For the whole of the hand on his head, from the first press to the last. I nodded and went to wash my hands, and he went to wash the silicone, the way it’s done — in the kitchen, with soap, then dried on its own towel. That is his job, and he does it straight away.

In bed he lay with his face against my shoulder, as always. His throat, I knew, would hurt until morning. I didn’t unlock the cage. He’d had enough as it was: he fell asleep before I did.

• Set the rhythm with your hand on the back of his head, not with your hips. He should feel that you are moving him.
• Stop completely, for half a minute. Waiting with his mouth open teaches him more than depth does.
• Don’t answer “too deep?”. Let him decide, and let him show the decision with his mouth.
• Take yours afterwards. Otherwise it was his evening, not yours.
• Washing and drying are his job, straight away. The ritual ends with a clean toy, not with your “thank you”.