I Always Kept Motherhood and My Kink Life Separate…Until One Unexpected Orgasmic Night
“This was a true collision of worlds for me: the first time I'd ever been edged and ball-gagged while thinking about parenthood.”
Byline: Elle Mestel
I'm the queen of compartmentalization: scientist, mom, writer, nice Jewish girl from Westchesta, incurable deviant. My kinks, my kids, and my career ambitions have long lived in separate circles on life's sprawling Venn diagram.
So it was a novel experience to find myself at Eli's apartment, back speckled with tooth marks, wondering whether the sounds of our long-anticipated fuck-fest would disturb the sleep of their very pregnant wife. This was a true collision of worlds for me: the first time I'd ever been edged and ball-gagged while thinking about parenthood.
See, in my heart of hearts, I'm a service sub who gets off on words, fear, and attention. Degrade and humiliate me, make me feel useful, scare me with pain, pull my hair, look into my face—I'll puddle on the bedspread, ready for you. But I'm also a happily partnered mother of two in my late 30s. Someone in a position of power at work. I've been slowly displaced from the NYC kink and poly scene by a Ph.D., a pandemic, growing and feeding two people with my body, and a move across the US.
Yet there was a time, some years ago, when I would crawl into bed wet and bruised on a Tuesday night, Hitachi-ing myself into oblivion, waking to spout lies about my evening to old friends and classmates. I led a secret underground life as an orgy fluffer, a piece of party furniture, a toy to be used by select groups of lovers and strangers. I crafted elaborate, mind-bending, verbal humiliation scenes with friends who knew nothing about my professional life. I ducked out of academia to attend kink weekends, seeking release from the anxiety of my ambitions. I was no more than an object in those spaces. I didn't have to talk about anything other than sex and power. It was transformative and exhilarating. Alas, those wild nights, once a norm, are now few and far between.
But around the holidays, the opportunity arose to pay Eli a visit, and I jumped on it. We had reconnected in early 2020 at a huge BDSM sex party at an NYC hotel, days after I'd stopped breastfeeding, weeks before COVID hit. Our fiery chemistry and my cross-country move gave way to three years of anticipatory, outrageous sexting punctuated by a few brief, explosive meetings.
After visiting family outside Manhattan for New Year's, my husband had to return home, but I decided to stay with my kids for an extra couple of days, mainly to secure an encounter with Eli.
Tonight was going to be the first time in eighteen months that we'd touched. But first, dinner out with Eli and their wife. I went in wary, not for fear of hanging with a partner's primary, but because I wasn't sure which of my selves to be. These were poly folks; they were also about to become parents. Was I supposed to be the slut or the mom?
To my surprise, Eli and their wife were interested in knowing me—both the slut and the mom. What a revelation to talk about birth and parenting fears with people from my circle of debauchery. Gushing about my kids with a casual long-distance playmate was intimate and unexpectedly sexy.
I realized that I'd been gearing up for this with Eli, testing the walls I'd erected between motherhood and sex object, with their degrading DMs. “When everyone else abandons you for being too old or too stretched out, I’d still buy you at the thrift shop and use you for a blowjob while I look at classic porn mags that I spent more money on than you,” they once messaged me. I must have jerked off thinking about those words for six months.
After dinner, we walked back to their place, and Eli's wife said a graceful goodnight.
"Okay, strip. Everything off," Eli said the moment we were alone. My favorite command. These days nudity makes me feel sexier than lace and high panty lines. There’s something easier about baring it all at once: belly spattered with stretch marks, nipples dipping into their own folds, pussy wider, stronger, needier—everything a little softer, looser, and free.
We hurled ourselves onto the bed and at each other, all tongues, gliding hands, and involuntary moans. It was unreal. The last time we were together in person I was five months pregnant, and we still managed some gorgeous bruises. Even then, with a toddler at home and my belly taut and riddled with heartburn, I'd managed to tuck the mom part of me into a box somewhere while the pain slut came out to play. Tonight felt different—more tenderness, more connection. Less compartmentalization.
Eli watched and felt me squirm, placing bites on my clavicle and back. They licked wetly up from my chin to cheek to feel me recoil—to see how I was going to retaliate. I was playful at first but then pushed back—wanting their weight on me, their hands on my wrists. I wanted to feel fear. “I want you to fucking flatten me,” I said.
They threw me to the foot of the bed, their cock down my throat. Sharp thrusts, nasal moans, holding it there until I thought I might lose consciousness or my dinner.
I came up mad. “You think you’re in charge,” I growled, “But you know I could really fucking hurt you with my mouth.”
“Oh is that right? Then try it,” they said, shoving my mouth back down to choke on their cock, spitting in my face as I gagged.
Up again, disgusted but on fire, saliva sliding down my face, fingering my dripping wet hole, I looked hard at Eli and said, “I can spit, too, you know.”
At that, they jerked me back up onto the bed. They looked me right in the eyes and dared, “Do it.”
I smirked a little and did a fakeout, testing.
“Fucking spit on me.”
I hesitated, scared now. “No. No, I’m sorry, sir. I won’t.”
“Do it!” they roared. “Spit on me!” They were still slightly above me, gripping my unraveling ponytail, staring me in the face.
“I can be good. I want to be good.”
“Spit on me. Now!”
Riled up, I spat a huge gob. It landed where their cheek, nose, and eyelid touched.
Immediately I found myself on my stomach, their full weight on my back, struggling to breathe. Fully immobilized, their hand wiping my own saliva into my face and neck. "That's what you want, you slut. That's what you came out here for."
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