I supposed that Svitlana might have reason not to want too much intimacy with my come. She’d made choices that had meant that for the last few years she hadn’t had much to do with cocks. So she might have reservations about some of the penile by-products. I just didn’t know.
But she’d said, “Why?” As in, “why should I swallow your come?”
She might have been bratting, but then again she might not. I took the boring approach, and treated the question seriously.
“Okay. One thing is that if you spit it out, it looks like rejection. That’s why there’s so much emotion invested in it. Well, male emotion anyway. Even I might think it was faintly, only a bit, hurtful if you spit that mouthful you have, right now. I’d only feel it for a second or two, but there it is. If you really don’t want to swallow, that’s more important. You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want, but that’s why we think it matters. Also, we like it when -“
Svitlana said, “We? Who’s ‘we’?” She said this carefully, her mouthful still in an indeterminate state, neither swallowed nor spat. Like Shroedinger’s cat’s come.
“Well, men. Or doms. Or maybe I just mean me. I like it when you – meaning women, especially glamorous semi-dyke redheads in my bed -“
“Okay, that’s nice. But don’t think I’m a semi-dyke, darling. I’m a dyke. You’re a fling.”
“Glamorous redhead dykes gone a-slumming. Then.”
I’d spoken lightly and meant it lightly but I’d dismayed her. She put her hand on my arm, her face very earnest. “Oh no, Jaime! I’m not slumming. Really.”
I said, “Kiss.” I kissed her cheek. Yes, I was dodging her mouthful of my come, hypocrite that I am.
But we rubbed our faces together and that felt fine. “Bless. It’s all right.”