It
had been a long time since I’d hit for the cycle. Have I used that term here
before? That’s what I call those lovely encounters when I reach at least one of
each of my four types of orgasm. Those are whirlwind nights (or afternoons –
mornings don’t generally get so far off the rails), that leave me in a blissful
state of deep love and total collapse... We’d both been pretty spun up since the
night before – admittedly, I’d been intentionally teasing the hell out of him
then, so much so that he’d given me a little ravaging in his sleep. This
happens occasionally, much to my delight. Early in our relationship we would
sometimes come awake in the night, already engaged in full intercourse, and
wonder how it had started. Neither of us sleep soundly enough for that to
happen anymore, but sometimes if the mood is right as we drift off, or if the
right dreams come in the window, his body will emerge from sleep without his
consciousness and reach for me, full handed groping my body from my throat to
my breasts to my stomach to my crotch… Actually I guess it usually goes in the
opposite direction, but either way it’s delicious and makes me feel like the
sexiest creature alive. That
previous night I’d been whale sleeping again, and he’d arisen in the small
hours like a bear still deep in hibernation, and rolled me over, pulled down my
little boy shorts and literally chewed on my ass. Then he’d pulled me bodily
against him with his hands up the front of my shirt, like he’d wanted to
submerge himself in me, if he could. He’d gone still again then, and I’d lain
there like that, with the breeze coming in the window and the mockingbirds
singing in the night, in a state of complete happiness and contentment. Time
frozen in foreplay. There had been a full day of regular life between that
frozen time and this night, but I’d been keeping those moments warm,
throughout.
It
was a good night for sweet wine and porn. It usually doesn’t take me long to
shift my attention from the TV to the cock, but it was Dani Daniels we were
watching, and I was in the mood for Dani Daniels. (Sinn Sage is probably my
favorite, but she only does girl on girl scenes and sometimes penetration is
just necessary for my viewing pleasure.) So instead of turning away to take my
husband in my hands and my mouth, I opted for starting out by touching myself.
Watching each other get ourselves off is a welcome staple in our sex life. It
has facets of exhibitionism, voyeurism, arousal, jealousy, depravity,
familiarity, empathy… It just never gets old. So I knew my delectable lover
would be anything but put off. He would be enticed and caught between the porn
on the screen and the porn on the bed next to him. I went back to the Nina
Hartley well (yeah, I’ve been binging on that a little, lately), and sure
enough, it was only a minute or two before he was luring me right back,
catching me in the same attention splitting dilemma. It’s really no contest
though. I love to watch my husband stroke his own cock. I know his cock as well
as I know my own face in the mirror, and I have memorized every single
sensation of the touch of his hands, so to see them together is very like doing
it myself and having it done to me, simultaneously – only through the
tantalizing veil of being denied access to the actual tactile feeling of it.
It’s provokingly, thrillingly, cruel. The only thing I can do, if I’m not going
to give in and pounce on him, is lose myself in the sensation of it and get
myself off, in mutually beneficial retaliation. Which I did.
After I came, smiling at him, I
turned away from him to reach for a sip of my wine. Half of me knew he was
going to come for me from behind as soon as I did it. None of me was
disappointed, when he did.
I’d been using something of a hard
version of the Nina Hartley (as I am wont to do), pulling my whole pussy, labia
held closed, clitoris sheathed, so that despite the physical stimulation,
arousal and orgasmic crest, there was none of what my beloved false historical
porn calls “bloom.” All the moisture that hadn’t come away on my fingers was
entirely contained inside me. I was shut. I’d effectively sealed my own quim.
The result was that when I was assaulted from behind (barely managed to avoid
spilling the wine), I was as close as I will ever be to virginal. (Now you know
why I stopped and told you about my head full of virgins, when I did.) Of
course it was nothing like really
being a virgin, but that’s also what made it better. (I’m still unconvinced
that more than a handful of women in the history of humankind have managed to
reach orgasm on their first try.) And of course that’s what immediately came to
mind when he had to breach the shuttered outer folds of my pussy, and what made
it especially breathtaking (literally), when on doing so, he slid into the wet
evidence of my orgasm of only a moment before. Is there a stronger word for
provocative? Because I was provoked. I was seduced. I was carried instantly,
violently, to the next level of arousal. It was more intoxicating than the
wine, by far. Have you ever run down a hill so steep and fast that you fear
your feet cannot keep up with the momentum of your body? That you will lose
control and fall before you can regain your equilibrium? I was still in that
unfixed rush of near-climactic instability when suddenly, out of nowhere, he
had lube on his fingers, in my ass. And then before I’d ever had a chance to
get a hold of myself, to regain my balance, he emptied me of his cock and
refilled me where his fingers had been. Oh gods, how he fucked my ass.
Relentless, and me on the brink of falling off the edge of some internal cliff,
arms pinwheeling and nothing to grab onto. It was the good fear, but my head
was spinning so, that as continuously close to orgasm as I was, it wouldn’t
come. It was the opposite of letting go – I had never had any control, so I had
nothing to let go of. (Serenity in a flat-spin, for the geeks in attendance,
but in a good way.)
Finally I begged him to let me fuck him with my ass, from
above. The familiar riding of cock with ass that orgasms flock to like birds.
Those were only the second and third orgasms of the evening, but it wasn’t
until later that I even realized that. At the time it felt more like the sixth
and seventh.
Again,
you’re not supposed to go ass to mouth. Again, I don’t care. I remember telling
him, with my lips and tongue wrapped around him, that he tasted “like my pussy,
your cock and my ass, at the same time,” and then I deep throated him until I
was gasping. It’s another whirl, after that. I know I came once more with his
cock back in my ass again. I know I begged him to make me “girl cum” (because I
seriously cannot use the word squirt
to describe a g-spot orgasm – it’s just too crude – and I’d just feel silly
crying out for a “number three”), and got two in a row, for the asking. I know
I had his cock in my mouth again, because I remember licking my own come out of
the divot in front of his hip. And I know that ultimately, he came in my pussy,
the kind where you feel the sudden introduction of his hot wetness on top of
yours, because he did it right after I came, the same way. Strangely, I think
it was the only vaginal orgasm I had all night. Maybe even more strangely, as
fond as I’ve grown of the #4, it was also my favorite.
Afterward,
lying wet and exhausted and happy, I peeled myself off of him to finish off my
glass of wine, and got a look at the clock. It had only been two hours. Time
and sex are a funny combination, sometimes.
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