Thursday, May 16, 2013

17. Hitting for the cycle


            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.


(Poor Michael Hutchence. It doesn't matter what you do in life, if you die of auto-erotic asphyxiation, no one will ever think of anything else when they hear your name.) 




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