Just from the act itself

September 23, 2008 at 6:09 pm Leave a comment

“Now I have a hard-on,” he complained. I’d persuaded him to come back to my house even though he was tired and wanted to go home. He was naked, curled across the bed so that I had to push him over to make room.

Poor thing. Hard. In bed with a nakey female who may or may not be interested in sexing him up.

I slipped under the covers and pushed and prodded him until he was under them too. He complained like my cat when she doesn’t get fed on time.

And we lay there, both mid-week-late-night tired.

I turned off the light.

“Nooooo!” he said.

“I’ll turn it back on when it’s time for you to go home. I’ll drive you to the T, like I promised.” And I butted his shoulder with my head, then turned away, onto my side, and hugged one of the stuffed animals on my bed. He began to pile them all on top of me. I have about seven stuffed rabbits, and all of them have names that start with “O”: Oscar. Omnia. Oliver. Olivia. It’s a little game we play, burying each other under all the blankets and pillows and stuffed animals in my bedroom. His bed, by comparison, holds a wrinkled sheet, an ancient nubby blanket, and a furniture pad he uses when it’s really cold.

To turn on my side like that, away from him, is a coy thing to do. I turn my face away, but I turn my ass toward him, and depending on whether I want to tease him or arouse him, I might press my callipygian* rear end against him. If he’s on his side facing me, it’s a very strategic location.

That night, he was on his back. But he turned, and there was tumescence.*

He pushed against me. We began to rock, gently, side to side, and then to undulate* from the hips. He kissed the back of my neck, and I sighed. Reached around to kiss his face, his stubbly cheek, turned onto my back, and he rolled onto me, pushing his hard-on into the delta of my thighs, my legs clamped tight.

It’s flattering how easily he stands to attention for me. But I wanted something else. Something less… cock-centered. I wanted him to put it away and lick me, worship my body. I was feeling small and neglected. Giving out, out, out, but not receiving.

“Please lick me,” I said.

“I don’t want to tonight,” he replied.

“Okay,” I said. But it wasn’t okay. Inside me, beating against the walls, was the little girl shouting IT’S NOT FAIR!!!! I always go down on him! He thinks we’re uglybadstupid, he’s just using us! NO!

I told her to be quiet, to go play outside. I told her we’d sort it out later. I’ve learned the hard way that there is a time and a place for that kind of conversation. And in bed, with one partner aroused and comfortable, is not the time.

He pulled back, on his knees, and looked at me there in the moonlight. He pulled my legs apart and I let him, guided his hands into the cleft between them.

“You’re so wet.”

“Yeah.”

And he worked his finger back and forth into the slickness, pulled his thumb up from the honey-pot to the little button at the top of my folds, where the inner lips meet.

“Please,” I said. I was excited, halfway to orgasm. I wanted his mouth on me, to feel the warmth of his face against my holiest of holies, to feel that softness, wetness, to feel the friction of something soft that would make me burn, burn me up, move me through and out and under. But this would do.

And I came — did I need to put down a chux? I can’t remember. It wasn’t the kind of orgasm I’d wanted, but I came.

He leaned over to the bottom drawer of my nightstand for a condom. I leaned forward, to take it, to unroll it over his hard-on, to take him in my mouth, but he pushed me back, and I went down easy, and he was there, skin against skin, and slick and hard at the doors of the temple, and I held him there, pushed the head of his cock against my clit, rocked with him there, wanting more, wanting more before he entered, until one or both of us tilted our hips and he was inside, he was inside me.

The friction of the fucking always makes me feel like I’m flying. Or burning. Or moving through a tunnel. It takes me by surprise every time. He fits me perfectly — not too big and not too small. Just right, my Goldilocks Bran, and I was moving back and forth under him, trying to fuck him from below, and he laughed and pushed my hips still, and then he was saying, “Come!”

“No,” I said, spoiled girl, turning my head from side to side. “No. Not yet.”

“Please come,” he said. “Please come, (and he said my name),” and I came, because he asked me so prettily, I came around him then and clenched him tight and screamed and soon afterward he was coming too, head twisted to the side, the aaaagh that almost sounds like pain but it’s not, it’s a pleasure so intense you can’t distinguish it from pain, and then we were both still, and I didn’t want to let him out of me.

“I don’t want it to slip off,” he said. It’d happened once before. So I gripped the roll of latex at the base of his cock, and he slumped over to the side.

I got up to pee, and to bring him a warm washcloth.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I didn’t want to…” he said. “I just wanted us to both come… from the act itself.”

And I was in his arms, and I understood, and I loved him. Heart to heart, skin to skin.

* I have hereby fulfilled my quota of GRE-level vocabulary words for this post.

Entry filed under: aftercare, being a good bisexual, Bran, fucking, how much sex is enough, i love men who love my ass, living with integrity, love, missionary, monogamy, oral sex, pleasure, sex positive, vanilla sex, who's in charge here. Tags: , , , , , , , , , , .

Sex as the result of intimacy Is it still dirty if it just makes me feel all mushy?

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