He stopped moving, pinned her down hard with his pelvis against her ass, pressed his lips to her ear and whispered hotly and darkly, “Don’t make me come. Your pussy is so goddamned hot now. It’s going to suck me dry. Please don’t make me come.”
She convulsed a little and moaned, then drove her fingers deep into the pillows and her toes into the mattress. Overpowering his pressure, she shoved her ass upward and said, “Shut up and fuck me.”
Now he could use her own energy to drive her over the edge. “Fuck yourself,” he said. “Clench down hard on my cock with your pussy. Grab it like it was in your fist. I want to feel you grabbing me.”
She did, and he felt it. He started pumping her again, harder now. He loved the sound and feel of her ass slapping his pelvis. It made him harden and quiver.
His pumping changed to shaking. Involuntary pulsations now flailed against her rock solid body – the sure sign of solidity saying that she was sliding off into orgasm, in that way that she tended to come.
It felt like the vibration of a washing machine on spin cycle with a slightly imbalanced load, and he was not consciously making it happen. It was happening to him, to her, to them, through them, for them, because of the union of their souls expressed in these united bodies.
Over recent years, before knowing him, she had come to believe there was something wrong with her, that she was insatiable, because, fuck as hard and as hot and as long as they might, not one of her too many men ever satisfied her fully.
Now, she realized it was not something wrong with the sex. It was just that she had never felt so loved before. He did not need her. He did not want her. He chose to worship her, to adore her. He chose to love her, because it just made sense. He said it was just being selfish, that loving her was investing in a thriving business with 100% return on investment.
“And when I make love with you,” he had said more than once, “You make me master of the universe. You make God jealous that he’s not me.” He didn’t believe in God, but he believed in sex as part of soul.
He felt her pussy gush with hot liquid that was not his. It aroused him beyond himself, now taken over by forces out of his or her control. Quaking so furiously that he feared popping free of her, he had no choice but to let all of his weight drop into her, through her. She stopped breathing, not only from his weight, but from paralysis. Her body locked in iron stasis except for a buzz singing all over it like the wires of a high voltage power line.
Driven almost entirely by purely animal forces, he yet remained humanly conscious of the poetry of sex in the story of their union. On that thought, he overpowered the involuntary quaking of the animal in him and grabbed the reigns of the animal in her. He jammed her legs hard between his to keep from being flung out of her deluged snatch. She feared she might black out when he locked so hard onto her that they now pounded the mattress as one.
His humping her like this made it impossible for her to remain in that rigid phase of her orgasm. He had driven her into that hardened state, and now he would drive her back out the other side of it.
He consciously pumped her this way for some seconds before feeling his spine set on fire and ram a hot poker down into his pelvis, driving his ejaculation as if from somewhere up in his neck.
He wanted to say something to her but all that came out of his mouth was a growl, an animal roar. It blinded her mind to reality. He could not pump her any more, but pulsed in short, quaking strokes as the liquid fire ran through him and into her. She felt it rush in, and responded with a whimper, helpless to do anything else, to think, to move anything, to be anything but fucked into insanity.
He eased the pressure of his weight from her, but kept rocking with her as a second orgasmic wave rolled through his loins into hers and back into his again. They were not separate beings, only one, gone together to neverwhere again.
Each time he convulsed through his orgasm, she automatically humped backward into each one, saying with her flesh, “That’s mine. I want it all. I’m taking it all.” She grabbed his wrists and held tightly, pushing her face straight down into the pillow as she trembled between quakes, into the denouement of her orgasm, then the melting epilogue where she went lifeless, more limp than his retreating phallic meat.
He never knew a woman who rolled into and through orgasm the way she did, in its recognizable and strongly pronounced phases. Yet it was never really the same each time, either.
Once she said that she came while jacking him off after sucking him to the brink, and he did not know it. He loved the way her nipples were electrically wired to her clitoris. She said that only with him was she ever so orgasmic. He wondered how true that was, but was grateful for it either way.
He slowed to barely detectable movement, just slightly easing very short strokes within her as his penis relaxed.
He said, “You are so unbelievably fuckable.”
Words like these at moments like this tore the moorings of her heart from her mind, driving her feelings awash in ardor, dizzied.
He said, “You so horribly wreck me from toes to nose,” and added exclamation points to his words with a few gentle but firm pumps, pulsing the last of himself oozing into her before he let himself collapse in sweat-drenched exhaustion.
She turned to jelly in mind and body, and her heart liquefied. Tears filled her eyes, but did not roll out.
He slid off her but continued holding her. He did not like to flop off her onto his back on the mattress as if to say, “I’m done.” It seemed a stupid way to complete such an experience of union and ecstasy. He felt that her orgasm was a gift to him, that her release was for him, toward him, with him, making him feel worthy of her power. He cherished the honor of participating in her orgasms.
On his side, he eased one arm under her and the other around her, stroking her with big hands in long, wide swaths from her shoulders, down her back, over her buttocks and into her thighs. His height and long limbs gave him access to any part of her smaller frame.
She snuggled into him, low enough to get an arm under his and around him. She made featherweight fingertip strokes around his shoulder blades and middle of his back. He loved that. He loved the way it tickled just enough to be defined as a tickle, but more a kind of massage, a lacing of his body with the silk of her affection.
He grasped the hair on the back of her head and held it firmly as he slowly lowered his lips to hers for the lightest kiss he could make, like a tissue dropping on her. She replied forcefully with her tongue and he complied with the deeper, harder kissing that he knew she wanted in the first place.
He slipped a leg over her waist, now wrapped around her in all four limbs, embracing and intertwining at the same time. They felt each other’s breathing and heartbeats slowing, their souls draped upon each other by the chemistry of post-orgasmic peace.
He thought about what had just happened between them, noticing the particulars, replaying them in his mind, marveling at it. He quaked a little.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just a little residual involuntary pulse left from your orgasm.”
“Mine?” she asked.
“You gave it to me,” he said. “And I love you for it.”
That freed a tear of joy onto her face, then a grin. “I wanna do it again,” she said. “After ice cream and a little doobie. It’s early yet.”
He hugged her. “Some of that leftover spaghetti would hit the spot. And the ice cream.”
He knew he would not be able to do it again that afternoon. She knew it, too. They weren’t kids anymore. But maybe after food, a long hot shower together, and a little bike ride down to the park, a little time on the swings and by the pond, and then a nap, he’d wake to find her starting a conversation between her tongue and his penis, to see if it had a firm position to take in the dialog.