My eyes rake the ceiling in idle and vain search of cobweb or crack upon which to focus. From somewhere beside me, I hear you whisper huskily:
“You’re writing again, aren’t you?”
In truth, no. Not this time. This time I am concentrating on exhaling and regaining some composure. I say “some” intentionally, for “all” is simply a pipe dream at this point. In the space of — what, three hours? Four? — I have lost all semblance of reality, and my outer identity and sense of self have been shed like so many outer garments.
I need to remember this. Above all else, it intensifies that oh-so-fleeting moment, dissipating almost as soon as it comes into existence. A sweetly poignant memory to cherish when this bubble bursts; but one for which albeit briefly, I must burst that very bubble in order to claim.
As I drift off into the never-never land to which you succeed in transporting me, a tiny part of my brain holds back, clinging to the here and now by the skin of its metaphorical teeth, and making tiny notes in the margin of my consciousness. Barely perceptible yet spine-tingling kisses become a rhythmic stroking of my skin, in a manner precisely calculated to send delicious shivers through me.
The word “precise” sticks in my head: it’s such an appropriate word. Every move you make is precise. Accurate. Meticulous.
Your tongue glides across my skin, and I feel you breathing. With no external restraint, despite hankerings to the contrary, you have me enthralled and supine; expectantly frozen in place, barely moving a muscle — save those that move of their own volition. As you close in on your prey, encircling the final location, the delectable fever of anticipation grips me from within. I can barely breathe — I know what will happen, yet I cannot predict the form it will take.
And then it begins — more exact and on the mark than ever before. I gasp, and silently scream my bliss to the rising heavens. The meticulously detailed locale of your soft tongue inside me is of an accuracy hitherto unparallelled. If all this were not enough, you manage to indicate your own pleasure vocally, which just sends me over the edge. That tiny part of my brain loses its tenuous hold and joins the remainder of my grey matter in space, as I spiral ever upwards into sheer ecstasy.
This is an experience that I never want to consign to oblivion — and yet oblivion is the place towards which I feel myself headed.
You navigate your way around my body using your own as leverage, and I marvel at your care and attention to detail. My outpouring of pleasure is both metaphorical and literal — not to mention seemingly endless.
Yet that which truly astounds me is your own participation. There is no distance; admittedly, physical distance would be quite a feat at this stage, but mentally it would not be considered that unusual. However as I writhe in exquisite agony, whimpering with pleasure, you are there with me. I feel you. I sense you through every pore on my skin.
You are precisely where you wish, desire, and intend to be — I couldn’t ask for anything more.