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Swelling And Cresting (the Pulse Of Desire By The...
Swelling & Cresting
We are spending a long weekend at a beautiful rental home in Hermosa Beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The houses lining the beach are in a combination of styles, some Spanish Hacienda, some non-descript boxes of mostly cement with some windows, and some modern homes with much glass and skylights. We are in the bedroom of one of the modern houses, early in the morning. The semester has finally ended, and the timing is perfect: You are in your insatiable part of the month, the lunar cycle of lust when it seems the moon pulls on your dark pink nipples as it does on the tides, keeping them taut... desperate for tonguing... and for that little twist you love when you are nearing orgasm. We brought with us nothing but steamy novels and a laptop computer for writing our own erotica. You've fantasized about staying nude the entire weekend. You've been bundled up against the cold in Canada for too long. It's mid-May, and your husband has encouraged you to give yourself a little vacation so you can write to your heart's content with no distractions.
As the sun begins to rise higher in the early morning sky, we are awakened by the streams of light coming through the windows. The pleasures we took in the night have left us still in the pulse of arousal.
The ocean outside continues the beat of its pacifying, energizing rhythm--its swelling and cresting, again and again, as it builds to a crescendo with the onset high tide. Unfolding ourselves from our sleep, we seem to absorb within us the energy of the Pacific as well as the sun: We begin again our own patterns of swellings and risings and crestings.
We are almost wordless as the tides of our desire speak through us. Nothing more is needed than soft, light touches... lips mating together, your fingers tracing my hardness, my fingers sliding down, finding you moist, slipping inside, parting you open, circling inside. You strip away the sheets and reach out for my cock and just hold it in your hand in admiration... like a surfer picking up his board before entering the ocean for the first ride of the day. You mount the board, taking me inside you, and then you steady yourself, almost still, quietly content.
You then make love with me in a rhythm that has the passion arising from deep within my loins and surging through me to the tip, and then back down, like a surfer waiting patiently far out in the ocean, resisting the smaller and medium sized waves, waiting for the best one, the one that will give him the best ride of the morning. And you are on the verge of riding a little wave of orgasmic ecstasy, but you know, in this position, on top, this morning, with me, it would be the same exquisite intensity as pleasuring yourself, but even better, for the pleasure would be shared, and as you rode me, your imagination would return to the visions and fantasies we shared in our first letters.
But now instead of words from my pen entering your mind, a cock is deep inside you, and my tongue is scrolling up and down your body, from lips down to nipples, and across: my mouth a cursor, stopping at various places to edit and revise, the tongue inserting itself here and there with a twirl or tease or touch like adding a new phrase, and you are using me again--all of me, body as well as mind and heart--to reach the height of ecstasy, transforming words into flesh.
Now with the sun mounted higher in the sky and the waves swelling up in 4 and 5 foot crests and crashing to the beach, you sit back with me inside you, spreading wide your legs, knees far apart, and with me still inside you, you play with your clit in your favorite motions, circling and circling, stopping to let me taste your finger and fellate it, and then you return, bringing yourself to the verge, following the sweet line inside of you that will hook into and hold fast the orgasm building in your depths, kindling yourself for intense pleasure, now rocking back and forth a bit on me as you start reeling in the sweet line, the demands of your clit dominating all your movements, as you breathe hard, but slowly, however tempted you are to let your breaths come short and fast and quick.
I pull you down on top of me, our tongues mate, and then you lift up a bit, head past mine, dangling your bosoms before me, my tongue stuck out, trying to catch a nipple each time as you rock back and forth, and then I just surround you in my arms, holding you tight at your waist, and thrust hard and fast and up, slapping into you from behind but below you, and like some hang glider finding the thermals, you just soar over the cliffs, over the ocean, towards the sun, a female Icarus, burning up, melting into wax, as orasmic ecstasy dissolves us into two candles melted and fused together by the fire of our passion.
We lie together, bantering and conversing, enjoying the reciprocity of mental and physical stimulation, the joys verbal and sexual intercourse. We note that we rush around so much that rush is our routine. We have no sabbath day in our lives, a day not to be caught up in the rush of our lives, a day of active rest where we go beyond what seems merely temporal or transitory. We discuss the need for more oasis moments of long, extended sex. You reach over as we talk and pull up into the bed your vibrator... better yet, your massage unit. I lie beside you, helping you pleasure yourself, giving your body encouragment in its favorite places: kissing your lips, toying with your nipples, dipping a finger or two to massage your G-spot. The powerful, low humming of the vibrator drops our voices down an octave as we deep-sea dive into the caverns and coral reefs where we find swimming fathoms below the surface our deepest thoughts about sex and the erotic.
What is most erotic, we recognize, is whatever slows us down, whatever allows us to luxuriate in the arousal of all of our senses, whatever requires us to call upon the imagination as the bridge between desire and its fulfillment, even to the point of making us beg for satiation... for the action that will end our longing, our yearning, the thickening and the throbbing, as we seek out, almost desperately, the climax that will soothe and soften us, unruffling and cooling down what has been roiling up inside of us, the waves of orgasmic energy flushing out all our sadnesses, the heat of our fucking smelting us down and purifying us of any impurities.
As you near orgasm, you turn off the vibrator for a moment. You ask me to play with myself. You love to watch my cock rise for you. I love to watch it too. We watch it together. You turn your vibrator back on. I feel you heating up to the boiling point again. I get out of the bed, and walk over to your side, my cock swaggering. You follow my cock with your eyes until I am standing before you, holding my cock inches away from your face, daring you to lick it... but holding it out of the reach of your tongue. You start coming, and then I give you a small taste as if we had to stifle a scream into a muffled moans because we wanted no one in another room to hear us. When you finish coming, I withdraw, suffering your disappointment. But you know you will get it again as you near another orgasm, and you begin taking yourself there desperately, taking me almost to the breaking point my own desire to plunge inside you and come.
Oh, yes, I confess how much I love it when there is that desperation to sex, that primal, headlong, cockstrong, cascading desire in me to penetrate a woman... to plunge into her folds, rearranging her insides, opening her up for deep, smooth, rhythmic fucking... the pulsing, throbbing action of a cock straining against its own pleasure... sacrificing its own satiation to do unto the woman what it desires done unto itself... taking her passionately to orgasm... and then shifting down from overdrive... coasting down... before accelerating again to take her for another ride up and over the hill.
When you near coming with your vibrator for the umpteenth time, I do not penetrate your lips with my cock. I flip you around so your ass is almost hanging off the bed. I grab you by your waist and spread your cheeks wide. I contemplate dipping my cock into your pussy, pulling it out, and then lubricating both of us to take you anally, the way that has given you some of your most intense orgasms ever. But I decide to postpone that pleasure. My hot cock needs the cooler solace of wet pussy. I grasp you firmly, and then I buckle myself in, and shift just from first into second gear, taking you for a slow ride, keeping my thrusting shallow to go back and forth over your G-spot. Your moanings are in the key that tell me you are almost begging for something else or something more than what I am giving you. I reach over and hand you your vibrator and you flush it up against your clit. Soon your moanings shift from blues wailing to gospel. "Ohmygawd Omygawd Omygawd Omygawd Oh my God, Thomas... Ohmyfuckinggod, Thomas... Fuck me... Fuck me harder Ohmygawd, fuck me... fuck me... fuck me... Yes... yes... yes... That's it... Ohhhh Fuckin hell... "
Your invocations to God make me blasphemous.
"Oh yes, Jenn, oh yes," I confess to you, "whatever you want... This cock is yours."
I break my commandment of legato with all the pleasure that you are taking in breaking your oath of fidelity to your husband. I speed it up. I fuck you fast and furious.
"OOOHMYGAWWWWDDDDD... ," you moan. "This is so sweet... Oh my God, it's so big."
I still my cock inside of you, and then, when I feel you stop shuddering, I plunge into you again.
"Oh Thomas," you say, when you recover your breath. "Thank you." We kiss.
Then, in our afterplay, we swear to ourselves again that we love self-pleasuring at its slowest and lovemaking when it takes the time to be neither obligation nor need, just joy and celebration and intimate bonding. We like to celebrate and worship our capacity to give love and to take pleasure in the erotic... to enjoy the sex that makes us feel alive and so thankful that we are not just creatures of biology, driven by scent to reproduce, or just creatures of lust, driven by impulse to fuck fast with no feeling, but creatures of play and curiosity, inspired by the erotic... and by love.
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