She’s not easy to please. No, I have to work at it, and work hard.
My muscles ache, and I’m forced to hold myself in strange positions - my legs pushing off the headboard, my arms holding just the left side of my body up - and hold my breath at times, my lungs burning as I starve myself of air.
Gasping, deep breaths, finally. Clinging on, finding hair matted and wet, soaked strands sticking to her face and neck. She bats away at it, in quick, jabbing futile movements. I watch it, amused, but really more focused on other things. Really, my mind is elsewhere.
And perhaps it was when she swung her body around, twirling beneath me, that I considered this moment replayed in the future, that I began to falter, the actions of my body derailed from the thoughts in my head. She didn’t matter anymore.
Hips pushed up higher, she grabbed a pillow and folded it in half, shoving it beneath her. Leverage, balance, whatever. I continued to move, pressing myself deep, pushing until I hit bottom. Wild eyes stared back at me, her neck craning over her left shoulder.
“Push it in my ass!” she spat, the gasps filling in the slender spaces between her words.
My hand was holding her right at her tailbone. My thumb positioned between the converging roundness of her ass cheeks, I let it slide further down, pressing harder at the same time.
She moaned her approval. She wiggled her butt. She spread her legs apart, her hips resting on the pillow.
My thumb met resistance, but it was brief. She cried out as it slid in, the pressure around it tight and unyielding. Coming more in waves, oscillating between snug and vice-like. Burying her face in the other pillow, she came. I felt wetness beneath me, soon, my finger released and feeling myself falling to her side.
Her legs unfurled and our bodies found themselves next to each other. She had brought the pillow back up, and we lay there, heads at the foot of the bed. It was late, we both had to get up in the morning, our bodies surrendering, my sweaty head laying on top of the drenched pillow. It was a discomforting way to drift off into sleep.
I like to hear men express their discomfort. It means they have had to work hard for the pleasure they receive. I often wonder how Ruf maintains the positions into which he is forced for so long to accommodate my orgasms. I think he finds it rewarding to know that the strength acquired from all the pushups he does has not been wasted. Needless to say I am very grateful and I expect the object of your attentions is also.
“…the actions of my body derailed from the thoughts in my head”
When that used to happen to me, it was entirely a bad thing, sex became a task and an exertion rather than connection and exaltation. And that partly seems like what you’re describing.
Now that I write about sex, I find in those moments of detachment that I can absorb the details of the engagement more fully. I’m more present instead of more distant, though still not where I want to be. Your blog is full of descriptions so accurate it’s like you photographed sensations with a macro lens. That must come at a price.
Then again, maybe this isn’t what you’re describing at all.
I agree with Penny. Lately you seem really detached from the partners in your stories. Not that they aren’t exciting anyway, but I kind of feel bad for you at the same time as I read it. I wonder if you’re actually enjoying yourself, and if not, why you’re doing it at all. If I were her I would care and STOP you if you weren’t fully into it - regardless of how much my body may be loving your attentions.
So are you detached or are we reading it wrong…?
Kisses, Rose
Joanna, nothing worth doing is ever easy is it?
Penny, you’re right, it does come at a cost. I’m not sure what exactly I’m describing.
Rose, it’s okay - don’t worry so much about me. There is a sense of detachment but no, there isn’t a problem, really. Yet.
Thank you all.
Yours,
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Was there really a disconnect, or was it so only in retrospect? I feel that way, sometimes… I’m there when it’s happening, but when I replay it, I’m watching from the outside, bemused.
Marianne, no, it’s not temporal displacement. I know the feeling though; memories like watching the past from the outside. An out-of-body experience, perhaps. However, I have the other kind of memory, where it happens to me all over again. Where I am the opposite of standing to the side, so, instead, I’m actually locked within my own body, intensely aware of what is happening yet trapped in the past.
There are times when that is a good thing. But more often, it’s not.
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