There was the soft friction of his entry, of his stubble against my cheek, the smell of his waking breath. Attentive fingers met my clitoris, gentle, morning paced. I knew he was about to come and it turned me on. I was so close. But I didn’t postpone his release. I let him come because I liked it and it meant I could leave the scary slowness.
Awkwardness is lost in speed, as are the subtle transitions from one flavor of pleasure to another. These whiz past in a race to finish. There is so much more in the slow. It overwhelms me.
After the orgasm he collapsed on me. I love this, love the heavy surrender. My sensation continued to swim above there, delighted at the cessation of stimulation - free to feel, to stretch and expand without urge to continue. The unprovoked dance of shape-shifting pleasure… pulsing contractions and g-spot lightening bolts. Untouched, I almost came. But then it all fell - in a lovely way, much like his fall - the pulsing and inner squiggles fell asleep. I was still aroused, but he was sweetly dead on me and for a while I didn’t want to move.
When he rolled over, I lied there, supine, idea-filled and wet. I brought fingertips to nerve button and resurrected secret intensity. My eyes, when I opened them, tracked dizzily across the ceiling. There were lake sounds, the call of loons. Rolling eyes and rolling mind, sorting through thoughts. I felt a little girl, breaking rules. Was I betraying him by not sharing this? It fueled the speed of rubbing. I made quick, tiny circles. So wet I could have been underwater. Faster faster, on the edge of orgasm. So close.
Back and forth, little taps, quick circles. My body sweating and tense. Any moment I would melt around the point, I would dissolve into sensation. I paused, then returned to it. Thoughts swimming, drowning, swimming - broken into pieces. Faster, finish, go, go, go, go, go!
Covertly touching myself with a promise of orgasm. (It would mean success, freedom, perhaps even a morning nap which I desperately need). Come, come, come, come, come, come!
But it wouldn’t happen. The forced-ness prevented its arrival. How bad would I be anyway if I came on my own as he slept next to me?
“Oh! I’m sorry to wake you. No, um, really it wasn’t that I didn’t feel satisfied, it was just that I didn’t want to bother you and, well, I thought it would be easier this way. It would have taken forever. You would become ambitious and then I would start to feel bad for not delivering after all your effort. It might get awkward, you’d be bored and I would force some sort of apologetic smile.
“And if that weren’t to happen? Well, if we were to go very, very slowly…I don’t know, the consequences could be even more serious. I might cry. I might remember something awful. I might fart or fall in love with you or, who knows what? I might just die. No, better this way - fast and alone. I know what to expect. It’s safer not to go slow.”
