We join tonight’s couple near the end, boys and girls, long, long after they began the ass-grabbing kisses and over-the-bra paws and dry-humping embraces we all know better as foreplay. You, yourself may have had the distinct pleasure that the people you are about to meet are having right now—that is to say, a lengthy session of full-on monkey sex. Perhaps it was the culmination of an intimate dinner with an intimate friend and many bottles of wine shared, or perhaps it was the aftermath of a mid-day sojourn to the pub on Dime-a-Draft Mondays. Whatever it was, if you’ve been lucky, it’s happened more than once.
Sadly, I must tell you that we will leave this tale before it—well, comes to fruition seems an appropriate turn of phrase, but even so, if you continue on, I dare say you may enjoy yourself anyway and perhaps even learn something.
And now on to a bit of voyeurism at no.19 Maple Lane.
…the wall above the headboard, so he can rest his head against it. He looks down at his body, past her shifting hand, past his knees on the pillows, and thinks how used-up he feels. He’s grateful she has taken over, and he can rest a moment. She presses close behind him, insinuating herself between his legs and slipping deeper as well. She bites the back of his neck and shoulders, and strokes him, and talks dirty. Not in the shyly mumbled phrases of the neophyte—she can be obscenely graphic when the mood strikes, as it has now. She wraps a forearm around his waist and thrusts her hips and he catches on quick, more than happy to let her conduct. His body mimics her every undulation, directing his shaft into her waiting hand, sliding it free again. The full head pushes through the tight O her curled fingers make. The blood surging in him tinges the oil and spit on their skin and paints it the glistening
aubergine of a fat, ripe plum. It is hot, and distended, and pregnant with portent. That he is on the brink is very clear. He also hopes he has energy enough to revel there for a while.
The slim strap-on she’s wearing surges and retreats from his own tight slick O, while her hand plays with him like a sculptor would contemplate a hunk of marble; studiously examining her medium, sliding up and down the length in calculated strokes, then lingering for exploration, slick fingers poring over every dimple and ridge and vein. She centers on the tip for a spell, rolling it through her fingers the same way Chinese chimes are rolled and made to sing, then settles back into elongated strokes, lavishing attention on him with unmistakable appreciation for her task. Long minutes pass like this; in perfect harmony with his state of mind.
On the brink when it slowly dawns that no longer does she gently rock him on his knees or guide the penetration of her hand. Her body collides casually with his now, but she is steadily upping the tempo, colliding persistently rougher, and harder, and faster with every minute that approaches. He steadies himself—one hand white-knuckling the headboard, the other cupping the crest of an oak
bedknob. Her hand on his shaft is a blur of motion. He’s increasingly tossed about by the impetus of her thrashing. Everything is fast fast fast now, and all he wants to do is to cede to whatever force is driving her. He’s a lazy puppet swinging at the ends of her string and there is no need to plan or think—so he isn’t—only react and feel, which he is. His vacuous thoughts and piqued senses are drugging him. He feels queerly indifferent toward his body, and how it moves—or doesn’t—and so he feels detached from it. Asea and disconnected but not—no, definitely
not disinterested. All this is happening to him yet to someone else, too. He is tripping on sex.
On the brink when her fist closes impossibly tighter around him. He reflexively arches away from her hand to stop the tide. The tilt is subtle, yet it’s enough to finesse the
ergonomics in his favor. She enters considerably deeper faster than he anticipated, evincing a keen masochistic pleasure that redoubles when their momentum presses his head a little too hard against the wall.
On the brink and trying to stay there because any second longer he can last is one more second he can spend sex-crazed.
Sex, he thinks,
is better than the end of sex. He reaches back and grabs hold of her thighs, arching into…
We need to go now, but I want to tell you something first because I worry that some of you might be feeling a bit anticlimactic about the whole experience.
People can screw with total abandon—like these two people were when we left them—and when they do, the bedsprings squeal and the headboard goes BAM! against the wall and flesh smacks against flesh. They will say anything, do anything, ask anything. Their grunts, and gasps, and curses form a language that conveys more about lust than any words can. Lurid, loud, seething: they come close. But listening to it, now that’s a whole n’other animal. Its affects on him were heady to say the least and, so, what finally fractured his restraint were the sounds of their mating as much as the mating itself. He was on the brink and then on the brink no longer. He was able to hold the brink brilliantly for a while after we left, but there finally came a time when he burst through that O in her hand a split second before a white streak of cum flew. In fact, I can tell you that in the end it hit the headboard with enough force to splash back onto his thigh and the rest of it dripped slowly down toward the pillows.
And just think, a couple hours ago he’d been cleaning up after their late dinner when she called to him from the bedroom—“Honey?”— He put down the spatula he’d been drying and walked to the stairs where she stood wearing a shiny pair of come fuck me heels and a boa that covered all the wrong places.
The moral of this story is obvious—
Washing the dishes only gets you screwed.