Lady Chatterley

Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange trills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to culmination.

She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamoring, like a sea-anemone under the tide, clamoring for him to come in again and make a fulfillment for her.

She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay the crying in unconscious inarticulate cries. The voice out of the uttermost night, the life! The man heard it beneath him with a kind of awe, as his life sprang out into her. And as it subsided, he subsided too and lay utterly still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly relaxed, and she lay inert. And they both knew nothing, not even each other, both lost.

Impulse fuck

He steps inside, pushing the door closed, then her to her knees. She shoves back, feeling his body thud against the door, fumbling with his belt, his zip, his pants. He’s so hard. She takes a second, staring at his cock, salivating before pushing it deep into her mouth. How is it possible for him to feel so good?

He grabs her shoulders, pulls her to her feet and kisses her. Tearing off her little black dress, he pushes her backwards, down the hallway and onto the stairs, feeling her legs fold as her arse hits the third step. Feeling her back arch, he moves down her body and spreads her legs. She’s dripping.
Then she feels him, his pulsing cock nudging its way inside her as her legs envelop him. She gasps, but he covers her mouth. She wants to moan, struggling to maintain the silence.

Everything feels urgent. He’s going to fuck me to tears. He pushes harder and faster, feeling her breath against his hand as he suppresses her stifled gasps.
Without warning, she feels her the grip on her legs squeeze him closer, her cunt tightening in anticipation. She’s on the edge, but she can feel him quickening, urgently thrusting. Wait for him.

She tries to hold on, but she can’t. His hand closes even more firmly over her mouth. Her legs are shaking. She feels the release, the tension in her cunt subsiding, giving way to her orgasm. She feels him, too. She feels him pushing deep inside her, hears his breathing stagger, and feels him slow. Oh fuck.

He pulls himself out of her, staring at her legs, her cunt, her breasts, her hair. He pulls up his pants, trousers, zipper. He watches the rise and fall of her chest, savouring a moment to enjoy her, relaxing after the immediacy of their silent encounter.

Cake or death

Sex, ultimately, is a collaborative act.

Even if you’re ruthlessly using someone’s holes to make yourself come,
you still have to make damn sure you’re doing so in a way that works for whoever’s holes those are.

You have to worry at least a bit about how well you’re making life, the universe, and any given fuck work for the other person involved.

Is it possible to dissolve those pressures for one another for a bit?

Communicate and iterate and figure out ways to be entwined that feel freeing and joyous enough to escape time for a precious moment?

A furtive five minute fumble can bring you as close to god as any 5-hour tantric yoga-fuck if you fumble it just right.

Can we not find the right way to wring every drop of spunk from the throbbing erection life has placed in our hand?

Or is the very act of gripping it too tight liable to leave us a bit raw?