Reblogged from raininjuarez
[This little vignette is a companion to another post, written from her perspective, which can be found here: http://raininjuarez.tumblr.com/post/72238345832/she-had-him-just-where-she-wanted-him-it-might . Please do not remove the caption; if you just want the picture, copy it and blog it anew]
He thought about it a lot.
It was, in fact, one of those questions to which his mind often wandered. Waiting in airports. During meetings. While on a long run.
How does she experience pleasure? How does it actually register in her mind? She has skin like me, he thought. Neurons and ganglia and a big beautiful brain, but does she feel what I feel? How can she?
Differences in anatomy taken into account, he ruminated, was there an analogue for the intense pleasure he felt when he unfurled in her mouth? Those few moments of pleasure when he transforms from shriveled and soft and feckless into a stiff club embedded in the hot wet swamp of her mouth; what is there in her experience that compares to that?
She had told him, of course, that her muscles begin to constrict when he slowly, deliberately undresses her, watching her body as it is revealed, his eyes fixed on her like an animal assessing its prey. When he squeezes her soft flesh through her clothes. When he growls instructions to her. She says that just the idea of being taken in his strong hands makes her pussy contract. She had explained, as she rested her head on his chest and toyed with the thick hair on his chest, that this was the way her body reacted just thinking about being under him, being pulled and positioned by him. But was that close?
Yes, he had asked her, many times, to describe how she experiences pleasure, but they shared no vocabulary adequate to express these feelings.
He pondered these imponderables often.
But not now.
Now, as he doubled and doubled again in size between her lips, that sort of complex thought was beyond him. Truthfully, any conscious thought was beyond him.
Now, at this moment, his mind had gone feeble, and only his brain stem was working — and it was fully taxed just keeping him upright.
He had barely closed the front door when she was on him, nude — his pants dropped to his ankles and she dropped to her knees. As he unlocked the door, he had been thinking about getting a new gear set for his bike, and then suddenly, shock and arousal and a cloud of viscous pleasure
She worked him stiff almost instantly. Her lips locked tight on his shaft and pulled from the base to the tip, she made smooth his wrinkles, as if she were smoothing out freshly washed clothes to fold.
She liked to play with him. Her tongue darting and lapping at his balls and then traveling the length of him. As she swallowed his length, he’d feel her tongue explore the ridges and structures beneath the soft surface, as if she were memorizing each facet of him. She’d press his shaft back against his groin, and slide her lips and tongue, firmly and slowly — often very very slowly — the full course of him as if she were playing a harmonica. This allowed her to get more pressure on him than she could when she had him totally engulfed, and he invariably rewarded the effort — unknowingly — with deep gravely sounds of pleasure.
His fingers played with her hair as she sucked at him. Combed it, petted it, pulled it back from her face. Subconsciously, unthinkingly.
But as his pleasure began to steep and then roil, his fingers became more demanding and his body less passive. Now, as his fingers threaded in her hair, he cradled her skull, and his hips began to rock, then twitch, then thrust.
At this point, most of his nervous system had essentially ceased to function. His body had all but disappeared, the parts of it not buried in her mouth. As he fucked her, the thick liquid sounds of her efforts filled the room, but they were inaudible to him. He was no longer there, she was no longer there, the only thing present, the only thing occupying his universe at that moment was his need.
As he felt himself edging closer and closer to the crest, he pressed her, hard, down on his cock. He held her there for a time — a second or a minute or an hour, he would never be able to say — but as he careened towards his finish he relinquished his hold on her, as if he had lost the ability to control even his hands.
But as he relinquished her, she grabbed him, roughly, fingers digging into his ass and pulling him violently towards her. Her nose flattened against his groin and she wriggled and rocked her head, side to side, as if to guarantee that there was no more of him to have — that all of him was buried in her.
As the head of his cock firmly closed the gap at the back of her throat, he made a sharp, almost inhuman sound of climax
And he detonated. Wave after wave after wave, he came like some sort of pump, and it must have seemed to her as if his reservoir would never run dry. He came first with long jets of thick white, ribbons of him painting the back of her throat. Her muscles constricted and her eyes teared as she struggled to keep pace with his output.
Then, as the violence of his release began to ebb, he merely effused, pools of his cum dribbling from him into her, one white drop coming to rest on her lips.
As the storm passed, she continued to work at him, sucking at him, her cheeks hollowing with her effort, even as he collapsed and receded between her lips.
Slowly, he returned to the world the rest of us inhabit. Panting, his chest still heaving, snatching for oxygen, his eyes began to open — how long had they been closed? — and he gazed down at her.
She looked up at him too, to judge the quality of her work, no doubt, and in her eyes, he saw a look of pure pleasure. An unadulterated, genuine, unalloyed joy. And he considered that the ways in which we experience pleasure may be incapable of definition or explanation, but that makes them no less real.