The vibrator lies somewhere between us, flanked by her damp flesh and mine. Its buzz is a distraction to my ears, but not to my sense of touch. Held against the line of my erection by her naked sex, it tingles, invigorates, leaving me with a near irresistible itch. She slides herself up and down the slim, steel phallus, running it between her pouting lips. She gasps each time she closes on the cool tip, and I picture its tiny, concealed motor whirring against the bud of her clitoris, galvanising her. I admire her resolve, the discipline that enables her to keep withdrawing from the stimulus, and then I remember how much she likes to be teased, even when she is the provocateur.
She rolls off me onto her side, dragging me through a quarter of a circle. Now my fingers can reach her properly, and I seize the opportunity, exploring her moist threshold as she holds the vibrator to her clit. I let the backs of my fingers rest against its shaft, and the buzzing transmits through the bony phalanges into the succulence of her lips. She gasps again, the gasp becoming a contented lament as I ease a digit inside her. Her mouth is hard against mine, fiery, demanding. I can savour the red wine on her darting tongue, taste every bit of her passion, of her need. I bring my fingers back to her clitoris and massage one side of its taut swelling as she teases the other with her electric friend.
Her body quivers, as though there’s a wind blowing across the bed that only she can feel.
Her mouth slips from mine. Her teeth pull at my earlobe and then her tongue dips into my ear. I shudder, then shudder again as she groans into the centre of my brain, “Fuck, I’m coming. I’m coming.”
I cup her cunt through her orgasm, taking its pulse. I want to be inside it, to be consumed by it. By her.
Normally, she eases my hand or my tongue away from her sex once she’s come. A chance to recover, for the hypersensitivity to fade. This time she doesn’t. She holds the vibrator in place, circling its tip about her clit. “Fuck me with your fingers,” she whispers, and I comply, easing two inside her, inverted, so I can caress the front wall of her vagina with each stroke. Her second orgasm seems stronger, deeper. Her hips roll on the bed and her pelvis works the muscles in my forearm until it aches as if I’ve done a hundred slow curls. This time she doesn’t groan in completion; she cries out.
My cock pulses and my soul soars.
The vibrator thuds softly as she drops it onto the mattress. She grasps my cock in its place, bringing it to where my fingers are. I feel myself easing past them, the glans dipping inside her wet heat. I should be more patient, but it’s beyond me now. I roll her back on top of me, and as I do so, I ease my length inside her. There’s an afterimage of resistance as I find her depths, and then I’m in her to the hilt.
“Ride me,” I ask her, tell her.
She rears over me, her torso stretching up into the darkness. I reach out and find her breasts, take their weight, toy with the arrogant crowns. Her hips flex back and forth as she uses me. She’s silent, as silent as I can sometimes be, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Am I still me? Am I some anonymous provider of cock, my namelessness adding to her excitement? Or is another man’s face superimposed over mine?
I’ll never know the answer to that question. Never.
She reaches behind herself, draws her neatly trimmed nails across my balls. I shiver and impel myself deeper inside her. “That’s lovely,” I say, and she does it again, just as I’d hoped she would. Then she reaches out to the side, and suddenly the buzzing tip of the vibrator is against my balls, then my perineum.
The stimulation is delightful.
Is this something like what she experiences, when she holds it to her clitoris? Akin, I conclude, but about a million times less. Maybe a billion. Not for the first time, I find myself envious of her capacity for orgasms: the number, the duration, the quality.
Play the hand you’re dealt.
Now it’s her turn to be consumed by a lack of patience, by naked greed. She teases me for what – from my perspective – is a perfunctory amount of time, then draws the vibrator back to her clitoris. She holds it against herself, rising and falling over my length as the toy – the tool – pleasures her in ways I never could. She plunges downward as she comes for the third time, teeth sunk into her bottom lip, eyes screwed tightly closed. She falls forward over me, her breasts damp against the hair on my chest. I grasp the cheeks of her arse, pull her wide so that her clitoris is exposed to my pubis, and fuck her savagely so that she has to bite my shoulder to stifle her rising scream. I feel the surge of my own climax approaching and I thrust harder, emptying myself so completely that my cry sounds like one of agony, even to me.
She goes so far as to ask if I’ve broken something.
“I’d be screaming much louder than that, if I had.”
She lies atop me in silence, until her breathing is easy once again. “Does it have any bones to break?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How does it get so hard?”
“Will power.” I laugh. “And inspiration.”
She laughs too, before nimbly dismounting me and tip-toeing into the bathroom. My flaccid cock falls back against my belly, spent and sticky-slick from us both. My mind is still awash with baroque sexual imagery, but now I must wait for my body to draw level once more. She could lie back and take a decuple of men, a hundred of them, if she were of a mind to.
A part of me always wishes that she were.