picture source unknown
If you braced their sides with a wide, blanket-tangled mattress rather than that open gape of nature, this would be a snapshot of how we fucked last night.
This would be how he had me, my throat under his hand, buried in me, sliding further, slower, deeper from behind, until I could barely stand it, applying pressure at his fingertips that exerted him nothing, but left me flushed and breathless before he finally withdrew, only to begin again.
We were so lost in that space last night. Seeing it reenacted in a photograph gave me the same storm-like stirring in my belly that I'd have had if the memory caught me while I did something mundane; I don't know what to do with myself when I'm carrying a bundle of laundry through the house and suddenly remember him slamming himself through me, bent over the bathroom sink, like there's no end inside, or shuddering under me and singing at me with his low, wet voice that I've got it just right.
But there it was, the perfect, harmonious, passionate balance we'd struck, his tender way of possessing me without even trying, the nearness of his face, half-reverent, half-pained by the want of something he already has, wants more of.
In my mind I can see it as if I weren't there, one hand held behind me, the other outstretched, reaching for the ground or the blanket or the nearest thing that would keep me steady, finding nothing, eyes rolled shut to picture what he must look like from the inside. All that mass of slick, shining skin and dark, pink crevices colliding together. There's a submission to the way I accommodate him in me, and a control regained in how I know I can ease against him just right, in that barely perceptible change of position, specific to my muscles, and make him come as if on command.
And he must be looking straight through my skull and into my thoughts, because his free hand wanders from the mass it was in my hair, and he's locked me open with the delicious strength of his thighs, legs trapped inside of other legs, to hold me exposed and squirming and touch me beyond what I can stand, to hold me until I come as if on command.
I cried tearlessly toward the end, howling, straining, chanting in my head again and again, "so good, so good, too good, too much, so good," and I love that about sex, that it can feel so fucking brilliant that you just want to die or weep or burst out of your body.
I never say that we make love, ever. Even those rare, quiet, tender interchanges are too charged to say we've made love. I fuck him. He fucks me. No matter how slow or quickly, how deep or shallow, whether he's calm and drowsy with sleep or growling, grabbing, clawing at me with his teeth bared because we've had to wait so long to do this, we fuck.
There's a power in that word. I may wield it, I may be smothered underneath it, but I am always aware of and in awe of it.