What do I feel when you spread me apart?
When your hands - rough with calluses from playing the guitar at least as well as you play me - slide down my body; short-nailed fingers surrounding my pebble-hard nipples and plucking at them, pinching very slightly, then continuing down over my stomach and hips to the auburn thatch between my legs.
You always feel the need to get inside my head - to know exactly what I'm thinking at every point of our loving, one part of you always curious, always cataloguing, always eager to learn the weaknesses in me that you can pleasurably exploit. "Twenty-six and counting," you often laugh with a wink, casually throwing out my record number of orgasms in one session with you. We were younger then, and had more time to indulge ourselves, although the inclination hasn't dulled over the years and our responses to each other have sharpened considerably.
My legs are already wishboned at your behest; one arm trapped beneath where you lay at my side so that I can only flail it uselessly at your back should I feel any distress, the other held above my head, my wrist braceleted by your spare hand and trapped against the pillow.
It doesn't matter. I won't struggle until I'm close to the end, anyway. Until you've driven me to the point when I feel I have to fight you, or lose myself as I fly into the white hot sun you create effortlessly within me.
Expertly, you use your thumb and ring finger to hold my most private area open as you forage firmly between my legs, gathering honey on your middle finger and dragging it over that wonderful bundle of nerves you know almost too well by now, bending your head to capture a nipple and tug hard, razing it with the edges of your teeth.
"Oh- oh- oh, God - mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm." I can't contain myself; I never can with you. I can't see - not because of any impediment you've supplied, but because of the strength of my response. My eyes have become useless, unfocused, my vision turned inward with the increasing tension of my body. There's no need for me to see, only to feel.
"You're already really close, aren't you, Beth?" Those fingers are entirely relentless - slick and hot and just-right rough. When you get a goal in mind you never ease up until it's achieved. It didn't take you long to learn exactly the right touch. A better touch, frankly, than I have for myself.
For me, it's all about the loss of control. Orgasms are never harder for me than when someone else is at the helm, which is somehow kind of twisted if you think about it. Shouldn't I know what pleases me better than anyone else? Apparently not, especially when your hands are on the controls . . . hurling me towards an end that never fails to frighten me to the core with its consistent yet unique intensity. You revel in being able to make me come as hard as possible, forcing me to let loose the myriad emotions I work so hard to suppress all day, and leaving me disturbingly raw and naked in an aftermath of tears that always overwhelm me.
Sometimes I hate you for what you do to me at least as much as I love you for it. I fervently wish I could control it, like I control everything else in my life. Obsessively.
