Anatomical Power

I feel the power. It practically consumes me.

He sits, fully nude, in his favorite recliner. He leans back, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. All is dark, save for the moonlight passing through the thin curtains and illuminating his face.

I kneel before him, between his knees, where I feel so comfortable. I am just as naked as he – unless one counts the four earrings in each ear – but I am not graced by the moonlight. My fingers gently stroke and caress and squeeze his rigid hardness, that one aspect of human anatomy belonging to only forty-seven perfect of the world's population, yet it allows the minority to have such power over the majority.

As I fondle that anatomy with my fingers and caress it with my eyes, I am all too aware of its symbolism. I am also very keenly aware of its power, surging behind the symbolism, gathering behind the hair-thin dam and waiting to unleash its fury upon or within me.

I smile at that thought, and my body cries with happiness, its tears trickling down my thighs.

The blood – I can feel the blood flowing within, reinforcing his manhood, further strengthening that symbolism and continuing to heighten its power. In this state, it is as stern as a stereotypical drill sergeant, as angry as a Class 5 tornado, as strong as titanium, as hot as the sun itself. In my mind's eye, I see it as a missile, ready to penetrate my body and cause me to explode; I also envision it as a fire hose, ready to put out the burning need deep inside me.

A small, thin, clear drop forms at the tip. It seems so innocent, so pure, so out of place. Leaning forward, I flick it away with a quick, tentative lick, and I hear his breath catch momentarily. The taste of that drop is sweet, as is the sound of his breath above me, and I savor both immensely.

But now that my tongue has just briefly caressed the all-important anatomy, I NEED to take him into my body, into my mouth. I move forward, slowly, allowing the bulbous tip to separate my painted lips, to violate my mouth. With my eyes closed, I can truly feel and focus upon the twitches, both between my fingers and between my lips. His hands brush my hair thoughtfully out of the way and come to rest on either side of my head; he does not guide me, but I know he likes to hold back my hair, and I appreciate his kind, loving gesture.

I continue to descend, slowly, taking more of that symbolic, powerful anatomy into me. I want to ingest it completely, I want to swallow it all in a single satisfying gulp, but I have yet to learn the art of deep-throating. Yet, my mouth is too tiny and his anatomy too lengthy for me to ever hope to be able to press my lips against its base.

The power of the anatomy inside my mouth and between my fingers is almost overwhelming. Although I am typically a fiercely-independent woman well on her way up the corporate ladder, the sight – or even the mere mention – of this anatomy causes me to swoon. Here I am, a member of the majority, kneeling before a member of the minority, yet I feel – deep in my heart, I absolutely, positively, undoubtedly KNOW – that this is where I belong: on my knees, between these thighs, adoring and even worshipping this anatomy.

Between my fingers and between my lips, I feel the twitch again as the blood within ebbs and flows, as its power penetrates my soul. It triggers many memories of blissful violence: particularly, the initial stab which painfully obliterated my internal barricade, but also the several painful knocks at my rear entrance, and also the countless explosions of white both within and upon me.

Only because of the force of his palms against my temples do I realize that while being consumed by those wonderful memories, I have been bobbing and stroking and licking and squeezing and sucking with wild, unbridled abandon. By the loud sounds coming from above me, I know the explosion of white is near, very near.

But I want to worship this anatomy even longer – I do not want to feel the explosion just yet, even though my body cries, pleading for that very end. I back away quickly, only my thin fingers tenuously holding that anatomy which so enthralls me in both consciousness and dream. While he slowly calms and descends from the imminence of the forthcoming explosion, I continue to idolize this anatomy, waiting for the appropriate moment to continue my worship of it, continuing to feel its power upon me.