Terminology 01 (just for Fun)

Terminological Problems

"Penis...ick!" Angela thought to herself. Ugly word. Perhaps worse than vagina for ugliness.

Not at all descriptive, nothing intriguing or erotic, or even

friendly

, about it.

She sat on the bed between Gavin's legs, dreamily fondling his clean-shaven crotch, lost in a major reverie.

So: a terminological problem. Definitely not "penis": what, then? Cock? Better, perhaps. At least, not so clinical. Clinical was okay in its place: after all, she'd even dissected one back in human anatomy class years ago and far away. So she knew the details, the veins and nerves and hydraulics... a marvelous, a marvelous and un-necessarily complex complex system, almost as good an argument for "Intelligent Design" as the human spine. The best drawings of it were still those made by Leonardo 500 years ago.

But none of that caught the real essence of the beast, the heat, the heart, the changeability, its honest-to-god moods, its personality (plural?), the capabilities it had to enthrall and please two people at once.

Her fingers caressed lightly: the soft core slipped about in its coat of loose skin. Her thumbnail ran gently under the helmet-rim of the wrinkled pink head, so capable (eager, even!) of morphing into other textures and colors. The edge of the helmet had a lovely name, 'coronal ridge' - melodious. Tongue-friendly. Why not equally nice names for other parts?

Back to reality. Amazing the changes this thing could go through! Soft now, shrunken, almost wormlike. But she was powerful in her own way, she knew how to change things in just a few moments. If and when, not yet. Her fingertips slid delicately under the chicken-neck skin of his loose, hanging scrotum.

Another vote of "ick": scrotum. On a terminological par with penis. If not clinical, then what?

She dandled his testicles, weighed them, felt him shift... he enjoyed her touches, loved being explored, her touches didn't have to be overtly sexual and arousing all the time, which was nice. She rolled the little footballs between the pulps of fingers and thumb, gently, eyes nearly shut, breathing Gavin's warm gentle aroma, male pheromones in there somewhere, no doubt about it.

A vocabulary problem, and not to be taken lightly, if one wanted to communicate well. Cock, that would do: like "cunt", it could be pejorative if delivered harshly, but could also be loving, sexy, personal, intimate... 'penis' seemed inherently devoid of intimacy.

Balls: that always worked, it, too, was friendly, could even be sexy. Besides, it was descriptive in a way "testicles" simply could never comprehend. So, she pondered... did "balls" necessarily include the sac they came in? Probably so. Good: fewer words to worry about - but was that actually a good thing? Did she want to be a terminological 'lumper' or a 'splitter'? Cock and balls. Original, not very... but capable, between herself and her lover, of conveying any nuance they needed.

Her thumbs and forefingers together stretched out Gavin's foreskin: he was right about having nearly half of it left, and about the good doctor of his infancy having cut him on the bias. She liked to play with it, was happy the doctor hadn't done a high-and-tight, traditional circumcision. Her tugging on the loose skin made a wide-mouthed skin-funnel inside of which huddled his cockhead, like an ant-lion at the bottom of its burrow. Waiting? For what? Such a nice toy! She pulled the foreskin up to hide the head completely. 'Cock-head' was ugly, no hyphens allowed, so perhaps "PLUM" would do? A nice descriptive and fairly accurate term, plum.

Beneath her fingers, things stirred, textures changed. Oh-ho! A life of its own, indeed.

Gavin squirmed slightly, as her fingers investigated the engorging shaft, textures, shapes, size, all changing moment by moment. Like a sunrise, or clouds. The way he claimed that her own crotch did. Gender parity is conserved, at least as to changeability?

She slipped a finger down against the base, the cock-root, far behind his balls, stroking down there where the shaft anchored to his crotch, felt gently for a pulse, found it. Strong, solid, slow: her other hand circled the shaft, feeling the way each heartbeat was followed a few milliseconds later by a slight increase in solidity.

Ah, yes... here, in the living flesh, was where those crotch-hydraulics she'd studied actually MEANT something! She slipped the suddenly snugger-fitting skin slowly along the solidifying inner core, always and forever surprised at how far the skin could be slid fore and aft.

She let her fingernails trail over Gavin's naked baby-smooth crotch skin.

He sighed: she knew... she was in full control now. Men were so EASY, sometimes!

Now the erstwhile worm was becoming a real cylinder, becoming marginally useful instead of vaguely decorative. Could a soft cock ever be truly attractive, decorative? Probably not, she thought.

Solid now, nicely curved, not overly thick. "Proud, it is, of itself..." so she thought with an internal grin. Goldilocks redux, not too big, not too small, but JUST exactly RIGHT!

Such a difference between this condition and earlier this afternoon, swimming in the ocean. There, chest deep in the surf, she'd slid her hand down Gavin's suit, just being devilish. Her own erectile tissues were up and operating nicely thank you, very much prepared to embarrass the bejeezus out of her when they exited the water, but how was Mr Cock doing?

"Hell!" Gavin had said, grinned at her, and then "Might as well be a dimple, Madam!"

Not an inch outstanding at the time, all shriveled, all gone gone gone. Awaiting the resurrection and the life everlasting? The umpteenth coming, perhaps?

Later, exiting the water, she had plonked down on their special beach homestead, made a little heap of the warmest surface sand, told him to lie down, face down, with his crotch on the heap. As he knelt to do so, face all quizzical, she'd slid her hand into the pile, palm up. She recalled his sigh as his pubis nestled against the warmth in her palm, the shock in his face as she slid the front of his Speedos down beneath him and pressed the handful of warm sand up against his cold-water shrivel... and how fast he'd warmed up, how hard he'd become.

'Pubis' - an unusual word, straight from the Latin, it could be either cold or warm, depending. But not pretty or enticing. And there really was no alternative term, unless one either stayed in Latin with "mons veneris" (how bloody formal!), or went with the horribly uglified English "pubic mound". Besides, lots of women really had no "mound". Difficult.

He loved being teased... it had taken her months to learn that, to believe it, the game was almost its own reward, so she had used the sand between his cock and her palm to chafe Mister Penis gently, Gavin groaning deliciously beside her, just above inaudible, the innocent crowds walking past mere feet away. But she hadn't let him finish. That came (so to speak) a bit later. And nicely done.

Now, another terminological conundrum... "erection"? Another baddie! Erections were things one built. A high-rise dam was an erection, as was a skyscraper or a bridge. But this blood-inflated cock, not hardly. Oh, hell, maybe she "built it" on occasion, but the sense of the word was all wrong. Hardon was good, except that it lacked a female parallel, so gender parity was in danger. Plus, spellcheckers had to be taught the word, it never came as original equipment... a drag, educating an e-dictionary. Apropos of gender parity, she'd heard girlfriends use the term "wide-on" for their own state of arousal, but it didn't scan: too contrived.

Perhaps a sexual Nobel Prize awaited the person who first suggested a really good term and rescued parity? Wasn't the Nobel Committee supposed to consider really important things, genuine discoveries with long-term implications? If not a Nobel, perhaps at least a Pulitzer? Later, later.

Dreamily, she slipped this complicated thing between her fingers: her man's hardon (actually, according to Gavin, it was "theirs", not "his": she liked that). Nice shape. It was, she thought, absolutely amazing how well that shape fitted her body, in so many places, and in so many utterly unexpected ways. It just FIT, dammit, almost no matter where they tried it. As if her body were a universal cock-stroking machine. Very different from her own physical sexual apparatus, this external versus internal, outpocketing versus inpocketing. Nice, though.

Complimentary, matching parts. Parts simultaneously concave, convex, complex, but maybe not completely different: after all, Gavin's cock, fingers, tongue, even toes had managed to get her pussy to conform nicely to their shapes. But that was different, somehow. 'Pussy' was a universal term she would have to deal with later - it was a huge tangle of usage and meaning all by itself.

She sighed as the hardon slid back and forth, fingers, palm, fingers, palm. She almost giggled. Her reverie took on a mosaic structure... just exactly where had they managed to find places, on her body, where this Swiss-Army Cock fit? Between her breasts? No obvious fit there, she would have thought, but wait... out trotted her recent memories. Lying on her back, almond oil in slippery abundance, Gavin straddling her chest, his balls against the dimple of her sternum, her hands pressing her boobs together. Giggling, both of them, just having fun. Making a tunnel, him thrusting gently. Perfect fit. Amazing.

Amazing, too when he abruptly, unexpectedly climaxed from the friction, the little pink one-eyed cannon pointed right at her. Fortunately it happened on the upstroke, the first jet of their (!!) come had gone right over her face, made her blink at the near miss, and landed in her short, blond hair. Bang, bang!

Time for another rinsing dip in the surf?

The second hit her in the nose, the third was merely a dribble. Definitely rinse-time. Gavin had almost laughed himself sick: he hadn't even felt it sneaking up on him, and she was utterly delighted.

Home from the beach, he had insisted on shampooing her hair in the shower, and then they had wound up in the bed discussing God knows what, topics seemed to just chain together, the existence (if at all) of god... the direction seashells coiled, bird colors and the sky versus plant cover, why women and men found it so hard to communicate, the physics of waves and lycra.

Then, in the middle of things, she had sucked him into her mouth and stopped the conversation stone cold, instantly. Power. Oral dessert. They made love for the longest time.

A new piece of the memory-mosaic floated into place. Mouths, of course, fitted cocks quite nicely. Her mouth, his cock, good karma. He was nice about it, this oral business, not desperately gobbling after more than she was comfortable to give. Another, multiply-dimensioned fit of tubular cock to her own anatomy. Plum (helmet?) pressed against her palate, a perfect match, worthy of infinite re-investigation, new every time.

There was that night when they had been so incredibly hot and oral, Gavin instigating a real sixty-nine, she was a little embarrassed to be spread so wide and so close, so exposed hovering over his face, but in moments she forgot about that "problem" as he undertook to minister to her needs... she was certain that someday she would drown him in her juices, he maintained that that was one way he could die genuinely happy. Why isn't there a special, beautiful, descriptive, erotic term for a woman's lubricating juices? A terrible lack!

As to cocks and penetration, she had learned quickly that he wasn't about to thrust himself at her the way so many others had. She'd thought that such aggressive, thrusting behavior was an inborn aspect of male sexuality - until she found this man. With Gavin, it was up to her to control speed, pressure, depth... first she'd been tentative, worried, always expecting a sudden jab, but when he sensed the anxiety and explained his understanding, then proved he wouldn't, she had slowly relaxed.

She found his cock textures just as intriguing as he found her pussy. Tongue, lips, teeth, palate, all got into the act. Parity again. That initial night together, as she had spasmed into her first climax, she had taken his cock deep in her mouth, pressing lightly against the point at the back of her throat where her gag reflex always took over. But suddenly, with the angles and curves and behavior so perfectly matched for once, her throat and mouth sorted things out, her head drove downwards, and she felt the indescribable sensation of taking him past that sticking point, felt him slide deep into her throat down the back of her tongue. And she experienced no gag reflex at all. How odd.

At first she had tried to breathe around the intruder: nope, not possible. The ancient problem of the occluded glottis. Should have expected that it couldn't work: her knowledge of anatomy was better than that! Thought flashed through her head as the tip of her nose actually touched his ball sack: this so-called 'deep-throat' business was REAL! It wasn't just the purview of some few specially-trained, seasoned, professional sexual athletes, this actually could be done by a mere mortal like herself.

With him embedded in her, with her own climax raging (for once, two good candidate names for a single phenom - orgasm, climax... NOT 'come'), she managed to study his reactions. Eyes left, over to the mirror: he was ecstatic, his expression of startled delight matched her own surprise. Eye-lock. Such a picture, her lips against his crotch, no cock in sight, her lips a strained "O" around the base of his cock.

With a gasp she had pulled away to breathe, a long, sobbing intake: Mr Cock sprang free, trailing a glistening string of saliva. She giggled at Gavin, then almost savagely drove herself back down. Felt good! The thought flashed: this is exactly like riding a bicycle, learning to ski... try, try, try, until finally something clicks, and then it's yours forever, the skill never really goes away... that was what it felt like as his cock slid down her that second stroke.

Over and over again she stroked his length, a literal throat-fuck, bizarrely sensuous now that she'd gotten it right. She delighted in her newfound capability. And so did he.

When finally they had returned to "normal" lovemaking (? What is "normal", anyhow, she wondered?), her astraddle him, they managed two consecutive simultaneous climaxes, and she didn't think she had ever seen a happier man.

Then, talking low and slow afterwards, she mentioned that she wondered if she might be going to get a sore throat from all that special new form of exercise. Gavin disappeared for a moment, returned with a pint of chocolate ice cream and a spoon, fed it to her - her "medicine" for sore-throat prevention. Talking about her thoughts, they eventually decided that, between them, normal meant giving pleasure without doing hurt or damage. Pretty straightforward.

More drifting through memoryville. Other places fitted his cock just as well, all equally unexpected. Sitting naked on the upholstered dressing-table stool, facing the big wall mirror with its halo of daylight makeup bulbs. She had been there for several minutes, studying pieces of herself, wondering, worrying, seeking signs of gravity and time. Vanity? Criticality? Self-doubt? Probably all.

Arms behind her head, having finished with face and hair and skin, now she was studying her tits. She had just decided that maybe, like Gavin kept saying, her boobs were really still pretty nice, when she caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of the mirror. She flushed: Gavin had finished his shower unnoticed by her, and now stood there at the edge of the bathroom, dripping, grinning at her in the mirror. Watching her study herself. Busted. A bit of unplanned double-entendre, that!

Elaborately, silently, exaggerating every motion, he sneaked up behind her, in full view: they were eye-locked in the mirror. His cock was at full stand: she wondered - had he been playing with himself in the shower, or, perhaps (she hoped!) had the mere sight of her caused this nice reaction? She hoped so!

He came up behind her, cock in hand, pressed silently forward. She felt the soft-firm head stroking up her lower spine, one vertebra after another. There seemed to be an understanding hanging in the air between them, a conspiracy towards perfect mutual silence.

His hand snaked out to the dressing table, dipped into the open jar of face-cream, scooped. Her arms hadn't moved: suddenly, her nipples popped erect and she flushed again, waiting, wondering what he thought about what he was seeing, unable to ask... but judging from the reactions, from his movements, things were good.

The hand moved, coated her right armpit liberally, fore and aft, over the inside of her upper arm as well, trailing little ridges of white from between his fingertips. She looked at him quizzically, then found out what he was after. The long, gentle curve of his cock slipped forward along the rib-side of her pit, his hand pressed her elbow down, down, firmly against her side. A perfect-fit tunnel, another cock-conforming unexpectedness on her body. She giggled as he slowly began to hump her pit: it was an amazing sensation, having that tube of flesh sliding through the near-tickles, rather like taking a clit and distributing it widely across space, the sensations accumulating equally in the two areas, just far more concentrated in the nipple. Yummy.

She watched, alternately, his face and the appearance, then disappearance, rebirth and retreat of the cockhead, growing like a momentary tiny auxiliary tit. A large, semi-rigid worm retreating into its warm burrow. She clamped hard, increased the pressure, felt the cockhead working across her ribs.

Gavin's hands were free: the right coated the left with lube, each took possession of a boob: in moments the pair was glistening with the cream, nipples boiling, all nerves sending signals to the brain in synch: it was as if the thousand-watt halo of makeup lights had moved inside her and was strobing with each stroke. The Erotic Armpit: who'da thunkit?

Then Gavin pulled back, freed himself from her pit, slid both hands under her arms, picked her up off the seat, stood her straddled over the stool, legs wide apart. In her stomach there was a live small volcano: she needed something, needed it badly. What "it" was certainly wasn't a mystery.

Gavin bent her forward, forward, folding her from the waist, pushed all her potions and primping materials aside to clear a landing zone on the glass table-top, and suddenly her breasts were flattened, greasy-slippery, against the cold silicon, the sensation of contact with a flat, cold surface reminding her briefly of mammography machinery.

Behind her, in the mirror, she saw Gavin take his cock in hand, that cock so hard he had to pull it downwards to get the angle right. Watched him step into position, flex his knees, and WHAMMO, there it was, he was all the way into her in one long, ecstatic penetration. Ah, yes, there was never any doubt about THAT fit, was there? All the little surgical tinkering-about that life had required of her had not changed that fit one iota. Curve for mirrored curve... concave against convex.

It felt, she thought, like he might be going to do a reverse deep-throat on her, approaching from the rear. His heat communicated itself beautifully, reflected and absorbed at the same time: her juices were in full flood now as he pounded into her. Urgently, almost roughly, he reached beneath her with his left hand, found her clit, gave it precisely the attention it needed. His right hand went outstretched above them to grip the edge of the mirror, and now it was a puzzle, who was leading and who was following, his belly, her bottom slapping hard together.