Adoration 03 1

I pull my knee back and get off the bed. I throw back the covers so I can see him naked, his penis erect. I spend a long moment looking at him, and then I take him by the hand and encourage him to get out of bed. I lead him to the bathroom.

The sun is shining through the frosted glass of the window, lighting up the room with warm morning sunlight. There is a shimmering glow over every surface -- the hard, white surfaces of the bathroom, and the soft, silky surface of our skin. The glow emanates from within each of us.

Still holding his hand, I back towards the toilet and I sit on the seat. His penis is about level with my breasts. I cup them in my hands. It is deeply comforting to hold my breasts like this. I like the way he looks at them, at my hands, at my nipples which ache for his mouth. I reach for his penis with one of my hands and pull him closer.

I used to be scared of his penis. I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't know what to do with it. Sometimes it was brazen and insistent, sometimes soft and furled. But as I learnt to enjoy my body through his enchantment with me, so I trusted that it was all right to reciprocate. I love the way the shaft can be so full and hard and yet the head stays soft and smooth, almost like velvet. I love it when it is soft and I can hold it in my hand like a sleeping creature. I love the feeling as it swells with blood as it becomes erect, as the creature awakens. And I love the extra engorgement and hardness just before he cums.

This morning I want to dare something new. I hold his penis cupped in my hands, like a sacrament, and then I look into his eyes, asking, pleading for what I want. I know he can't do this if he is too erect, so I wait patiently as he relaxes and focuses. I wait patiently, breathing, and looking at the little hole in the tip. After about a minute a small amount of urine spurts out and then he tenses. It runs onto my hands and dribbles onto my thighs. I open my thighs and it drips into the toilet bowl. I am excited, expectant, holding my breath. I want lots. I wait another minute and then the flow begins and grows until it floods. It runs onto my hands, splashes between my breasts, runs down my belly, between my legs and underneath, tickling my clitoris and vulva and anus. I shiver with delight. It is warm and gorgeous and abundant.

I tenderly take hold of his penis and aim it so it splashes on my breasts and nipples, turning them hard. For a few seconds, I aim it back and forth between them.

There is something I want to do and yet I am afraid. What if I don't like it? What if I am disgusted? But then I sense that his flow is waning and it is now or never. I lean forward and take the head of his penis into my mouth. It is beautifully soft on my tongue. His urine streams into my mouth. Do I like it? I don't know. There isn't time to form an answer. I simply swallow.

Suddenly, I am overcome with exhilaration. It is strong and salty, and it is hot. But it is not its taste that thrills me. It is receiving him into my body, being overcome with his being and surrendering to him. It is yielding to the power that can bring forth what is within. I take his penis as deeply into my mouth as I can and keep swallowing until the well runs dry. I am a vessel being given its meaning.

My vagina is drenched with his urine and my juices. I feel exultant.

And now I want to suck his penis. I want his semen.

When we were first lovers, I had little experience with men and their genitals. They were a foreign country that I ached to visit but was intimidated by ignorance of the language and customs. When I touched a penis, I became flustered by innocence and indecision. The truth is that I was fascinated but ashamed of my craving. I wanted to travel down there and stare and explore this undiscovered country but it felt lewd to gawp and give them a going-over.

A penis, like a man's desire, appears less complicated than a woman's vulva and vagina. There it is, on show and proud of it, whereas the female sex is in-turned, convoluted, involuted. But I think that the male apparatus is every bit as interesting. The penis can be like a little warm mammal curled in its nest. In no time it can turn into a phallus rampant. Yet, no matter how hard the shaft, the head is still like the finest velvet or the silken skin of a greyhound's ears. And then there are the testes, at times loose in their sac, like plums in juice, at others held tight by the contracted scrotum.

Of course, the truth is that men, like all of us, long to be accepted. They are as insecure about themselves as are women. They are relieved, delighted,

ecstatic

that a woman wants to give single-minded attention to their genitals, and will take any amount of attention being lavished upon them when it is obvious that the fun is mutual. As we became more at home with each other in those early months, I realised this about him and I gradually relaxed and spent more time in their vicinity with decreasing embarrassment.

What was unexpected, when I became more at ease, is how comforting it is to hold his penis in my hand. It is like a soft toy that becomes a safe presence over time and with familiarity. I like to nestle into his lap, with my hand around it. And it is soothing, calming to hold it in my mouth. I suppose it is the equivalent of a mouth at the breast, or a thumb: filling and satisfying. Without intending the pun, it gives succour.

There's an in-between state when it is full but not fully erect. It has heft, a weight in my hand because it is not holding itself up, yet it still has softness. It is my favourite moment.

Over time, I learned that it is an exquisite delight for him when I suck his penis. Over time, I learned what he likes best, how to bring him on and how to hold him back. Over time, I learned how, as he grows close to his climax, I can slow down and hold him hovering ever closer to the edge. I have taught him to trust that I will take him all the way and that he can relax. Sometimes, when we get this just right -- I, completely in charge of his pleasure, he, totally relaxed -- as he comes to his climax, his penis rises slowly into the first pulse of his ejaculation and his semen flows out in one long stream, filling my mouth, before following on with a coda of throbbing spurts. I think this is the best orgasm for him. He seems especially assuaged.

Over time, I learned to enjoy him ejaculating in my mouth. It took me a while. Semen has a particular consistency and taste and is not immediately palatable. But many things in life are like that. Many things are an acquired taste requiring repetition and maturity. And over time, I acquired the taste. And it is not that I adore the taste, but I do adore the fullness of his penis in my mouth, feeling how it gets larger, the power I have to control his arousal, the sensations as he starts to come, how his penis gets that extra bit more lavish, the pulsating, surging spurting, and the taking in, being fed and nourished by his essential creative juice. I always swallow it. I am being fed with the nectar of the gods. Though, on occasion we share it: it is a food we both relish.

This morning I have the taste of his urine in my mouth and the exultation of surrendering to taking that precious fluid into me. I don't know what to make of the taste. I love it but I think I shouldn't. I think my breath will smell, but I revel in the aroma. I stand up and kiss him with this urine-mouth. He kisses me deeply and I can taste and smell my urine in his mouth. This is all kinds of delicious I can't analyse.

I turn us around and make him sit on the toilet. I kneel on the floor, a supplicant between the legs of a divine presence, and shuffle forward so I am comfortably nestled between his thighs. I take his penis tenderly in one hand and lick the tip where there is still a drop of his urine. I take the whole head in my mouth and swirl my tongue around it. It comes erect in short order, but I take a moment to enjoy that in-between state of engorgement before it is fully hard. And then I take it into my mouth.

I can only go so far, but I know it is far enough. There is a point as it gets towards the back of my mouth when I can tell by his breathing that I've hit a sweet spot. It is when the soft roughness of my tongue meets the underside of his penis at the junction between the head and the shaft. This is his sensitive place. I move my mouth and tongue up and down and around, but I always come back to this place.

I take his testicles in my other hand and just hold them. Somehow, this sensation of being held is enough to add another dimension to his arousal. I stroke them and juggle them slightly, but mostly I just hold them adoringly.

I can feel him getting more turned on. I look up into his eyes to see them looking back at me. He takes my face in his hands. I feel adored. I worship his phallus. He holds my gaze and, rather than move my head, I use my tongue to enfold and stroke his penis towards his climax. He breathes faster and he pushes a little further into my mouth. This is as far as I can take it and he doesn't insist. His pupils are wide, wide open, and I know he is close.

I slow down a little so that he reaches the ending by way of a slow but inexorable climb to the summit. I feel his penis harden that extra increment, there is a moment's pause, I look into his eyes, which look almost pained, and then his semen streams into my mouth. It is hot and salty and sweet and thick like cream and generous. His penis jerks again and again, giving me more of his balm in my mouth. I keep it in my mouth as I softly hold his penis with my tongue and tenderly stroke it. I know he is immediately over-sensitive when he has cum, and this caress is enough. It draws out a few more pulses, small aftershock tremors, and soothes him. Holding him in my mouth after he has come is part of my adoration of his penis and the gifts it gives me.

Suddenly he laughs, and there are tears in his eyes. It has been good. He looks at me with his penis in my mouth and strokes my cheek. I take his softening penis out of my mouth and sit back on my heels. I open my mouth so he can see his semen. I say, "I love you," and I swallow. As it goes down my throat into my tummy, I sense he has fed me with his essence.

Except, I have kept some on my tongue. I bring his face down to mine and I kiss him with his semen and we share it with our tongues until it merges with the saliva and urine.

We come up for air. It is time for breakfast, for our daily bread. We don't wash. We don't dress. We keep the savour of semen and urine, the smell of sweat and armpit, the sweet sex-smelling wetness between my thighs, as we set the table and make our meal.

It is all adoration.