Sexcation

Ahh, yes... The recent sexcation was a complete success. (I mean, Aaaaaahhh, yes, god yes, don't stop, fuck, don't stop, oh jesus, fuck yeah yeah yeah!) Such luxury, so much filthy fun for the three of us together during those few unbroken days of leisure.

So many different permutations of mouths and cunts and limbs and fingers and cock and toys and ass, so many sweaty, bleary-eyed, wordless moments stunned into blissful stupor by a flood of lady cum on my face or a perfect pounding played out in front of the hotel room picture window.

To walk with my lovers from room to elevator to restaurant, giving all appearances of a lady in the streets (and only these two know just how much a freak in the sheets). All of us cleaned and coiffed and powdered, a little sore down south, reasonably costumed in dress clothes and heels, respectable-looking enough despite the pulse pounding in my cunt with every step, the crash of blood in my ears every time he leans across the table to whisper in her ear and they turn to look at me in unison. Fuck dinner — I'm pretty sure they plan to eat me. Let's leave. Now.

To wake in the morning, crawl across two beloved sleeping bodies to shower — then immediately upon turning off the water, to hear moans and lip-smacking and giggles from the bedroom. To watch from the doorway unnoticed, drops of water drying on my back and shoulders, my fresh and spotless pussy immediately turning liquid and molten again. To wreck the effects of the shower and jump back in bed, to get sweaty and gamey all over again.

To look up from who-knows-how-long of eating a pussy I cannot get enough of and see my man watching us with the focus of a waiting tiger, eyes heavy and glazed in the bedside full-length mirror, stroking a feral-looking erection. To meet his gaze over the curve of her upturned, waiting ass and share a wicked grin.

To be sandwiched hilariously in the middle of such ferocious action that there's no point in keeping track of who's getting off with who and which parts are involved —just grab a deep breath at the first opportunity and let the surging crowd surf you to the front row of the juiciest fuck show you've ever been to, ever been onstage for.

To surrender the boundaries of all your holes, to be already so open and turned out that you're ready (... OK, hungry ... OK, desperate) for almost anything to go in almost anywhere. To be shameless and fearless and eternally ready, and to know that this is the briar patch, the stank and freedom and intensity that your body and soul recognize as home.

To realize that someone's face looks different after 24 hours of heavy breathing and petting and licking and grinding with them — whosever face that was beforehand, now it's the face of Your Lover, the primal recognition of your shared pleasure registering in the reptile brain.

For the first time to stand behind a naked woman and slide one hand into her hair, the other around her waist, kiss her neck and bite her ear and stand pressed against her, her pressing back against me, eyes closed and silent, feeling it, awash together in all the blissful sensation the human body has to offer.

To come so hard when she says my name because I realize it's the first time I've ever heard a woman say it like that, in a fetching baby-girl whine sharpened at the end by a note of helpless, visceral need. The way I have to say Daddy's name when he teases me over and over, when he just won't put it all the way in, fucking masterful, brutal cocktease that he can be.

And to imagine I could be her daddy, too, if I can just learn where her edges are and make her stay there until I say Cum. The joy of her smell, her taste — her pink, dusky, perfect lips closing around that glistening treasure I cannot, will not stop seeking. The pure gratification of making my girl cum with my mouth and hands and holy fuck, that glass dildo is a miracle!

The equally pure gratification of deep-throating him with her hand feeding me his cock, working his balls just under my chin, taut and aching to let go, to blast the salty chlorine surprise of his load, draining himself onto the back of my tongue, emptying that cock down my throat, spurt by glorious spurt, pressing so hard nonstop now into my hungry, greedy mouth.

To be fucked heedlessly in the mouth and realize that the harder he pushes my head down on his cock, the harder my cunt leaps and throbs in response. The more wrong, the more right. I don't worry or even hesitate; I just open my throat and let myself choke on the joy.

Or wait — is that baby girl down there? Laying her creamy mouth on my clit, asking the questions that she's got the answers for, sliding her crystalline dildo in to heat up inside this furnace of mine that now seems to stay continuously stoked? Nope, can no longer say who it is or exactly what they're doing. I can't keep track anymore. How could I possibly care when another orgasm racks me, twists my hips and spine into an unmistakable rictus of ecstasy? Whoever that is, I don't care. Just. Don't. Fucking. Stop.

God, my hands are falling asleep at the keyboard as I write and remember, and all the blood rushes to my pussy yet again. We are entirely back there, in that nearly-as-nice space of reliving the recent filth, the perfect sexcation. I can only muster a last bit of consciousness to say I'm so grateful for this sacred pleasure (and the obscene amount of it we're being afforded).

And I'm still so hungry for it, still fully insatiable. I'm going back for more.