Techno Hyperobject Lust

I love oral, giving and receiving. My wife loves it too, up to a point. She won't let me lick her pussy if she doesn't feel clean enough down there. And she loves the feeling of going down on me, but she'd prefer it to be foreplay rather than the main course. It could always be the main and only course and that'd be ok with me.

So when there are special occasions coming up, the type of special occasions like birthdays or anniversaries where spouses get to tell their spouse exactly what they want, I'll be thinking about oral sex, and usually about sixty-nine. Somehow it's almost better when I know it's not what she would have chosen. We'll fumble into position, with her a little bit reluctant to be in an orientation where I can lick as much and as deeply as I like without her being able to push me away. Can we do it on our sides? Maybe access doesn't quite work that way? Is she on the bottom, letting me push down on her and control the rhythm? Or is she on top, feeling like her whole pussy area is all over my face, squashing me and making her feel exposed.

Right now, I'm planning how I will get her into this situation. She wants me to force her a little bit, so that she can allow herself to enjoy sex without being the slutty woman who initiated it. I haven't done it before, but I'm preparing to blackmail my wife. I also have another card in my hand. She's asked me many times before about my sexual history, the details of what I got up to with the ex-girlfriends, as well as some more secret experiences I've only hinted about. I've always insisted on my right to privacy and been coy if I've told her anything at all. Now if, in bed, I make the right suggestions, I can probably get her to agree to swap Truth for Dare. She likes to be pre-commited, to have agreed to "do anything I want".

A hyperobject is an object which we're deeply entwined with and in, but can't fully grasp or even get close. We are used to the idea with other human beings that we can deeply love them, embrace them and internalize their existence, but yet not really know anything about them, not even that they're not a robot or an illusion. Lots of 'things' can be like this, in the theory of hyperobjects. A hyperobject is not an abstract object like justice or nature. It's a real object, but one which is complicated, sticky and hard to perceive, bound or understand. Sometimes the idea of an 'object' seems to mainly refer to simple, contained objects like cups, tables, cars. Nebulous, open-ended, pervasive objects seem to be the exception. Once you start to look for hyperobjects though, they seem to be everywhere, and 'manageable' things present as exceptions, or resolve themselves as the tendrils or projections of hyperobjects.

I close my eyes and visualize the black accretion pursuing me. Big and shadowy, it's not a dark cloud but a dark mass, my own planet made of HDMI cables, car exhausts, plastic fragments. This could be guilt but it's real and physical. It could be all the waste I've thrown away but I have to engage with it, try to connect up some of the cables.

She's masturbating me and it lets me away from the shadow. The pleasure allows me to feel secure for an instant. My wife is, compared to me, an untalented jacker-off. I know every nerve ending and every fold of my own skin. I can pull myself to an orgasm quickly and efficiently. This is something else. The slightly wrong grip, then the slightly wrong speed make me intensely focused on my cock, on the waves, on her methodical, medical manner. This is my matron, my caretaker. For me to come hard, spurting into the air, grinding my buttocks against the mattress, gasping. It's not just allowed, it's required of me. Here I am what she wants me to be. "Come for me now. I want you to ejaculate for me." I suddenly feel wide open. In my head I prepare the speech, all the things I'm now ready to tell her. I list bullet points, then forget them immediately.

She knows what I want. I can make her do it. She sucks at my cock gratefully. I know she feels out of control when I lick her. I want her to know I think she's dirty, she's transgressive. Now it's my turn to take care of her. She is relieved from the burden of being someone who wants to have an orgasm, let alone sit on a man's face, even her husband's face. I force her to be a dirty girl. Only dirty girls have orgasms.

The skin of her thighs suddenly seems too real to me. It's too immediate, this hairy, colored presence. I focus on the surface, on the surface of the surface. Each hair and pore glows with the existence of something underneath, with the fact that it isn't just a facade. Physical presence weighs on the air.

I'm licking her clit, and now I'm kissing it with both lips around it. She sucks me and we lose orientation. Gender was made when two things were separated - now we're fusing them back together. Emptiness and heaviness cancel each other out, we tumble, confused if we're symbols or still us.

I have to keep kissing, so hard that I feel the nub below, so hard that she can't keep her presence. I can't feel the details of her sucking any more. I can lick her labia, rub my face on them. But I keep coming back to her clit. Could she even tell me to stop now? Her thighs frame the universe for me. I can smell her sweat, taste her pee. Her boobs press down on my belly, her belly on my chest. We aren't decoupled from the direction of gravity now. I am buoyant, keenly aware of 'up'. I might float away but she stops me from moving. She is real, a 'stop'.

I can see her dark brown pubic hair, and just behind it, her light eyes. She's looking down at me, now facing the opposite way and bracing her hands on the wall. My tongue can reach up as far as the hair. Down, I struggle to get to the bottom of the entrance. Or I can push my tongue inside her. She's wide open and my tongue is small. She's sitting on me, but really holding herself up on her knees, her calves splayed either side of my head.

Materiality - not the idea of materiality, but the material thing of it. More solid than any actually existing object. It's the dark shadow, back again, or is it the body behind this cunt I'm licking? Are they one? My arms try to grasp the 'whole' thing.

I can't move my shoulders, but I'm allowed to grab my cock with my hand and jerk myself. For a few seconds I try and do it slowly, but I know I can't. Every slight shift she makes pivots her whole body over my mouth. I'm kissing her pussy, frenching it, keeping my mouth open. Her clit is too sensitive, I don't care, I'm hurting her, I'm making her come again. I masturbate, a couple more strokes, and come for the second time. It's watery, and like the first one goes flying into the air.

Time seems to undulate a little bit, the present spinning around us as we come up out of the time dimension we fucked in. The sheets, then the bed, then gradually the rest of the room becomes material again, connecting itself to the real space we inhabited. I try to reach for her body. I need to be crushed and contained. I can feel us spring apart as we both try to hold one another too soon.