Monthly Archives: April 2014

Pussy Worship

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Worship – reverent honor and homage paid to God or a sacred personage, or to any object regarded as sacred;formal or ceremonious rendering of such honor and homage;adoring reverence or regard; the object of adoring reverence or regard.

 

Reverent. Sacred, adoring, honor and homage. Such words for worship. Something truly loved, cherished, but more than that. Worshipped.

And how does a man worship, exactly? It depends on the altar on which he is kneeling. If he is worshipping money and power, perhaps at the stock exchange, to worship a higher being, he would go to church. To pay homage to a sports team, a stadium, to honor a movie star, a theater, or perhaps the red carpet.

He worshipped in bed.

Between my legs, on his knees – a disciple, studying and touching and seeing and learning. Like a ceremony, he begins at my mouth, my neck, shoulders, breasts. He touches and feels and caresses, gauging reactions, listening to words and wordless sounds I form. Then he is there, I look down to see him, his face is barely visible, his eyes no long on me but on my pussy. He reaches out touches me, sliding a finger up and down, his eyes close, a blind man memorizing his prayer book. Both hands now encourage my thighs to fall open, his thumbs open me like a flower. Praise the lord.

He is slow, his mouth sliding then sucking then licking. Then stopping, whether to pause for reflection or to pull me back from this rabbit hole of sensation that I sliding through, I don’t know. I have no thought, nothing but this, the feeling, the adoration, I don’t feel like I have to do anything. Just be, simply lay back and open my legs, Jesus take the wheel. He reaches underneath me, lifts my ass off the mattress, puts his mouth to me like a man drinking wine, slowly, lingering, rolling his tongue over me. He is savoring my pussy. Lord have mercy, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Slowly he feasts, then moves harder, faster, his fingers finding places in me I didn’t know existed. Then, back down to earth, slow, calm, each time I find myself returning to reality, floating lazily along this trip. Only to go through more rapids, hard and rough and heart pounding, my stomach drops with the rush of it.

Then, he doesn’t stop, and I see god, or whatever it is that I’m am thanking for making me a woman, with a pussy, so that this man can worship me, do this to me, it is everything I will ever feel. My pussy clenches, I hear myself call out, sob and gasp, I don’t even attempt to be quiet. He is worshipping, but I am shouting Hallelujah.  

I feel drained, I can imagine it is like that for a deity, being the receiver of such fierce and complete devotion is exhausting. He lays with me, his hand cupped between my legs, telling me a prayer of thanks. Are ya kidding me? I have seldom received such gifts, and never without strings attached. I drift away, his face near mine, his mouth whispering a rosary of sweet nothings. Amen

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The best orgasm of my life began, oddly enough, not in a bed. Or a dance floor, doing the tango to Spanish guitars, our pelvises grinding as we stared soulfully  into each other eyes. The best orgasm of my life began when we, the man who brought me to this orgasm (because he did, it was not a ‘joint effort’ kind of thing, like mind blowing sex usually is, it was all him), he and I were not alone, but in public.

We wandered the music store, stopping here and there, he would touch a guitar, reverently, his fingers barely making contact with the strings, so that just a hint of sound would escape. His hand would trail over the keys of a piano, stopping to play a chord, two, a few notes, simply for the joy of making the sound.

As he found these instruments, he also found me, barely out of physical contact for a moment, one hand touching a drum or a horn, the other wrapping around my neck, pulling me in for a kiss, or between my legs for the briefest of moments, barely making contact, as light as his fingers on the guitar he was walking past, softly, but by no means without thought.

The best orgasm of my life began in earnest when he picked up a bass guitar. While he had been playing with guitars and keyboards and drums, when he picked up the bass, it was serious business. No fucking around, this instrument was going to do what he wanted, he would touch it just so, and it would love him in return, give him music.

His eyes closed, this man, and his fingers begin to dance, striking the strings, moving across the frets, so softly and quickly you wouldn’t think any sound could be produced. I couldn’t take my eyes from his hands, knowing those fingers had been in my panties moments before, in the car. Knowing they would be again, soon.

The thought began the journey, to that orgasm. I felt myself twitch, I knew I was getting wet, watching his fingers on that bass. After he put the instrument away, we walked around the store some more, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, his fingers on the guitar, I felt the air up my skirt, hitting the moisture on my panties.

In the car, he slides his hand up my skirt again, his fingers slipping into my panties for the briefest moment, somehow touching yet not touching my pussy. Then pulling my skirt back down, only to start the process again in 30 seconds. No talking about it, no looking at me, just reaching over now and again to touch me, feeling me getting more and more turned on.

I did not realize the best orgasm of my life was going to happen, but I did realize this man was in no hurry. He knew we were going to fuck, he knew I was going to come, he wanted this just as he wanted those notes from the bass.Yet, when we walked into the music store, the bass section was the last place he went. He played some six strings, he tinkled some ivories, he looked and listened and touched.

He wanted this, he wanted the best orgasm of my life, but seemed genuinely unconcerned about it. It was the journey, the discovery. All men get a hardon when a woman comes, he got hard actually making it happen, the act of it, watching my face as he pinched my nipple, listening to my breath as he kissed my neck. He was tuning me, playing a few exploratory notes, listening to the sound of it.

In bed, he does what he has wanted to do for weeks, months. After feeling the folds and slick smoothness of my pussy, he brings his fingers to his  mouth, then mine, showing me how sexy it is, my wetness. Then he puts his hand over mine, trails it down between my legs. His fingers intertwine with mine, my juices coat us. He slides a long finger into me, two, his thumb is feeling my fingers as I touch my clit, every so softly.

I didn’t think about coming, I simply let myself go, slowly slowly, ever so slowly. I open my eyes, he is looking at my face, then down at our hands, both between my legs, which as spread as wide as they can go, as if I am putting myself on display and he is looking, seeing what his touch does to me, what I am doing to myself.

He begins fucking me, his fingers reaching into me, feeling the inside of my pussy, as I finger my clit, his hand lightly over top of my own. He doesn’t even seem to care if I am on my way, if the best orgasm of my life is imminent, or any orgasm will happen at all. We have all night, and he will have this, he will play my pussy, he will hear what he wants.

At first, I don’t think I can do this – make myself come while he is fingering me, looking at me, listening to me. So I just enjoy it, let myself float away, his hands playing me as smoothly as he played the bass, his mouth occasionally finding my breast, or my mouth.

Then I feel it, I realize it is building, behind my tummy, up my legs. There is no thought, just this sensation gathering in me, a storm building, as he fingers me, his rhythm as smooth as a bass line, my own fingers playing with my clit. I feel like I need to hurry up, come for him, he wants it so badly. I speed up, my fingertips rubbing harder and faster.

But he stops, stops my hand as well as his own. “Not yet,” he says. I am astonished, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Men want women to come, for the squeeze of the orgasm as well as the ego boost of knowing they can make a woman come. He doesn’t seem to realize this is how it works, that men make a woman come as fast as possible, then come themselves. It is what I know, my reality.

I open my eyes, asking wordlessly. He begins to move again, strong and soft, letting my fingers do what I want. He reaches high up into me, feels me squeeze his fingers as I slide my own over my clit, slowly, juices dripping down over his hand and mine own.

This happens two, three times. He and I bring me to the brink of orgasm, then he backs off. “Not yet.” But I am not frustrated, I luxuriate in the sensation, the freedom of not having to come, of no pressure. It is apparent this man will take his time, he will play every note, he will touch every spot, to play the song, to hear it, the best orgasm of my life.

Then, he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop. His fingers fuck me, he is feeling what I am doing, he can tell I am building, reaching, climbing, and he takes me there, telling me to come for him, let it go, come.

The best orgasm of my life stretches me very thin and high, a single note that becomes a crescendo, waves and waves of my pussy coming on his fingers, my body jerking. I hear myself shout, wordlessly, I cannot stop. I come and come and come, I cannot see the end of it, I can’t breathe, there is nothing my hand and his.

He plays, he writes the song.