The tale of two orgasms: G-spot and clitoral.
Two nights ago The Neighbor came over after Peyton was in bed. I was laying on the couch in front of a fire, he was dressed in a t-shirt and silky basketball shorts. He stood between me and the TV and waited, smiling. I looked more closely and could see the outline of a large, heavy cock straining against the fabric.
I reached out and stroked him and looked up smiling.
Minutes later he had pushed me down on the bed, licked his palm and rubbed the head of his cock and pushed inside of me. He was huge and hot and brutal. His lips nibbled my neck, his arms wrapped around me and we spun around the bed like wrestlers as we sought deeper, harder, more more more.
His hips curled into me and I wrapped my legs around him to pull him in closer. I ran my hands over his back and gripped his muscled shoulders which strained to pin us both in position. I inched over the edge of the bed as he kept railing into me.
My pussy squelched a little and I lifted my head, curling my spine and a bloom spread hot and round through me, like a tendril, a rush. It hit me again as he growled and kept curling into me as I ground down against him.
Lights sparkled behind my lids and the white-hot wave rolled out of me through my fingertips, the top of my head.
I cried out and he shh’ed me. “Hy,” he said urgently, “Peyton might hear you!” It was true. I had been yelling like a banshee as the g-spot orgasms washed over me.
He put a pillow over my face and we laughed as he kept fucking me and I screamed into it as another one hit me.
When we were done we cuddled and I caught my breath. I felt stupid, heavy, happy, like I would guiltlessly give away national secrets.
Last night we cuddled on the couch and watched American Psycho (“I have to return some videotapes.”). I was tired, but happy, and faded out at the end of the movie (as I typically do – so sexy). When the movie finished we went to my room to cuddle.
I laid in his arms and we talked about a transwoman friend of mine who’s having troubles with her soon-to-be exwife. I staunchly defended my friend who finds her ex to be rather stubborn about a certain issue and TN couldn’t understand why I, “someone who is so empathetic,” couldn’t understand the ex’s point of view. It wasn’t an argument we needed to be having and he decided to deflect.
He turned to me, stroking my arm, and said, “You are so beautiful,” and kissed me.
I was taken aback a little. As much as he says he finds me beautiful, it still isn’t that common.
I kissed him back and said thank you. “No, really, you are.” I beamed a smile at him in the dark, the one little votive candle really only casting darker shadows, not light.
“I can feel your smile right now,” he chuckled. “It’s like radiating out at me.” I giggled and nodded my head, our chat completely forgotten. “Wow, was that all it takes to end an argument?” he laughed.
I told him hearing how beautiful he thinks I am will never get old. He wondered if the power of the words would fade with time. I scoffed just a little and said, “You might be surprised how little I’ve heard those words in my life. My mother doesn’t count.”
While we’d been talking I’d been gripping his cock. It’d gone from chubby to quite hard once we’d kissed and he’d told me I was beautiful. “How long has it been since you’ve masturbated?” he asked.
I couldn’t remember.
“Ok, then. It’s time.”
I pulled out my Hitachi and we settled into position: me on my back, legs splayed, the head of the Hitachi on my underpants, him on his side, head cradled in his hand, his free hand roaming over me.
I flicked it on and the buzz took me away with the jolt of a speeding roller coaster.
TN watched intently as I tensed and shook a little, my roller coaster car twisting and turning this way and that. And then it had reached the top
of the steepest climb and I was falling, crashing. The roar of my own blood in my ears deafening, the fall so swift my breath left me.
I continued to plummet into the depths of release and my body arched and I moaned and whimpered as quietly as I could. Then finally the ride was over and I could climb out of my seat.
I lay there limp and panting only faintly aware of TN beside me. He put my hand — which had drifted away — back on his cock now a raging erection.
“Do it again,” he said softly. I could only nod as I began to stroke him.
As the buzz io the vibrator hit me it connected me to his cock through my hand; it was as if it were my cock in my hand.
Surprised at this new sensation I kept my hand moving. The faster I went the closer I came to cumming and then it hit me like a blast of air in a storm and I bucked and made weird noises and spasmed out through my eyelids. I went limp again.
And then he made me do it a third time. And I died. La petite mort and all that.
I laid there and contemplated my navel, my love, the true beauty of my body, this magical thing that happens to it basically whenever I want it to, and then I considered the differences: the bloom vs. the fall.
That’s the best way I can describe the two. I would never be able to choose between them, though they are very different.
Lobster vs. truffles. There’s no bad choice.
How are they different for you?