by P. S. Haven
(10/29/03)
I married Ronda for her butt. I've told her this, but I think she thinks I'm joking. There are, of course, other reasons, but I'm utterly sincere when I tell her that had she not been so callipygian I would have never proposed. Her ass is full and soft, the way a woman's should be, the flesh as pale as moth's wings. With both hands I squeeze its halves in turn and push them open to look at the tiny pucker there, opening like the fragrant bloom of a moonflower. My chest rises as I inhale the thick scent that rises from her -- sweet and pungent, like over-ripe peaches. There is a dew of sweat on her skin, the light of the waxing September moon glancing off of it, causing it to glow almost magically.
I run my cock into her like a blade, watching it as it disappears inside her wet, sunken asshole. I hold myself there for a moment; letting her adjust to it, absorb it. She groans her approval; grateful, I know, for the familiar ache, the fullness of my cock in her ass. I take her by her hips and begin to move inside of her. I fuck away at her, pinning her against the hood of our car, plunging my cock into her with a series of brutal stabs. Over her shoulder she growls at me, fucking back against me, meeting my thrusts halfway, spreading her legs apart. I clasp the soft globes of her ass and push them apart until I feel they might split, and I watch the spot where our bodies are joined, watch my puncturing cock, the distorted shape of her stretched and swollen anus.
From inside the car, Sikhara's "Without Limbs" plays. As dawn draws nearer, their "Voices of Many" will follow, I tell her, but she's not listening to the music or me. I listen to her gasping, her voice almost desperate as she pleads with me to fuck her deeper. Her breathing is heavy and labored, her urgings becoming ever more insistent, her moans becoming louder and in rhythm with each insertion. I punch my cock into her again and again, feeling the big muscles in her ass clench as I clutch at them with both of my sweating hands.
Scattered on the hood, between Ronda's head and the windshield, are the dress and the panties she won't need until we leave. She promises to not remove her stockings or her heels until I tell her it's okay (which I have no intention of doing). "Coffee-colored, back-seam Cuban heeled stockings are extremely hard to locate," I assure her. "I want to enjoy them."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," she barks. "God, fuck me." I tell her I like it when she calls me God, and she laughs one of her big banging laughs that come out of nowhere and disappear just as fast. She thinks I'm joking. She says, "God, I love your dick."
"Call it a cock," I say.
With concupiscent eyes and breathless moans she tries to show me just how much she loves it, and then she says, "I love your cock." She's loud this morning. Louder than usual, her grunts and groans echoing across the field, punctuated from time to time by one of her high-pitched squeals. And sometimes she will be suddenly quiet for a spell, the eye of a noisy storm when only our labored breathing and the slapping together of our wet skin can be heard. On the west horizon I can barely make out the glow of Denver. On the east, just above the tree line, I see the Pleiades for the first time this summer, and I know autumn is coming.
She has stopped fucking me, stopped playing an active role, and is now simply taking it. I lean into her, burying my cock as deeply into her as her body allows. I guide her, holding her by her waist, easing her movements to my liking, helping her do whatever feels best to me. I stab into her a final time, sinking my cock into her until my stomach presses against her ass. I snatch my cock away from her; take it into my fist and aim, of course, for the mole. A burst of grunts escapes me and, with a convulsion, I begin to ejaculate on her. My semen pulses out of me in thick, white jets and lands on her skin with wet slaps, washing across her back and pooling between her jutting shoulder blades. Desperately I bend the shaft downward, angling the head of my cock down further with each spurt, but it is too late. I masturbate weakly, slumped over, until I finish coming, the last of it spilling wastefully onto her the back of her right thigh, soaking into the nylon of her stockings.
I've missed her mole again. It's beautiful otherwise; the shimmering, milky puddle on her spine, the shape of her shoulder blades around it, the way the trailing drops are scattered down her back, glistening on her sweaty flesh like a constellation. I decide that it looks like the Pleiades. Not the pool itself, but the seven smaller puddles on the small of her back. For a moment I'm not disappointed that I've missed, and I wish I had enough light to photograph it. Or sketch it, maybe. Some way to document its details, because I know that soon it will be gone forever, and that documentation would be invaluable.
I try to think of something to take my mind off the fact that I've missed again. I try to remember the names of all seven Pleiades, but can only remember Electra. Then I think of the split-second that passes in between the time that a spurt of my come leaves my cock and lands on Ronda's skin. And how, technically, I've finished coming before I've finished coming on her. And how, in that sense, my cock is like the moon and my semen like its beams. And I look at the semen that took less than a second to travel from my cock to Ronda's skin, glistening in moonlight that took 1.3 seconds to travel from the moon to it.
She tells me it's okay that I've missed. She even goes so far as to tell me it's better that I've missed. "There can only be one first time," she says. "There may be other times. There may even be better times, but there'll never be another first time." She's right, I think, for the most part. "And what if that first time is it?" she goes on. "What if it's the pinnacle, the very apex of sexual conquest, and you can never again recapture that thrill? What if you knew, beforehand, that was the case? Would you still be willing to crest that peak? Knowing full well it was all downhill from there? Could you live the rest of your life comparing every come-shot to that one? Never again satisfied with simply coming, no matter how far or how much." She was quiet for a moment before continuing. "Or is it better that the first time is forever in the future? Could it be that the anticipation is always sweeter than the fulfillment, that fantasy is always better than the real thing?" It's a good point, I think. Almost good enough to make it okay that I've missed.
I look at the mole, tucked in that hollow, that slight valley where her back arches into her ass. It looks like a tiny piece of chocolate stuck to her skin. I imagine it's like Denver, Colorado. Or the Midwest in general: protected in the summer season, to some degree, from thunderstorms by the Rocky Mountains. During the hot, dry afternoons of these long summer days, the sun heats the slopes of the Rockies until a convection process is sometimes created. Depending on wind direction and speed, these rising buoyant plumes can be swept off the mountains, creating a boundary layer of air strong enough to suppress precipitation, often strong enough to put a thundershower-suppressing lid over the entire Midwest.
Denver has over 300 days of sunshine a year. More than Miami or San Diego.
