by Jennie Orvino
(09/05/01)
She is on her hands and knees. The four bed pillows are propped under her so she can rest her chest on them as her hands become occupied. Her right holds the Magic Wand which vibrates her vulva lips and rocks on her pubic bone. Her left hand pushes the ribbed, 7-inch curve of Private Dancer up to its hilt in her vagina. The lover grasps her hip bones and teases her
rosebud with the tip of his penis. He bends to kiss the muscled arch of her lower back. As he straightens up, he pours vanilla-scented almond oil in the crease between her buttocks, catching the excess to rub on himself. She is presenting her body insistently, backing toward him with her face on the bed, hips lifted to meet his oiled erection.
In, yes, into her most private opening. She squeezes tight and then relaxes into yes, into further, into all the way in, so he can feel, through the wall of tissue, the Dancer dancing. Like a French press coaxing the flavor out of finely-ground coffee, he pulls back and then inches forward again. His desire to breach the last of her reluctance to be known so fully, is tempered by his wish to be a gentle lover, a gentle man.
The whir of Magic drives a buttery stake from her clitoris to anus. She shivers and bucks so hard he grabs handfuls of her -- thigh, waist, skin below the shoulder blades -- to keep himself in place. He is riding a see-saw with the dildo in her, giving room and taking room. They are enflamed in turn by the ridges of the toy and the heat wave of vibrations. She is filmed with sweat, and he is flying on her fragrance. He rakes the skin of her back with his nails as he feels his scrotum pull up, the energy of wanting satisfaction ripping through him.
In her ear, his voice, a chant: "...flame...go...red...oh...starstream... fuck....fucksweet... you...."
Her interior muscles clasp; he is captive, going with her like a runner straining toward the tape. Gasping together, they take in a whole world of air as he pulls her hands behind her. She tests her strength against the place he holds her wrists together. She strains and pulls as if bound by a cord. She bites at the pillow to stifle her cries.
They are moving, meeting, meshing, like fresh water crashing into salt through a narrow sluice. There is no way back from this radiance; there is nothing to save them from this drowning.
Worship Service
by Jennie Orvino
09/05/01
There are times I feel totally inspired over his erection. The dignity and size of him, not huge but so, so adequate -- perfect for my ministrations. I inhabit my tongue to taste the piquant favor of his personal balm, and spread it generously along his shaft. I use my hand along with my lips to apply a squeeze and a slurp coming up and over his glans. He makes a long,
cooing noise at this, which encourages me to continue. As I stroke, his moistened skin becomes translucent. I hold him against my cheek, press him to my closed lids.
My favorite devotion is to kneel in front of him and go down 'til I can't breathe, and my forehead -- my third eye -- is pressed against his belly. Shiva Lingam the Hindus call it, and build temples to surround the phallus of the God. My mouth is now the holy place. The base of my tongue swells up as if to swallow all his wanting, and he says my name like he's transported.
When I need to take in some air, I ease up, and come back down renewed, able to go for the gag -- the scary pleasure spasm that shimmers from my gut to the base of my neck. My saliva is flowing, the kind that's as sticky and long-lasting as the best lube, rich as maple syrup. Yes, gagging makes my eyes water, and when I look into his eyes with those tears and my deep
throat pulsing and his hot penis filling my mouth, well, I'd be happy to die right then.
"You do it like you love it," he says. "I sometimes wonder where other people go while they're giving head."
I know I don't go anywhere...because he is where I want to be.
The act is art, and part of that art is enthusiasm -- being inspired by the Divine. But mostly, it's paying attention, being totally present. I notice a thigh's twitch, the way a hair lifts from its pore. I tune in to the currents of energy, intuiting when to change, when to go slow. It's like ensemble music, jamming. I get in the creases of the rhythm, pick up on my playmate's breathing, let myself be guided by his moans and cries. Say my name, sweetie, take the Lord's name in a new vein.
"You have a gorgeous mouth," he tells me.
But it's my heart that sucks him.
