“I will destroy your pussy,” I wrote. “I. Will. Wreck. You.”
“Tell me more about that….”
Some men fuck women so hard, so long, that, the next day, these fortunate females can’t walk.
Although I have done this, on occasion, it is not, generally, my way, when it comes to fucking.
Rather, I prefer to render you lame primarily with my tongue, with my fingers, with my hands.
Which is not to say that I won’t fuck you. I may very well. And if I do, I will do so very well.
Most likely, though, my destruction will be less violent, less… rapacious. Instead, I will render you lame with repeated, shuddering orgasms that leave your legs quivering, weak, like jelly.
You might reasonably expect from me powerful, body-trembling orgasms, orgasms in which your thighs quake, your toes curl, your eyes roll back, and all your muscles pulsate, contract, quiver.
When I start, you will be relaxed. Lying back, perhaps restrained – in which case, add to the contributions to your lameness the residue of protracted muscular strain against cuffs on your ankles, on your wrists – or possibly free, I will descend, voraciously, on your cunt.
You reasonably may expect that I will set up camp there, that I will, if I haven’t previously done so, expertly discern just what actions on my part provoke, invoke, what reactions in you.
Do you respond to flicks of your clit? To slow, mounting pressure? To gentle, steady lapping? To fevered, frenzied activity? When I slide a finger, two, three into you, do you shudder, do you press into it, into them? Do you moan when I make a little “come here” motion? Sigh when I press in gradually, deeper, deeper? Or buck, demanding something more rhythmic, more active?
Or maybe, instead, you crave pressure on your pubis.
Does my finger pressing your taint stimulate a particular response? Pressure on your asshole? Does it welcome me in? Or perhaps what makes you most crazy isn’t penetration of your ass, but rather, my tongue, circling it, probing it, testing it, teasing it.
One thing is sure: I aim to over-stimulate you, to create a symphony of sensation, one with mounting crescendos, syncopation, surprises and delights.
As always, I (you) will be in complete control. You will have the power to stop me, for sure, with just one word. But while I will aim to hear that word, to bring you to a place where your only conceivable option is to stop me, I will aim high, or low.
I will miss that particular target, repeatedly. Repeatedly. To the point where you’re begging me not to come, but to come hard enough, with enough finality, to bring things to their inevitable denouement.
A good symphony needs a good conductor, and a talented orchestra. Ours will feature crashing cymbals, delicate strings. Pounding percussion and sweet, gentle woodwinds. The brass section will thunder. The rhythm, the changes in tempo, will thrill.
Minutes will expand into hours which will collapse into mere moments.
If you’re a runner, your legs will feel as if you just ran a marathon, by the time I am through with you. No foil wrap for you, though.
When, finally, you exercise the power you have to stop me, I will bring my mouth, filled with the taste of your cunt, to your mouth. I’ll kiss you as my hand gently caresses, presses on, strokes, or simply rests lightly on, the spot that moments ago experienced an electrical storm, a tsunami, an earthquake.
I’ll pull a heavy duvet over us both, I’ll feel your heart race, your breath heave.
And you will thank me.