Paean to L & S: or a Love Supreme

She fell back down to earth, and my lips now pounced on her, taking passion to a new octave, the flute of my fingers giving way to the clarinet of my tongue, ravishing her pussy, burying my face in her mound, lapping her with my tongue, again and again, fingers still dancing inside of her, tongue tightening around her clit, sucking it lightly, kissing it, making it sing, making her come again, making her squeeze my head so tightly between her legs that I see nothing and hear nothing: I am trapped inside her, enclosed, buried alongside her pussy, loving it, almost wanting to cry, her hands messing up my hair, clamping me to her, then pushing me away, hand signals calling for a time out.

The release of her energy, her fission, our fusion, has lit me up with power, made me more cockstrong, all manhood, all desire, all passion, all love. I'm up on my knees, on the sidelines, eager to continue to the game, flaunting my eagerness, my desire, my hardness. We stare into each other's eyes, exchanging smiles, and she blinks first: looking downward. She sits up a bit in the bed; her lips part and circle into an O; her legs pull up and open up; her hands reach out to it, and she pulls me to her and takes me into her mouth as if to soothe and soften my passion: I want to thrust, but I remain still.

I enjoy the coddling, the tenderness, the lingering, her attention to detail, her mouth adapting itself, molding itself to my contours, like a tongue taking pleasure in shaping itself around the beautiful sounds of the romance languges, the rolling of r's in French, the vibrato of vowels in Italian, the sibilant sounds of a sensuous tongue, swirling itself along the l-shape, the length of a cock swollen in pleasure, swollen in pride, swollen in passion, fingers cradling the balls, playing with them for added amusement, like a tennis player getting ready to serve.

Larissa stops to admire the artwork of her tongue, the sculpture of her loving: inside, I am clay in her hands, soft and ready to be molded; outside, in front of her, I am fully formed, fully shaped, wet and glistening, ready to be fired in her kiln. I withdraw, and with just a few touches, like expert dance partners, she assumes her second favorite position: head down, butt high, legs a little spread, a hand reaching underneath herself, ready to guide me in, the two of us following the advice of Ovid at the conclusion of The Art of Love: "Let the woman feel the act of love to the marrow."

I enter her easily, making us both gasp in joy, as we lock ourselves together, as one, and with just seven or eight strokes, she shudders just a bit, a little twinge of happiness, and then its just music: the music of Ravel, syncopated and sinuous--first flute (andante), then clarinet (andantino); then bassoon (allegra), accompanied by steady beat of percussion in the background, and then the presto of full orchestral accompaniment, the Bolero crescendo, our bodies liquid light, waves and particles, crashing and flowing together as we thrust to drive ourselves crazy with pleasure, bringing us fast to the edge, pooling up our pressure, the intensity of our love, our bodies giving ourselves to each other, willingly, wantonly, surrendering, giving up all restraint, all control, all calculation: giving way to lust, to love, to passion, to sharing ouselves, to sharing our sex, our soul, our pleasure, our l and s: our love supreme.