Multiples

What do I feel when you spread me apart?

When your hands - rough with calluses from playing the guitar at least as well as you play me - slide down my body; short-nailed fingers surrounding my pebble-hard nipples and plucking at them, pinching very slightly, then continuing down over my stomach and hips to the auburn thatch between my legs.

You always feel the need to get inside my head - to know exactly what I'm thinking at every point of our loving, one part of you always curious, always cataloguing, always eager to learn the weaknesses in me that you can pleasurably exploit. "Twenty-six and counting," you often laugh with a wink, casually throwing out my record number of orgasms in one session with you. We were younger then, and had more time to indulge ourselves, although the inclination hasn't dulled over the years and our responses to each other have sharpened considerably.

My legs are already wishboned at your behest; one arm trapped beneath where you lay at my side so that I can only flail it uselessly at your back should I feel any distress, the other held above my head, my wrist braceleted by your spare hand and trapped against the pillow.

It doesn't matter. I won't struggle until I'm close to the end, anyway. Until you've driven me to the point when I feel I have to fight you, or lose myself as I fly into the white hot sun you create effortlessly within me.

Expertly, you use your thumb and ring finger to hold my most private area open as you forage firmly between my legs, gathering honey on your middle finger and dragging it over that wonderful bundle of nerves you know almost too well by now, bending your head to capture a nipple and tug hard, razing it with the edges of your teeth.

"Oh- oh- oh, God - mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm." I can't contain myself; I never can with you. I can't see - not because of any impediment you've supplied, but because of the strength of my response. My eyes have become useless, unfocused, my vision turned inward with the increasing tension of my body. There's no need for me to see, only to feel.

"You're already really close, aren't you, Beth?" Those fingers are entirely relentless - slick and hot and just-right rough. When you get a goal in mind you never ease up until it's achieved. It didn't take you long to learn exactly the right touch. A better touch, frankly, than I have for myself.

For me, it's all about the loss of control. Orgasms are never harder for me than when someone else is at the helm, which is somehow kind of twisted if you think about it. Shouldn't I know what pleases me better than anyone else? Apparently not, especially when your hands are on the controls . . . hurling me towards an end that never fails to frighten me to the core with its consistent yet unique intensity. You revel in being able to make me come as hard as possible, forcing me to let loose the myriad emotions I work so hard to suppress all day, and leaving me disturbingly raw and naked in an aftermath of tears that always overwhelm me.

Sometimes I hate you for what you do to me at least as much as I love you for it. I fervently wish I could control it, like I control everything else in my life. Obsessively.

But, for you, it's about me losing that control. To you. Even if it's messy, and it is that.

"Aren't you?" huskily prompted.

My frantic nodding wasn't enough. "YEEEESsssssssssssssssssssss!" I groan.

"Answer me before you come. Tell me what you're feeling, all spread out with my hand down between your legs, helpless, on the verge . . ."

"E-exposed. Vul-vulnerable."

"And you like it?" whispered against my temple.

"Is-isn't it obvious?" I'm surprised I can still form words. "Don't I like everything you do to me?" Have I ever said anything that was quite as true as that?

The closer I get to paradise, the slower your tempo becomes. By now it's languorous, your fingers vacationing down there, stretching out over me and occasionally rubbing like they have an elusive itch to satisfy - mine, but only in your own good time.

It's gotten to the point, though, that I'm close to something that, although it entices me, it scares me at least as much, if not more. "No - no - please - Rick - I - I can't!" Tugging on my wrist does no good, not that I'd truly expected it to. I'm not going anywhere despite my desperate bucking and squirming.

Your mouth is right on my ear - another sensitive spot - I can feel your lips move as you speak directly into my lust-fogged brain. "Of course you can. No mercy, love. No quarter given. I know that you want it, no matter how you fight, no matter that when you come you're always screaming 'no, please no'. I'll make you come if I want to - when I want to. Over and over. It's good for you to get all of it out."

If I were sentient, I would roll my eyes, but I'm well beyond that. Your words - carefully chosen to add spice to my experience - have their desired effect, making my clit clench under your touch.

I can feel the beginnings of my pleasure, buzzing and building like a thundercloud at the bottom of my privates and tingling its way up to where your hand is draped over me, stroking lazily as you watch every nuance of my reaction.

My head whips back and forth on the pillow. This is going to be tremendous, much harder than the usual, and tears are already forming behind my eyelids - tears of thoughts and emotions well-suppressed until now, until you ruthlessly drag them to the fore to be revisited in the most wild of ways.

"No - no - God - please - no - Rick!" My trapped arm is beating a non-stop tattoo on your back that will achieve nothing. " - nonononono - OOOOOAAHHHHH!"

I'm held tight through the whole thing, through every sweet-tart spasm, every jerk of my hips against your loving hand, through the guttural screams that are ripped from my throat, until I'm spent. You can feel me gathering for the second inevitable part of the storm, but you've let go of my arm to grab the bed clothes and pull them over us, and I use that as my escape, fleeing halfway across the room before you catch me and haul me unceremoniously back to the bed.

I've only just expelled my first couple of lungfuls of air, fighting you all the way, my body still clenching and jumping in short-circuited, ripples of ecstasy. I don't want the comfort you offer - I can't accept it right now; I'm too afraid of you and me. I only want you to let me go so I can be alone and safe to cry it all out by myself.

But that is not one of my choices. I'm wrestled back onto the bed where, sobbing plaintively, I scrabble over to cling the edge, hugging it for dear life when I should be hugging you - but I can't ask for that, can't reach for you right now. A veteran of this strange behavior, you forcibly cuddle me from behind while stroking my hair, whispering in a calm, soothing manner that only very slowly penetrates the thick fog of raw, fearful emotions that have me in their tight grasp.

You rock us slightly, careful of not pushing us both off the bed, knowing that the childhood rhythm can calm me when nothing else will.

It's a long while, though, before I'm able to turn and wrap my arms around you, tucking my now-swollen eyes against your neck, letting your chest hair tickle my chin and the warmth of your love and support seep into my skin.

"Better now, baby?"

"Huh-huh," I sniffle, curling up within your embrace and letting you hold me.

"Well," you say, smacking a loud kiss onto my forehead, "That was one . . . "