tagHow ToPleasure: A Delineation

Pleasure: A Delineation


It hits you sharp. Like a punch in the stomach. All of the sudden you're entire world is focused on this arousal. It lodges itself deep into your gut. Your fully aware of that place now. Its screaming out. Loud. It is begging for attention. It wants.

Sometimes you can hide this sudden onslaught of sexual energy. Especially us, women. Our nipples might suddenly become hard little nuggets; but you'd never know it while they are hidden inside of our lacy bras. Our labia might be swelling up with each passing moment, but again, that evidence is well hidden between our legs. Occasionally blood might start pooling in our cheeks, but a woman can blush for many different reasons. Including embarrassment.

Some might be able to tell. The brightness in her eyes. The tale-tell hint of amusement on her face. Or the small, almost always, unnoticed hitch in a single nostril. Most people miss these signs, and so a woman is almost always able to hide her arousal from those, that she doesn't want to inform.

Some of these moments are like fireflies; a small burst of energy, that flickers in. And then out. Silenced by refocusing our attentions on the things that need dealing with. The boss. The phone. A friend's lament about her husband, boyfriend, lover. Brushed aside in a single moment. It is as easy as breathing.

Other times, the action that has caused the arousal, continues; making the ability to dismiss, much harder. The image on a movie screen. The scent of a man who is nearby. The way a lover is looking at you. A touch that is consistently caressing that part of your body, that when stimulated, sends signals to your womb. Waking it up. Feeding the arousal.

Those moments take more focus. They take more energy. But even those causes can be tamed.

For the most part.

There are times when it cannot. When the ability to redirect loses out, to the arousal's need to be fed. It is like a hail storm. It is simply, there. There is no telling it to stop. No convincing it to slow down. No reasoning with it to just go away. It is hungry. And like a crying infant, it wants what it wants, and it wants it, instantly.

And so you feed it.

You do whatever it takes to make it stop screaming inside of your head. To make it shut the hell up. To satisfy it.

It's a fight. A battle to the death; hopefully it's death and not your's. You do those things, that you know in the past, have worked to slay it. You knead it. Hard. Touch it here. There. Quickly. Relentlessly. Pet it in attempts to sooth it. Drawing it out of you like a poison. Forcing it to explode like fireworks, into a thousand pieces; that fade into the night's sky.

Sometimes this is all that it needs. It is happy. It willingly dissipates into the background once again, after being given some of your time and attentions. Like that toddler, that just wanted to know that you were still there, that you still cared about it; and like a flash, toddles back off to wherever it came from.

Other times it is like the old child's toy, a Slinky. Just like the Slinky, crawling down the stairs; it never stops. It pulls on your body, your mind and your soul, drawing out what it wants from you. Then crashing down on itself. Pausing. Coiling back up, gaining momentum, and pushing you back over another cliff. Ever onward. To no particular destination. Only this is more upwards, than downwards.

So you fight it. It fights back. The war is not just one battle, but many skirmishes that you either win. Or loose. Each one a Slinky that pulls on you, pushes you, and forces that explosion of sensation throughout your body. You feed it. Give it the energy it demands. Hoping that this last one will cause you to reach your destination.

You never reach it. It's just an endless set of stairs, reaching upwards, into infinity. Until one of two things happen. You pass out. Or it gets bored.

Either way your body is worn out. It has been pulled, pushed, and torn apart. It is neither satisfied, nor begging. Your mind is dull, even if your arousal is not. You pick up the pieces of your mind and with your soul fully intact, and you walk away.

Orgasms however are a different breed of beast, all together. They are sly. They take their time. They know what they want, and they don't ever, ever, ever stop; until they are fully satisfied.

An orgasm is sneaky. It creeps up on you, when you're not always focused. Catching you off guard. Coming in like a fog that envelopes everything around you; sucking on you, and applying pressure all around you, at the same time. Sometimes you can call to it, beckon it to come to you; but It is fickle.

It does not like harsh. It does not like pushing. It does not like rigid. It's as soft as angels wings. It is sweet like the first taste, of a rich chocolate, on the tip of your tongue.

Its like taking a swim in the ocean. It gently beckons you with its teasing ripples. Cooling off your skin, from your earlier excursions with arousal. It encourages you to rest. Filling your head with promises of relaxing amusements. You walk deeper and deeper into its seductive embrace. Sure of yourself. Confident in your mind and soul that you control this, you allow your body to stretch and move with the upsurge. Until you've decided that you've had enough, and start to swim back to the shore. Ah, but the orgasm as other plans. It has other needs. It has deeper desires.

It is flexible, and calculating, seeking out that which will bend you, and shape you. It is yielding to the defenses that you put up. It cleverly finds the crack, and seeps its tentacles in. It is steadfast in its endeavors, not ever abandoning its goal, winning. Ultimately, it tricks you into the deep depths of arousal, until the only way out is to surrender. For, it is in your surrender, that's how it ultimately wins.

You can fight against the tides that are tugging at you. Swim hard and fast; pulling away, to keep from drowning. Each lap of the water against your skin, is a new lure to break down those shields. Each splash of the crest against your mind, breaks down your guard. Each yank by the undertow, draws you further and further out to the place, where no number of strokes of your feet, or paddles of your arms will allow you back to shore. The only way to reach the safety of land now, is to give over. To let go and allow it to carry you back.

Submitting to orgasms take everything you've got. It won't settle for partial. It don't concede to fractional. Its all, or its nothing. Winner takes All, mentality.

Nor does It grant a single remittance. It take as many times as It wants. Like the tide, It pulls you back under the current, again and again. Crushing you with its energy. Surrounding you with its warmth. Blinding you with its light. Besieging you, until the last of your ability to focus is shattered. Your mind blank. Drawing out of you, every last kernel, of the spirit, in you.

In the safety of the orgasm's embrace, you simple float. You are nothing anymore. And everything in the Universe. All at the same moment.

As the French call it: It is The Little Death.


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