Terminology 01 (Just For Fun)

"Clitoris"? On a near-par with penis for ugly. At least the shortened version came willingly, friendly, off the tongue. But absent "Little Man in a Boat", what English alternative? Where are our poets of sex these days? Four thousand years ago, Sanskrit had the beauteous "yoni" and "lingam" for cock and cunt - but the Sanskrit for "clitoris", seat of pleasure, was (still is!) the appallingly ugly "shabdkosh" - sounding as if it should be on the counter of a kosher butcher-shop.

Finally, deep inside her, she felt him release: in the mirror, he was red-faced, straining, not breathing, legs quivering mightily, up on tiptoes, almost picking her up bodily off the floor on the spike of his cock. They had timed it right: his fingers pinched her clit ("shabdkosh" - how utterly romantic!) just SO and as he spurted, she came like a washing machine going into hyperdrive, her cunt muscles milking him in that special way that happened only at extreme moments.

Together, they collapsed atop the table, Gavin nuzzling gently at the back of her ears, along her hairline. Tongue-tickles. Once they recovered from a long fit of giggles, he stood and reluctantly pulled out. As she stood up, their juices cascaded from her, splattering the embroidered cloth of the stool-seat. Gavin apologized, tried to go for a towel, she wouldn't let him, said to forget it, the stains would be hard to see and a wonderful reminder whenever she might notice them.

After their long relaxing kiss, they stared down at the glass: smeary greasy tit-prints. With nipple impressions. On the mirror, a large, male handprint in cold-cream. It was almost a week before she could bring herself to wipe things down: the sight of the marks would set off lightning in her belly every time.

More puzzle-pieces, more cock-fitted loci. Sitting together on the beach very late one warm night, watching the moon-glow that preceded the rise itself, nothing around them but night-singing insects and spirits of the dead in the rustling sand-grasses. Sipping their wine, nibbling on one another, on the cheeses, then one another again. Warmth soaking upwards from the sand, through their thin blanket.

He had taken off her sandals, her belt, her long silk pants, her almost non-existent thong, all using just his teeth and tongue while she stood there in the breezy starlight, sipping slowly on her wine.

Then, on his knees in front of her, hands locked behind his back, he used that marvelous tongue, solo, drove her upwards and backwards, washing her sensitive places from toes to heels, until her deep belly pulsed, pulsed again, then exploded with sensation. She grabbed his ears, tried to bury his face between her legs, shivering, biting her lips to keep from making noises that would carry above the gentle surf-sounds. Undoubtedly there would be other couples hidden in the dark, wouldn't there? Mustn't embarrass THEM!

Shaking from her climax, she had sat down before him, reached for his trousers, unbuckled and tugged until he was naked waist-down, parity conserved again. She leaned forward to suck him into her mouth, return the favor, but no, he was holding her back, settling her on the sand on her butt, legs out in front of her. He had an incredible erection: so, what was she to do? Obviously he was aroused, ready, needy, and she wanted to help.

Then he was kneeling at her feet, lifting her sandy feet into his almost-a-lap, putting the soles facing one another, his cock in between them. She got the idea: pressing gently, kneading with her toes, she squeezed as he stroked. Foot-fucking? Sole-to-soul contact? She nearly laughed, looked about nervously: still they were apparently utterly alone, thank goodness.

They stared openly into one another's' eyes: the moonlight was brightening as they watched one another. Long, slow, steady rhythm. Perfect funnel for his cock, and an amazing display of tingles for herself. She pressed harder, whispered "Can you? Like this?"

He nodded: "I think so! But wait for the moon!" They looked towards the moon-glow on the horizon, waiting, she leaning back now on her arms, her feet strangely a-tingle. Brighter quickly now, the moon. Gavin getting faster, rougher, more needy, closer. Brighter. Brighter still. Then, finally, just at the peak of their silent sexual crescendo, a sliver of moon appeared, blinked once behind a wave, steadied, and Gavin gasped, shuddered, sprayed her shins with come, then slipped forward towards her. She spread wide, welcoming, sighed deeply as they joined.

That night, much later still, it had taken a little doing to get the sand out of everything. "Everything!" How well she remembered!

And of course, properly configured, her hand could fit Mr Gavin's primary sex-tool perfectly. Not when the hand was almost a fist, not "clutch the baseball bat" style, no... that way there wasn't a good fit to the long, smooth curve of cock. Not that it didn't work well, for it DID give pleasure, but it certainly was way suboptimal in terms of curve-fitting. ("Curve-fitting" ... she almost giggled... this was a much more interesting way of curve-fitting than any she had done in her pursuit of science. What WOULD her old statistics professor have thought of this new wrinkle?) But there was one way, she recalled, that it really, truly did fit her hand. She smiled to herself remembering how intensely Gavin had responded to her innovations that time.

At some point in their playing, she had wound up kneeling behind him on the bed, with him chest-down, knees widespread, his sit-bones skyward. A most interesting and unusual pose, one that before her exposure to his adventuresome nature would have been unthinkable. An interesting landscape, this one. So brimming-full of intriguing possibilities. Why not? Gavin was always encouraging her to take control and let her fantasies run.

She reached over to the dresser, picked up the tube of slippery, coated several digits, then gently slid her index finger through the neat pucker of his butt. Gavin always liked that, she knew from considerable experience. He sighed and buried his face deeply in the pillow, relinquishing all control to her, a level of trust she'd never gotten from any other man. Or, she thought, given TO any other man. That alone was a phenomenal turn-on for her: and for him, also, he kept telling her.

She slid finger number two in alongside the first, rotating the pair as one - tight, comfortable, almost hot-velvet-greasy. She felt for the sensitive inner bumps, so like her own G-spot in the reactions the fingers could engender.

Gavin's over-wrought, under-attended lonely cock swung down towards the mattress, monstrously hard, the tip bouncing with his pulse, nearly begging to be cuddled. Her other slippery hand reached for it, cupped it, found most interestingly that the curve of cock could match perfectly the curve of her combined fingers and palm and wrist... they made a near-perfect chute, three-quarters surrounding the cock.

She squeezed, stroked him solidly, and as he shivered, fingers numbers three, then four (!) slid into the taut opening above his cock-root. It looked so impossible, but felt so right! Her own bottom gave out powerful twinges in sympathy with its relative's situation. The grease made a little glistening ring around her embedded fingers, now inside all the way to the big knuckles.

She listened carefully for any intelligible words to come from this pulsating heap of flesh before her, to rise above the pleasure-groans and sighs. Each had on occasion used the escape option they'd established, the phrase that meant, absolutely, "Stop, I'm uncomfortable!" It was amazing how rarely they'd used it, given the exercises they'd tried!

But no such protest issued.

She pressed harder, felt Gavin heave back against her as if begging for even more penetration. But there wasn't anything left to give, except... she moved her thumb into the cup of fingers, added it effortlessly to the crowd. Gavin was now wildly humping himself into the long curve of her grip, cock-fucking her palm and inner wrist. It was immensely erotic, watching, feeling, hearing him go over the edge like this, lose any semblance of control, turn himself totally free with her.

Her fingertips curled, digging her nails sharply against the underside of his cock. He heaved back yet again, just as she added pressure, and with a startling groan from Gavin her whole hand went into him, all the way to the wrist. As Gavin panted and shivered, he also came.

Her hand up inside his ass let her feel the inner workings of his body in a way she could never have imagined, delighted in it... it was SO scary to be so far inside another person, so close to the life in there. If she tried, she could probably reach up and grip his heart itself. "My life in your hands" - literally. She cupped her outside fingers over the end of his cock, caught the spurts of semen, used it as lubricant, kept up her movements until he sagged downwards, her arm protruding obscenely, impossibly, from his bottom.

Semen - an orphaned word, seldom used correctly where warranted... the whole world confuses sperm with semen. Ugly-word contest runner-up? How about "ejaculation" and "ejaculate" - perhaps also "seminal fluid"? And the bastardized, un-standard "cum" - (noun? verb?) for god's sake, how much ugly can one package in a three-letter word? Nobody seems to call the process of coming (having an orgasm) 'to cum'...things are very confused in the cum vs come contest. We really truly need a poet-of-sex!)

It had taken about a minute of careful wiggling to extract herself from his bottom: she felt, afterwards, that although they might be momentarily physically free of one another, some phenomenal direct and very permanent connection had been forged between them in those few moments.

One of the most telling conversations they ever had followed, as he lay there in her arms luxuriating, as he recovered from the experience. He'd told her things about wanting to be entered, about wanting to turn loose that way, told her other things that he had clearly never told to anyone else.

Somewhat later he had thanked her physically, in a most interesting and memorable manner.

Then there was the whole business of the witch's broomstick. Back to her earliest sexual memories from childhood was where this one took her, and it was one of her very favorite ways of fitting his cock to her body.

Back then, normal-kid-style, at age about six, she had taken to bed with her the broom that was part of her Halloween witch costume. She didn't remember why she'd done so, but certainly remembered the consequences. She had already learned to play with herself, even to bring on the near-epilepsy that was a kiddy-sized climax. She remembered clearly tucking the end of the broomstick between her legs and starting to imagine flying away on it, through the night sky... but the corrugated "get a grip!" plastic coating had had a predictable effect: she curled around it on her side, fetal position, and slid the stick, hard and slippery, against her slit, making herself come over and over and over again, dreaming all the while of flying through the air.

That position had quickly become her standard, and fucking herself against the stick a routine pleasure. For so many years. And now, whenever she and Gavin were done making love for the evening (well, at least, as done as ever they got!), they would spoon, fetal-like. Gavin had the damnedest ability to get another hardon after climaxing. He would usually run out of ability to actually reach another climax himself long before he ran out of hardon, which she thought unusual, wonderful, and quite charming. It certainly said volumes about him finding her physically attractive, didn't it?

At any rate, one of her favorite things, now, was the way they'd lie together, his exhausted but ever-hard cock slithering slowly through the perfectly-matching curve of her crotch, slipping through her gently clenched thighs, spreading her cunt lips so nicely, stroking slowly and gently over her clit... they would lie together that way, talking about all sorts of things, with the insistent undertone of almost-joining. Talk and touch and wiggle, until abruptly the firestorm of orgasm would sweep over her without warning.

Over a long evening, he could give her several extras that way: she could always tell exactly when it was going to work. He would sigh, apparently realize that his own batteries had been recharged, and roll her over onto her back. She always knew what was coming next, they'd come to know one another's' tastes quite well, and she would spread her legs wide to receive him, full-frontal the way both liked so much... and then the curve-fitting would begin in earnest.

Staring deep into her eyes, fingertips on her clit and nipples, he would gently, carefully slide himself deep into her bottom as she wrapped her legs around his hips and teased his nipples with her fingernails. She loved how he would take a minute, or two, or three just to finish that first stroke deep into her bowels.

Bottom - so much more attractive than simple "ass" or "butt"... both of those terms suffer from lack of definition. Is one's ass an external structure? Or is it internal? Nobody knows. Writers are forever having characters do the impossible... as in 'ass-fucking' or 'butt-fucking'... fucking someone in the ass or in the butt. The ass is an undefined entity - what they should be writing is 'fucking in the rectum, by going through a relaxed anal sphincter'...at least then we would know for sure what's going on. But precision might well reduce one's enjoyment of a bit of text. Certainly " rectum" and "anal sphincter" both suffer the lack of our Poet. My god but we're primitives in terms of terms!

Then slowly and carefully, they would begin their dance: lovely how the cock-curve fit tightly against her own curves deep inside her that way... almost perfectly, but not quite... there was the overfull tension of his presence in her butt, strange nerves aglow in exquisitely nice ways. The curves of her interior pressing against the curves of his body within her. Then, when her excitement was up high again, without separating, they would roll her over, impaled on his cock, to put her on face and knees, spraddled totally defenseless and completely open for him, for them, to enjoy.

The twisting churn of that hard curved rod rotating deep inside her would light her off for fair: then, with him up in a deep, straining squat behind her, the upwards curve of his cock would match the inner curve of her rectum perfectly, cock head pointing towards the top of her coccyx, underside of the curve sliding gentle-hard exactly against her G-spot in a way that simply didn't happen with cock in pussy. Always he made sure of her comfort, always he made certain she was ready and enthusiastic, always he would slip her the vibrator to press against the side of her clit so they could come together this way, always he would time himself, somehow, to pace her.

They would work up to a throbbing, pounding, driving fuck, Gavin squatting there behind her, dripping sweat from nose and chin onto her back, her legs shaking every bit as hard as his, until finally she would open for him like a magnolia blossom in spring, his hands would grip her shoulders, move to cup her tits, and then they would become a single knot of sexual energy, filling her bottom, wrapping her in a deep electric fog, exploding. She could feel his climaxes so much more clearly when he was up inside her ass, a whole different world. Often, as they slowed, cooled, finally separated, she wondered to herself just exactly what the sperm did, lost in such an utterly alien, irreconcilably wrong, alternate universe. Odd, what one could think about at some times...

She snapped out of her musings. Curve fitting was one thing, and interesting to contemplate... but Gavin had let her know in no uncertain terms that it was her time to try something, anything, new and different. So... she gently rolled him over onto his back, spread his legs, inhaled the warm male-mixed-with-fucking scents that rose from him. He was hot, ready, almost painfully horny. He had brought her to incredible heights repeatedly, and just for fun (so he said) he'd not let himself go. Not yet.

It was her job now to make him come, whether he wanted to or not. She thought she had an idea how to meet the challenge. Two fingers into her mouth, then nice and slow, deep into his bottom, curl forward, find the prostate, make him sigh and buck a little. Yes, indeed. Trigger set, no? Then, carefully, carefully, take one ball into her mouth, fondle it, feel him jerk. Ready. Now, press on the prostate, make for him the electricity he always talked about.

Awkward, this pose, but interesting, her nose against the base of his cock, testicle going round and round in her mouth like a slippery small date in a suede sack... find the cord, the little cord from testicle to outer world, the sperm superhighway, catch it between inner lip and tonguetip, feel it, just the size of a piece of twine, not much of a portal for the future of humanity. Then hold it there, study things, an exercise in observational biology.

Her hand began to stroke Gavin's cock, gently, firmly, fast... just like she had seen him do for himself. In moments he was arching up, arching and gasping.

Yes, she was going to win this one easily!

And then the blast of his spasms hit, solid, hard. In her mouth she felt the sequence, many little events separated by milliseconds, or perhaps by eons, who could tell? The muscles in his testicles (who'd have thought about those muscles?) twitched hard, then a bolus of sperm forced itself bullet-train like down the tube clipped between lip and tongue. Moments later, deep against her embedded fingertips, she felt the contractions of his prostate as he gasped aloud with pleasure when the sperm-knots passed through. Then only slightly later, she caught the escaping jet on her fingertips at the end of his cock.

Four, five, almost a sixth!

She let him slow and stop, slowly slid her mouth from his balls, her fingers from his butt. Looking at his red, gasping face, she smiled her sweetest deep-South, butter-won't-melt smile, and asked

"Now, Sir... y'all just perfectly certain you're alright down there?"

He was.