The Gift of Giving

Again I approach, spreading my legs, setting my shins on either side of her neck, crouching above her, then lowering my lower lips to her cum-flecked face, and now I begin to rock my hips, riding her mouth as she licks. Her spouse tosses me a soft, old t-shirt; I dab away the semen near her eyes so that she can blink them open, still eating me out. She sees me smile down from my mount astride her mouth.

The best word for the world of me that surrounds her is cunt. The warm, deep earthiness of Old English for my warm, wet musk. The whole of me between my legs, the lovely arc from the swell of my belly with its thatch of hair back to the curve of my own bum.

I could say something like: she circles her tongue over my clitoris, slides two fingers between my vulva and begins rhythmically to penetrate my vagina. But all those Latinate words sound vaguely academic, as though she were consulting a textbook to pleasure me properly.

Or I could say: I sit on her face. She eats my cunt. She fucks me with her fingers. In this way I set the scene will throaty sounds, words as comfortable as sex and bread. (Despite the irony that our least sexy sex-word, fornicate, is actually derived from the shape of ovens in which you'd bake.)

But we've wrapped the word cunt in such an excessive sense of naughtiness. I don't use that word with strangers, or other first-time lovers. People might misunderstand me.

Inside, though, I always know. Supine between my legs, she is awash in cunt. She works me well, providing pleasure intuitively and enthusiastically. I am a boat of joy, sailing her.

Then she glances to the side; I look, too, and see our spouses, hardening again. And so, of course, in the fullest interest of pleasure, I gently touch her face. I cradle my breast. Group sex, done right, intersperses moments where the focus is sex with moments of performance. For just a moment, before returning my attention to where it belongs, I pose. Yes, both men like what they see.

And, yes, I like what I feel. Her mouth. Her slippery, slippery mouth. It catches me suddenly, this one: almost before I realize how far I've come, I'm coming.

Good gracious. What a night. All of us. Upon her face.

When I am finally back in the non-orgasmic world again, I swing my leg up and over, rising from her mouth, but obviously I lean in once more and kiss her full upon the lips. The taste of them; the taste of me; the taste of her. Our scents, our flavors, all of us. I notice then: there is so much semen sprinkled on this blanket. There's even more on her. Before she goes home, she'll shower; with this much cum, she'll need to wash her hair. Even after she goes home tonight, each stray whiff of my shampoo will flood her mind again with thoughts of me; she'll fall asleep tonight smelling me upon her pillow.

And perhaps we four have already made plans to reconvene. Find a time when she can be the one to watch and shake, straddle and shake. An evening when our whole group's dance ends with everyone's orgasm coating me.

Where is this blanket more damp tonight: the wet spot near her head, or the wet spot between her legs? Having felt those moments of anticipation, how wet will she be, next time, as she watches me waiting?

#

And, yes, if you are reading this and considering - perhaps, with _____, would I try? - then you might appreciate the reminder that it all does take a bit of practice. One or more of you might feel nervous. Or a man might get so excited that his semen arcs over you entirely. Don't worry. As long as you still talk, and giggle, you'll be having awesome sex. A miss can good fun, too. I hope he laughs; I hope you all do.

We are nearly all of us amateurs at this. Inexpert. But there is the amat, too - we are fucking because we love.

Love is where my orgasms whelm from. In the Seedfinder drawings, the participants' forms are diagrammatic. That's part of their appeal - it seems they could be almost anyone. But in my telling, although I've named no names, I know who my partners are. In your life, I hope you know whom you'd ask to join you.

Our orgasms, with and for and by each other, are gifts. We come in times of trust. I felt safe enough to flood her mouth, losing my senses for a moment. Earlier, the men had welcomed me to watch. And we all had power here; she knelt, offering, in a moment of control. A gift to us.

And these scattered thoughts - I hope you enjoyed my gift to you. Not quite a story, perhaps, but a shared bit of my life. Sentences that meandered, rolling with my body, crescendos and ebbs, peaking as I did. I typed; at times my fingers left the keyboard to cavort between my legs; I came; I needed a moment to catch my breath; I soon felt that same warm love murmur from somewhere deep inside; I began to type again.

#

I used another corner of the old, soft shirt to clean our mingled cum from her face; she sat up again to chat. I ran my fingers through her (somewhat sticky) hair. We kissed, again and again. I slid my hand over her body, let my tongue flit across her nipple, and asked and heard her say yes, and yes, and, later, as I was already going at it, Yes!, whether she might like to receive. Soon, after mere minutes of her clit and scent and curls of hair filling my view of the world, I felt someone's hand pat me on the rump. I looked behind - her spouse was asking for a turn.

She'd offered us so much. In our gratitude, we all wanted between her legs. To help her reach that high again. Soon she had six hands over her to slide, caress, massage. And then seven, and eight: her own.