The Heat of Snowboarding

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Finding God through sex.
1.8k words
4.44
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Russ should be home any time now. He's been out snowboarding with his best friends again. I love when he does that. It makes him hot. I don't know what he fantasizes about out there on the snow; maybe someday he'll trust me enough to tell me, but just thinking about his hard body sliding freely down the slopes is enough to make me quiver deep in my belly, wanting him, waiting for him.

He tells me it's a spiritual thing, the wildness of the mountain, the crisp air, the sky, the trees, maneuvering, out-maneuvering the landscape. I believe him. He does everything like that. Everything – from fixing a salad to playing guitar to . . . to . . . his mastery of me, my heart, my soul like a window that opens at his touch, only for him.

There's something about a man who has that much mastery of his body. I don't know what it is, but he's inspired me to get back to work overcoming my fears and trauma to improve my own fitness a bit. I've always needed that kind of inspiration for this to really work. I decided to start with resuming my Qi Gong practice. I've committed to formal training, which means I undertake to abstain from sex for 100 days. Last time I managed to abstain from orgasm for 40 days. It was a profound healing experience for me. This time promises to be even more so. A little yoga wouldn't hurt me none, either.

I try to imagine what it must be like to snowboard. It's something I don't think I'll ever trust my body to do, but I do crave that kind of freedom. Of course, it could turn out to be like lid-less cars and motorcycles. I hate having my hair blown or mussed in any way, but once I drove a Z3 all the way up Trail Ridge. The freedom of driving in the open air was a totally unexpected thrill. Now, I'll do that any chance I get. Motorcycles pretty much the same. It took Amanda to get me on her Harley before I dared try that one at all. Amanda is a safety freak and I knew that every possible precaution was being taken, so I let her give me a ride for a few block. That did it. I was hooked.

Snowboarding would put my body in much closer contact with . . . well, with Creation, I think. I'm sure I'd get totally high on it. And when I get that high, an orgasm can be just a breath away. Flying would be even more freeing, but for the moment flying with my feet on the ground would do it for me. God, what if I could (and this is a total fantasy), but what if I could lie naked at the base of a (very soft) tree with my legs spread. I can imagine Russ flying naked across the snow toward me with his thick hard cock aiming right for my wet pussy.

God, how I'd arch my back and scream into that thrust!

He has so much power . . . and so much control.

Until Russ, I let no one, I mean I let nobody tease me the way he does. Strictly 4/4, you guys. Wait was a 4-letter word. Oh, they could tease me some, but I had little patience for it. All I wanted was fast, hard, steady thrusts. That's still pretty much the best way to get me to come. I have to focus to get over that edge. It takes a lot of trust and letting go. I didn't think I could ever make it over the edge on a drawn out syncopated stop and go rhythm. Until him.

I was wrong.

Sometimes it's so nice to be so wrong.

Russ's thrusts are like Miles Davis on his best day. Think "Sketches of Spain." Lazy lilts, la-dee-da. Oh, you like that, little girl? Well, I'm going to . . . stop and suddenly, I'm empty, back arched, my pussy sucking the air for more.

Damn!

I am so wet.

He can read me. His hands pull my hair away from my face. His eyes search mine. I can feel his motor idling while he drinks me into him. When I least expect it he slams his cock all the way back into me, burying himself to the hilt.

Jesus! More! PLEEEEAAASE!!!

"Oh, sorry," says he. "Did I hurt you?" He's mocking me. He knows that when I'm surrendered to his body there is no pain. Even his most brutal contact is ecstacy.

A guttural animal sound is all I can manage. I thrash and pound my fists against the bed. He's got me pinned on my back so I can't move - his enormous and very sexy hands holding my wrists, his feet somehow binding mine to the bed.

"RUSS, PLEASE!!!"

"I'm sorry. Do you want something?" Sometimes he only says it with his eyes.

More animal noises from my throat. I am no longer in control. He's got me totally submitted. I'll do anything, absolutely anything if he will just thrust into me again!

Unlike other men I've known, Russ is there with me. His eyes devour me, take in my pleasure and cycle it back to me multiplied. I can't think straight, can't talk other than moans and begging. My whole world is his body, his eyes, his cock and that small wet slit he plays like he means it.

My soul is singing to be consumed, to die into him and then be reborn in ecstatic surrender, one with his pleasure and his command of me. I've never let go like this for anyone. Never. Somehow I trust him.

For a while he just strokes my skin – all over, delicate touches.

I'm out of control, meeting him, moaning, giving in . . . all the way IN.

Short . . . Shallow . . . Thrusts.

No No! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!

PLEASE!!!! I can't take this!

"You can and you will," as he slams hard and fast - over and over and over, giving me exactly what I want. My body rises to meet his. I'm steamy, slick and surrendered.

He stops.

My body freezes where it is, suspended in the moment, then falls to the bed, shuddering, while I gasp in desperation for more.

Russ just loves to torture me.

I can't lift a finger to help myself, can't even move. All I can do is wait, my eyes imploring him to take me like that again and again. Little animal whimpers. I'm nearly in tears wanting him. It's him or nothing.

It's no use.

He owns me.

All I can do is surrender. The time and manner of my orgasms are his to choose, to give or deny as he pleases. There is nothing I can do, nothing I would wish to do, but give in and in and in.

"Give it to me!" I plead in my mind and like he heard me, suddenly, he's back in motion, slamming my body into the bed.

Then quick, short thrusts. He's watching my eyes, my breath, my body, to see if I'm ready to give in.

It's not as if he cares, you know; I'm his to play like this. The first time I heard him play guitar, sing, and resonate with his own music, I thought I'd come right there through my jeans. . . . and he knew it. Damn! He saw it in my eyes. I mistakenly thought his were closed, and possibly they were at times, but he was watching me, playing me. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Slickly sliding over my wet engorged clit like he has all the time in the world and nowhere to be but in me. Sliiii – iiiide. Sliiiii – iiiide.

ARRRGHHH!!!

Tap, tap, tap, his body teases mine. And then his huge crescendo of motion, burning into me moving with me, following my heat with his.

He grabs my leg and forces it over his shoulder to the ceiling, exposing my ass to the palm of his hand. I quiver, shake, tremble uncontrollably I want it so bad. God, I want him to slap my ass!

PLEAAAAAASE DO IT.

I want him to hit me as hard as he can. I have so much surrender to give, the endorphins won't let this be pain. It's ecstatic surrender to his maleness, his strength and control.

Suddenly, he pulls out of me, throws me on my stomach and slaps my ass over and over and over again while I moan and arch higher begging for more, futilely grinding my hips in the air. For once, he goes on forever, hypnotizing me with the rhythm of his strokes.

He thrusts a pillow under my hips and mounts me from behind, such a submitted position. He knows that I learned to come this way, but only with him, just for him. I had never let go like that before his thickness tamed me.

Showing his power over me, he just pleases himself for a while, in and out, in and out... stop .... La la la... torturing me with the unpredictability of his rhythm, stopping and starting. I can't anticipate, can't even keep track. My mind is mush. I can only beg him with my body opening as deeply as my heart can take. It's more than my body. My whole being lets go into whatever he wants to do to me. I have no choice. Don't want one, don't need it. He knows what I need far better than I do.

Tick, tick, tick...he gives me little tiny thrusts, no more than an inch of him, and suddenly pulls out again, throwing me on my back again, not giving me time to think or to breathe - he's inside me.

I can't spread my legs any wider, can't surrender any deeper, my soul bursts... and finally, finally, he bears down into me, intense, growling, forcing my orgasm to meet his. My mind bursts into his - sharing his thoughts, feeling his motion as if it were my own, grinding against him, my own screams a distant thing from the ecstacy of surrendering into him, being taken, taken into myself, into him . . . into God.

He doesn't let up. He just keeps going... he knows I'll do it again and again, for as long as he can meet me there.

Pleasure mounts pleasure and the visceral union of being One in wave after wave of creation and bliss.

Somewhere somehow he slows, holds his body over me a while, looking into my soul through my eyes, boring into me still with his Presence.

No words. No. Words.

Meltedinsidegonedeepfeeling GodOneBlissNowHis.

Copyright 2007, Ann O'Johnson

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3 Comments
symphonicscreamsymphonicscreamalmost 17 years ago
I love your wet-pussy psychology!

I love your mind-genital connection. It is strong and lovely! The wet-pussy psychology is truly beautiful! Thanks for such a nice story. Please write some more.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 17 years ago
Who knew

I've screamed "Oh MY God" a time or two...who knew I had found God while having sex.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 17 years ago
Mirror

You've just described an evening of sex between my lover and I as if you were watching us through a mirror or were right there in the room with us. Your writing style supports the urgency of your need and the actions between you and your lover. Thank you for a short, sweet, hot story.

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