She lies, limbs splayed, almost sated, almost content. She didn’t quite get there, he didn’t quite bring her and she debates whether to finish herself off – she is still close enough that a few rubs would do the trick, but she is so comfortable that she doesn’t want to move. It is one of those times when not climaxing is a mere annoyance, easily ignored, rather than outright frustration. She feels the bed dip once or twice as his weight shifts, she assumes that he is getting off the bed to pad into the bathroom for his post-love-making routine. Sometimes she would save him the trouble, taking him gently in hand and wiping away the evidence of their joining with a selection from the stack of soft baby towels she kept in her drawer for that very purpose. She never felt more feminine than when she did that – but she didn’t do it all the time. It is a routine both of them enjoy very much and although this has never been discussed, they both know that it is best kept for those very special occasions when he is all man, all giving, and she is all woman, all receiving; when he takes her and by so doing gives her inexplicable pleasure. Such occasions are necessarily rare and valued – even the most exquisite dish can become common-place if care is not taken to keep the special, special. She keeps her eyes closed, not wanting to get into their usual post-coitus banter, hoping he’ll think she’s fallen asleep: she wants to bask in the moment and enjoy the after-effects of having had his body under hers as she rode him to completion. There’s just something about being on top that makes her feel magnanimous, generous. Today, she forgives him easily for not being a gentleman, for not letting the lady come first. The bed dips once more, and her eyes snap open at the sensation of rough stubble on her inner thigh. Moving to grasp his head and halt its upward movement, she tries to sit up.
Slowly she lies back, irritation rising, knees tense. He is just going to arouse her all over again for nothing, she thinks. There is no orgasm coming her way – he’s not 20 anymore she considers, a tad regretfully. She sighs and prepares to give the obligatory moans that signal the pretend orgasm. She has to time it just right: let him work long enough to feel accomplished, but not so long that she’d be left super frustrated. Now she’ll have to give herself those strokes after all. Dammit. Her mind is beginning to drift to what she will wear to work tomorrow, that daily conundrum that never seemed to resolve itself until after the shower, when body lotioned and face cleansed, toned, and moisturized, she would stand in front of her closet in nothing but her underwear. Whatever he is doing between her legs is mildly pleasant – just a bit longer she thinks, then I’ll moan and end this.
A mystery she has never been able to solve is how people lay out their outfits the night before: the few times she did that it always turned out to be a waste of time – she rarely wore the selected outfit when the time came, and so eventually gave up on the process.
His nipping teeth bring her back to the present and she squirms a little, caught between pleasure and pain – and liking it there. She relaxes, and allows herself to hope that maybe this time…
He crawls between her legs, knees between hers, hands travelling northward to cup the soft globes of bronze flesh that sit high and firm on her chest, squeezing them together as he brings his mouth to her dark, now-engorged nipples. The gossamer thread connecting her nipples and the seat of her pleasure twangs at his ministrations and her breathing changes, becomes heavier and shallow all at once. Her thighs become heavy too and between them, an ever-expanding lake of white-hot fire. The peaks she climbs when he roughly tongues and gently bites those so-tight buds, his ability to make her forget everything except his touch and warm wet mouth – these are things she cannot ever trade, not even for a chance to understand what all the fuss over lovers of southern cuisine is for. With nipples this sensitive, who needs coochy kisses?
She didn’t expect him to rise again so soon, so she is confused when he begins to nudge her thighs open, when she feels his hardness there, almost at that sweet spot. Ordinarily she would have been consumed with questions of her own inadequacy –did he not come, before? – but this time there is no time for that, he is whispering in her ear, demanding entrance, wanting to dive into that hot lake.
Vula. Vula ngingene.
His insistence is thrilling and she resists the urge to let her thighs fall open, luxuriating in the undertones of desire she hears in his suddenly raspy voice.
A playful smile making her lips twitch. Legs moving to close, pretending to push him away with her hands on his chest, lightly pulling and twisting his nipples. She wants to hear him plead some more, instinctively knowing that his expressed desire will further fuel her own. The insides of her thighs are suddenly slick, and she rubs them together, trying to press against that magic button and failing, yet somehow managing to increase her own excitement anyway. Her breath catches in her throat and she wants more –
Ngena phela. Letha. Ngipha.
Legs finally falling open, fingers clawing at buttocks, pressing him in, deeper. He moves against her, catches hold of her arms and pins them above her head, his heat melding with hers, their earlier lovemaking and this new coupling making the joining easy. There is no resistance as he slides into her and fits snugly into his very own heaven, drags her towards ecstasy with him. They moan, and she rakes his back with her nails, wanting to pull him deeper and harder into her. He holds still for a moment, not wanting that champagne to pop until the perfect moment, and she holds still with him, her body pulsing with the throbbing heat deep within. Then they’re caught in that age-old dance: rhythms matching, hips rising and buttocks falling in synchronised rapture.
He mumbles against her ear; her womanhood quivers in response. He continues to talk. Describing what he is feeling. Telling her what she is to him, naming her, bestowing title after title upon this goddess writhing beneath him, this queen, this bearer of ecstasy, this delicioussss, his only one – and as he continues to whisper and carries on thrusting, she begins, again, to hear colour and see music. The crescendo builds and ebbs, builds and ebbs, all of her expanding to contain all of him: all of his passion, all of his pleasure, until when she feels she must scream or die from the sheer bliss of it all, he slows down and stops moving.
She won’t answer. She can’t. She shakes her head mutely, unable to look him in the eyes, raised as he is above her, weight on his elbows. She tries to catch him, lifting her hips, but he lifts his too, almost but not quite coming free of that heat prison, drawing a cry of dismay when she thinks he is leaving her empty. When she relaxes, he moves into her once more, excruciatingly slowly, and her breath comes in a long, drawn-out, breathy sigh, which quickens when he asks,once more:
What can she say that will let him know of her desperate need for his thrusting hardness, and yet allow her to keep her dignity intact? She still says nothing, pride winning over desire, eyes wide open as she tries to keep control despite the twitching down below. He looks down at her and shifts, momentarily sinking deeper into her throbbing aching core, making her gasp. Bringing his hand between them, searching for and finding that slippery hard-soft pebble he begins to stroke and soothe it, calming the throbbing there and yet making it worse, making her want to ask him to stop, don’t stop; maybe she is losing her mind.
Then she is gyrating; limbs shaking as he slowly strokes it, and slowly strokes himself back and forth, in and out of her. She is almost over the mountain and her movements quicken in anticipation. Her body begins to stiffen, little spasms coming to life in her centre, she is whimpering and grabbing hold of him, nails digging into his back, when he brings his mouth to her ear once more.
It is unbearable. So close and yet so far. The spasms don’t stop, nor do they strengthen like she needs them to. This time she has to answer. She has to tell him –
Ngifuna wena. Please.
He strokes and he strokes, relentlessly. Her eyes roll back in her head and she loses all sense of propriety; her voice guttural and desperate, her words running together; all thoughts of coherence fled.
He covers her mouth with his. Lifts his head again.
Please. Please make me come. Please. Only you.
Please don’t stop.
I won’t stop.
He bites her neck. Sharp and sweet and her breath catches.
I want you to come for me. I want to see you come.
He bites again. Harder this time.
Come. Come for me.
Her mind explodes, orange and red beating against her closed eyelids, and when he moves his hand from between their bodies to cup her butt, drawing her closer and pushing himself impossibly deeper into her, the explosion doesn’t stop but only builds and now seems to fill not just her mind and body, captures him too, makes him stiffen and cry out her name as he pours his life into her.