2005
By Edith Finistere
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I’m on top of her, leaning on one arm and moving my hips and body against her so I touch as much of her as possible. Her skin is soft. She’s moving too, close against me. We’re rubbing harder, feeling the skin touching. Pressure shifting. She makes me sigh and breathe hard in her neck. I know my hipbone is not in the right position to stimulate her well enough. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want to fuck her straight from the hip. I want to slither along her body, slide into the curves and curl up in her arms. I want to be wet and sweaty and smell the sex. I want to forget time. I can feel lust crawling under our skin, warm and glowing but making me shiver.
Is it because we fuck without dick that sex becomes such an experience of total freedom, of complete abandonment of everything we know?
I massage her lower back, press my fingers into her spine, where the Chinese believe the power of the dragon lives. Because fire and passion do not live in the heart but there between the kidneys above the pelvic bone: the point from which all movement originates, where energy is released, blocked or taken.
She watches my back. I love her to take me from behind, causing explosions, turning me into a warrior. She feeds the dragon from her hand, sending blood up to my cheeks until they are red and hot.
When I give her pleasure I am her. I do not exist without her. Inside her I am talking. The map of her cave is burned into my mind. I can find my way intuitively. I have explored and discovered every inch. Inside I can dance with her desire and feel what she feels.
When she parts my legs and puts in her finger, we form a perfect circle. We release the power, spreading out in waves one clashing into another, slowly radiating and flowing into irregular patterns. We are making a web of desire. Moving into space, not in a straight line.
She pulls me over the edge into nothingness. Into never been born and never existed. Into we.
For more on Edith visit her blog at Madame Finistere
