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That was how the dynamics of eroticism appeared to me at the time.
The brisk fumblings of adolescence, the urgent heavings and humpings
of the one-night stand, the ever rarer sexual encounters of marriage,
all ordained a logical progression. Stimulation + opportunity = climax
whenever possible. Like a child who will give itself indigestion
simply because food is available and might evaporate if not ingested
right now, I saw an end to what was happening to me. I know better
now.
Every part of me was humming at a high pitch and I was making noises
like Dracula’s front door swinging to and fro in a gale. I
must come.
I tried every trick that I knew to bring the crescendo to climax.
I tightened the muscles in my legs and tried position after position.
I ground my groin like a pestle against her face. I arched my back
and bucked on her hand. I even grabbed a passing cock and thrust
it in my mouth, regardless of its owner’s desires. Nothing
worked.
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By now the only parts of me touching the bed were
my head and shoulders. My feet were on the woman’s shoulders
and my body was rigid. Together we made an archway with my pussy
and her head twin voussoirs making up the keystone. I had stopped
breathing and my lungs were burning. Suddenly, a scream or wail burst
from me and my body bucked violently. My legs jerked straight. The
poor woman was pushed with the full force of both of my legs right
to the other side of the bed. She slammed onto the edge, two bodies’ lengths
away. She remained there for a split second, then slithered backward
onto the floor.
Paul was kneeling nearby, being sucked by some woman, but rapidly
made his apologies to her, stepped off the bed to help the woman
on the floor to her feet, checked that she was OK and, still apologising,
shepherded me from the room.
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