If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. You could also get new content delivered directly to your inbox. Thanks for stopping by!
We’d been at it for the better part of a day, minus some small swaths of time for sleep, food and drink. Finally prudence suggested that it was time to start heading to the showers.
Usually we get clean together, reasoning that any dirtiness must have been put there by the other, who should therefore be responsible for removing it. But I wasn’t ready. “You go ahead,” I told him. “I’m going to rest for a few more minutes.”
After 22-plus hours of sex, any sensible woman would have been satisfied, especially if she’d fucked her partner’s cock to a state of raw pinkness that would take days to heal. And if her own bits were an even pinker pussy shade than usual.
But no. As I rested, my hand once again found its way between my legs. The shower ran just a few feet away while I came again and again, but something still wasn’t satisfied.
It was the lack of gushing, I realized. I’d been fully cunt-stuffed throughout by finger, toy, hand and penis. Too much stuffedness impedes the gushing process, so it seems, though I can hardly claim to have studied this scientifically.
“I need to come,” I announced as he stepped from the shower, clean and dripping.
He was stunned. “You still need to come? What have we been doing for the past day?”
When I explained my theory of gushing, he understood. He understood, so he pulled from beneath the bed my magical Hitachi. Another man might have balked at being asked to help someone get off after nearly a day of getting her off, but not this man. He took a seat at the foot of my bed with the toy in one hand and its variable-speed controller in the other. He gently pushed it onto me.
The dam broke. Everything previously obstructed rushed forth, splashing my thighs, my knees, and surely all the way up to his shoulders.
The Hitachi’s head rattled with fluid but still my friend hung in there. His front-row seat allowed him to see everything, I thought in between orgasms. No matter how much time I’ve spent with him or how thoroughly he’s explored my body, I coudn’t help but feel shy that he was seeing me so exposed.
Why? I wondered later, after I was dry and dressed again. Could it be that I can barely believe that anyone would want to experience something so intense with me? Or be so close to the action? Or run the risk of being screamed at, splashed on, and crushed by the forces generated from between my legs?
It still surprises me that my partners will bear with me through all that. Every time it surprises me.
Maybe some day I’ll take it for granted.




