Very rarely can I call what happens between M and me making love. I don’t have anything against it, making love, but it has a connotation of gentleness and of being tender.
M and I, we don’t make love. We fuck.
But every once in awhile it sneaks itself into our bedroom and takes me by surprise.
Take the other night. After a few episodes of Dexter, we made our way upstairs. We cuddled for a few moments, shut of the lights, and moved into our sleeping position, with me as the little spoon. Once we were settled and he wrapped his body around mine, his hands began to wander.
Before long, I’m arching into him and we’ve bypassed the point of just going to sleep. I roll onto my back as my hand grips his cock, already hard and wanting touched. M’s hand slips into my panties, running over my clit and between my lips, finding me already wet.
Somehow, we ended up on our sides, face to face, the length of our bodies pressed together, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. My arms wrap his head, my fingers in his hair, as my lips and body moved against him.
Soon one of my legs is up over his hip and his hands are exploring, they’re on my back, my ass, my lips, moving our bodies against one another. It doesn’t take long before he’s guiding his cock into my pussy, sliding the whole length with one smooth, slow thrust while his lips move against mine. He holds me there, tight against him, not allowing me to grind and roll like I want.
Slowly he pulls back, thrusting back into me. My lips fall from his as pleasure radiates through my body. He continues to move, holding my ass, using my body as leverage.
I kiss his shoulder, his neck, his chest, my teeth scraping his flesh as my mouth moves across his skin. My hands roam his back, his ass, his legs and neck, anywhere I can reach.
With the sensation of so much of our skin touching, the taste of him on my lips, his fingers playing where our bodies are joined, running over my lips, feeling the skin stretched and strained against his girth, it’s too much and suddenly I’m lost. Floating in a space of pleasure and joy and complete happiness.
Every time I start to come back down, start moving in sync with his body, he pushes me back up, making cum again and again.
By the time he rolls me onto my back, my legs hitched over his arms, my thighs are dripping with juices and I’m withering beneath him. My pussy’s spasming and gripping and willing his cock to cum. And when it’s all over, we lay side by side, skin still touching as we drift to sleep.
These moments, these I call making love. When it’s overwhelming on so many levels, when I can’t get close enough or touch him enough. When it’s just he and I, when there’s no kink, no play, when we are at our most basic, raw. When all I want to do is crawl up inside him and be one with him.
These are our moments of making love.