the little little death

by Sophie

He had already shaken me with two powerful orgasms, and now it was his turn. His hands were on my legs, holding them up against his shoulders, and he drove himself into me with a final push, turning his head to the side and gasping the way I love so much. He hardened and stretched me and pulsated with a familiarity I have come to crave. A smile of satisfaction crept across my face and he kissed my neck, caressed my nipples with his thumbs. His hot breath stirred the fine small hairs that grow behind my ears.

And then, even as he softened within me, I had a rolling, soft, final climax, writhing beneath him. “The little tiny death,” I sighed. He laughed. “That’s a pretty good way of putting it.”

When I was ten years old I learned how to come. I didn’t know what any part of my sex was called or what my fingers were doing. My bare fingers on my naked clit felt too intense at that point in my life, but I just knew when I rubbed myself over the rough cheap cotton of my panties that it felt amazing and then more than amazing. Over the years I learned how to use many common household items to make myself come; my mother’s retired electric razor was a cherished impromptu first vibrator. I would hold the end that plugged into the wall against myself and feel the buzzing through the plastic-wrapped wire, through my underwear, into the secret parts of me. Kegels were an accidental discovery on a long road trip where I discovered I could make myself come just by flexing my internal muscles. The movement would shift the flesh of my crotch just so, my clit rubbing against the seam of my jeans. I would close my eyes and bite my lip and try to imagine what it would be like to let a man touch me. A few years later I would find out and I would come so easily against a man’s fingers and then against boys’ shafts and pelvises, rocking myself against them the way I used to rock myself against the seam of my jeans. But I also learned that my desire would fade almost as quickly as the orgasms arrived — as soon as I came I wanted to pull away, roll over, sleep.

By the time Jamie and I met, I considered myself a “one and done” kind of girl. I would always attempt to hold my orgasms at bay during my sexual escapades because I knew once they arrived there wouldn’t be any more — and I was okay with that. I had made my peace with being a singularly orgasmic woman. In my twenty years of experience I had never been able to have multiple orgasms. Or, I guess I should say, no man had ever aroused me enough to make them happen.

Jamie made very clear to me on our first meeting that I did not know myself as well as I thought I did. This is something that still makes him smug, makes him smile as he reminds me that I am not anywhere near as in control of myself as I think I am.

Not long after our first few evenings together I was talking to a friend of mine about orgasms and the conversation meandered toward the subject of multiple orgasms. “I have just recently been able to have them,” I said to my friend. The expression that crossed her face was one of both pity and pride. “What?” she exclaimed. “Multiple orgasms are amazing, addicting. Once they begin you don’t want to stop them — why would you want to?” I nodded in agreement and she began regaling me with stories of the many times she has enjoyed herself many times, but my mind began wandering back to Jamie and what it is about the sex we have that has unlocked my newfound ability to come again and again.

At first I think it was the sheer newness of our relationship insofar as it could be called one. We had emailed back and forth over the days before, him sending me pictures and descriptions of all the things he was going to do to me. “I like giving oral, among other things,” he said in an early email exchange. “Very much. I want my partner to come first and frequently. I am a guy — I know I am going to get mine. Pretty linear. But the woman’s body is the map of the experience. I want to explore the map.” Upon reading this I worried just a little about our compatibility. I had never been able to orgasm more than once, one big bright beautiful burst of ecstasy in a sea of pleasurable play. I worried that Jamie might find me boring, one-note, or at the very least frustrating.

I apparently needn’t have worried. Once we linked up on that fateful first night, my body was more than ready to enjoy him. That night he made me come with his lips and tongue and fingers, and once I came he didn’t stop even when I told him I had finished. He pushed right through the intense sensitivity I usually feel after orgasm and rolled me back into readiness for another. I remember being wetter than I have ever been, my thighs and crotch completely soaked. My clit was almost painful to touch but he expertly and softly licked and kissed me back into waves of mindless pleasure. He slipped his fingers into me with no resistance and fucked me with everything but his cock and I came again to my shock and delight. My next orgasm — the third that evening — occurred only moments later and I remember losing all control over the muscles in my legs, my thighs quivering with need as I finally pulled away from his face, trying and failing to catch my breath. “I have never done that before,” I admitted.

Jamie seemed surprised. Maybe he is just accustomed to making every woman he fucks come again and again. I don’t think I have rolled out of bed after fucking him without having come at least twice since we met.

I still haven’t sussed out exactly why he is able to make me do what hundreds of men couldn’t (or perhaps didn’t care to). In this case I think ignorance really is bliss. In the past months I have become accustomed to coming and coming, sometimes four, five times before Jamie finally lets go. I have on many occasions begged him for his release just because I didn’t think my body could take any more — and then he touched me somehow, somewhere, and my body was off again in a wet, shaking, moaning fit of bliss that my mind was unable to control.

Lately there has been a new development in my orgasmic education. The last few times we have fucked — which, with our crazy busy schedules in the past month, have been uncomplicated affairs, but not without their share of excitement and exotic spice — I have almost always come one last time after his orgasm. When he finally presses against me for the final stroke he likes to bury his cock as deeply into me as he can. He will often hold my stomach or hips still so he can fill me. When I feel him throb inside my cunt, the sensation has sent me over the edge without warning. I usually like for Jamie to soften inside of me — I tell him almost every time, “don’t go, stay” — but lately I have forced him out of me, my pussy pushing him out with the last few quivers of these soft-yet-all-consuming peaks. I have come to expect these little tiny deaths.

A couple of nights ago I turned my head to look at him as the end of his orgasm gripped him and said, “You made me come four times, Jesus Christ,” and he breathed, “So far,” against the top of my head. And with those two words I felt my wet heat pulse and beat, and the little tiny death came as he had just promised. I became incoherent as he stayed motionless inside of me, and I squirmed around his stiffness before collapsing under him with his hands still on my hips.

==

I sent this unfinished piece — everything before this paragraph — to Jamie last night before we went to bed. I told him I didn’t know how to finish it, and he said he would read it today and edit it a little bit. I trust him with the editing duties — excess is kind of my thing, restraint is kind of his thing. Nothing gets posted on this blog without our mutual approval, with the exception of a couple of sweet surprises one of us has left for the other.

Last night we made love and I experienced yet again the tiny bonus death inexplicably. This morning he made breakfast and we had a lazy Sunday late morning. At some point I retreated to the bedroom to read some blogs by other sexual adventurers — you know, for research. About an hour later he opened the door and flashed his adorable troublemaker’s smile at me. I noticed the bulge in his shorts immediately.

“Are you hard?” I asked, smiling my own mischief. “Of course I am,” he said, shedding his clothes with no small amount of urgency. “I just spent an hour reading about how I make you come. I almost finished your piece before I had to come back here.” He was definitely erect as he got into bed and began to pull my clothes off as close to frantically as he gets. Kissing turned to him pushing me onto my back and separating my legs with his knee. He nestled his dick hard as stone against my opening. I wasn’t quite wet enough yet, even though our scent from the night before was in the air. “Just push,” I said, “Don’t wait for me to be ready, I’ll be ready.”

“I don’t care,” he said as he sunk himself deep in one thrust. “How did you know I like it when you’re forceful?” I gasped against his shoulder. “I just don’t care,” he groaned again, and fucked me like it was a necessity, like my pussy was water or food. Of course I began to soak him. I could feel the sheets under me become damp. I tucked my knees into his side as he held my hands against the bed. His forehead rested against my shoulder as he concentrated on our mutual pleasure. I almost immediately came to his pistoning drilling force, squeezing him with my knees and straining my wrists against his restraining hands.

He shifted positions, sitting up on his knees and looking down at me almost sternly. He grasped me with his strength by the hips and roughly pulled me across the bed to him, plunging back into me effortlessly and shifting his grasp to my upper arms as he slammed into me over and over. Jamie’s muscles tightened as he turned his head to the side — I know what’s about to happen, I thought, and he came with an almost violent sigh and closed eyes and a rush of heat between our entwined legs. He collapsed on me instantly and I felt his gasps against my flushed breast and I thought momentarily that the little tiny death wouldn’t happen this time. Then he pulled himself up and rested his hands on the mattress beside my shoulders and looked down at me, giving me the leverage to roll myself against his pelvis as he softened. I could feel him against my cervix, against what I have always assumed is the “g-spot,” and it began impossibly quickly, the climb to orgasm. He saw it on my face and grinned as it shot through me like a burst of lightning before an evening summer storm. My hips lifted and ground against him as I sought to keep him inside. Don’t go, stay, my body said as my spine arched and pleasure ripped through me one last time.

Jamie rolled off of me and I lay on my back catching my breath. I said something about still not knowing what was going on but as soon as he began his speculative reply — something about women of a certain age having more intense experiences as they creep towards the end of their reproductive viability, a topic I will tackle at another time — I realized that he didn’t necessarily do this to me, I did it. My body knew what to do once I let go of my control and just rode the ride, so to speak. Jamie is just the perfect playground upon which to exercise my “new” ability to open myself up to all the pleasure in the universe. He also might be the best guide for the path, the best man to teach me how to give up my delusion that I control everything about myself all the time.

I’m starting to understand a little better that there are things in life I should hand to someone else. Of course I am always only going to have one orgasm if that’s all I expect of myself, and of course that’s all I’m going to have if the man helping me get there is only focused on getting me there once. For so many men, even ones who pride themselves on pleasuring women, a woman’s single climax is all they need to feed their ego and belief that they are good at sex in general and know what women want. Jamie, however, said it early on — my body is a map of the experience, and he wants to know the entire map, backward and forward, inside and out, and that requires exploration and testing, not just following one road to its obvious end. Jamie understands how to get me there because he doesn’t understand how to get me there. The journey is the destination, and I’m learning how to embrace the journey and all the peaks and valleys, both discovered and undiscovered. I guess that means we are sexual cartographers now.

That means we need to get busy traveling.