Sometimes it is as simple as an image, or a singular sensation. Last night, watching a video about ponygirls, it was the image of one girl tossing her head about, fighting the reins. This morning, it was the feel of his cock, softening after his orgasm and wet with his and my juices, sliding across my pussy lips and over my rings.
Usually by the time he comes I am already in such a heightened state of arousal that just the sound of his soft expulsion of air and the feel of him shuddering against me can tip me over into my own orgasm. Many times I have ridden his excitement up with him, driving him even as he drives himself into me, so that when it happens his orgasm becomes my own.
This morning was different. Sleepy and not quite willing to pull myself out of my half-dreaming state, I only lay quiescent beneath him, open, enjoying the sensation of having him sliding in and out of me. I kept my hand between us, between my legs, holding his cock as it pushed in and out and lightly stroking my rings and pulling on my pussy lips, but not pushing myself toward orgasm. When he came, I felt my body react in its usual way, seemingly completely independent of what my head was doing at the moment (dozing, floating, thinking of absolutely nothing and only enjoying the physical sensations.) He stayed inside me and I felt my body tensing on its own around him, pulsing, milking him, pulling at him. I felt him twitch inside me, felt the length and breadth of him all along my sensitive inner walls, felt a gush of moisture spill onto my fingers–his or mine, I didn’t know. And as he softened and slipped from inside me I curled my hand around him and stroked the velvety skin of his cock’s head against my now-swollen lips.
And that was all it took. Suddenly my own excitement peaked and I used his cock like a living toy, stroking my pussy lips over and over, feeling the rings against his skin and my own, tasting their metal in my mouth as I had tasted the metal bit in my mouth the afternoon before.
It is so seldom gentle between us…being taken is what I want and need, taking is what he does. And even, in this, I recognized that he was simply using my body as a receptacle, a hole that he could push into and spend himself in, requiring nothing from me but that I open myself to him…and yet…it was gentle. And for me it was all about that sensation, of holding him in my hand, wet with girl-juice and come, and so very tenderly stroking him against my soft inner lips. It was about the novelty of being allowed those quiet sensations, of being allowed to feel a tenderness in a thing that is almost always–even this–about power. My orgasm almost took me by surprise when it happened. It was not a thing of violence and need, but a slowly rising tide that lifted me up, and then, slowly, brought me back down until I lay, once again, quiet and dreaming.