consent

Yesterday he was behind me. He kept saying, "Take it! Take it!" I kept consenting.

I like something rough and surprising that makes me gasp, but I most enjoy slow and sustained. That's what puts me in a trace.

Today he was reminiscing about the time a month or two ago when he had a horrible headache, the kind that shoul be capitalized Bad Headache, which means he gets nauseated and can't move at all. I remembered something I'd read in Angry Women about two friends who were on a trip together, and one started having an asthma attack and was almost dying in the hotel room, so the teller of the tale gave him some mind-blowing oral sex, and it did the trick of helping the guy enough so he didn't die (he had some problem with modern medicine such that he wouldn't just go to the hospital).

That story has always stuck with me because I really think sex is like that, self-altering, with the power to save lives.

Anyway, he was telling me how the headache had given him an intense consciousness of his body, and then when I started attending to his package, the intense consciousness shifted, and he felt so watched over and loved, that it was some of the sweetest sex he had ever known.

And we were reminiscing about back when we lived in our last previous town and we would go to bed to sleep, he would curl up on my back, with his dick against my butt, and sometimes he would get hard and think about sticking it inside me and us sleeping that way, or dozing all night that way, and I said, "Let's go back in our time machine and do that!" because those were sad and over-medicated years when I had such difficulty getting interested. And now have interest to spare.

Oh, if we only had a time machine, all the things we'd do differently! But time is a one-way street, and fixing the past is what dreaming is for.