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Message-ID: <28444asstr$979618209@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: PeterPrin@yahoo.com
Subject: {ASSM} Slow Rise (MF) by Peter Principle
Date: Mon, 15 Jan 2001 23:10:09 -0500
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Slow Rise
 by Peter Principle

She takes a long time to get to her climax.  She told me that, weeks
before we first met. These exchanges of words at a distance were our
awkward foreplay.  "And I don't get very wet," she'd said.  On that
count I was to discover she was mistaken.

Orgasm isn't everything, of course.  Yes, I know "It's the journey, not
the destination."  I've even declared that myself, more than once.  I
even believe it.  Most of the time, anyway.

Still, I have to admit there is something very special about bringing
your lover to orgasm.  It's flat out personally arousing to witness her
excitement climb to that mountaintop.  To get this librarian out of her
modest blue dress and her housewife underwear, sprawled naked on her
back with her legs open wide for me, her inhibitions discarded
piecemeal on the path from the door to the bed.  Hearing her, feeling
her writhe under my body, watching her lose control of her normally
tightly wrapped demeanor for those few seconds of exquisite
irrationality.

It's also an ego stroke for me.  My stiff flesh is stirring her body
and she's coming because of that, coming because I'm hitting all the
right spots, driving her, stretching her soft insides in all the right
ways.  Fucking her in a way that's at least as satisfying to her as the
way her husband does it.

The first time we encountered each other face to face, she only
climaxed once during intercourse.  It was our third fuck, the Morning
After the first two.  The previous evening we'd made love for three
hours.  The first time I lingered more than an hour before I finally
slipped inside her with something more than my fingers or my tongue.
An hour of kisses and caresses, of licks and nibbles.  We had undressed
without hesitation.  We were eager to get horizontal and to discover
the realities of warm skin.

Did I not loiter long enough on her firm, compact breasts capped by
those small pink nipples?  Or did my mouth play too insistently between
her pale thighs, dividing her surprisingly lush thatch of pubic hair
with my nose to inhale her unique scent?  Did I slash too roughly at
her crimson labia and twig of a clitoris?  Perhaps she was just too
nervous and it wasn't going to happen, no matter what I did or what she
did.  By the time I finally inched up inside her silky cunt and took my
pleasure there, I was clearly closer to my mountaintop than she was to
hers.

How does that cliche go?  The average man reaches orgasm after six
minutes of intercourse.  The average woman needs eleven minutes.  It's
the Primal Gender Gap.

I'm hopeful she excused me when I didn't wait for her.  Or I couldn't
wait, which is closer to the truth.  After a solid hour of foreplay, it
would be too much to expect that I could hold off my orgasm for
additional hour while we fucked.  Her vagina called to me, beckoning my
cockhead to cross her heavenly portal and to take the measure of her.
It spoke to me with smooth slickness, with tender clenching nibbles at
the entrance and a subtle widening bloom of arousal as I pressed ever
further inward.  She got her knees up and kept her hips swaying from
side to side and my cock got deep, oh so blissfully deep, and that was
that.

She never did tell me how my erection compared to her husband's.  When
you're bigger, they usually tell you.  Sometimes at the first encounter
with eyes or hands.  Or afterwards, in the contemplative lull of
intertwined limbs.  Or, best of all, when you're inside her and some
new sensation, some extra stretching or pressure or high-up bumping
makes clear to her your different size or shape.  She moans her
pleasured discovery into your ear, and your competitive masculinity
redoubles your desire to bury your fine cock even more purposefully.
But most don't say anything.  Yes, it's an ego thing.  It's the
universal male insecurity.  Maybe silence means it doesn't matter.  I
can only hope.

I may or may not have been bigger, but she did tell me that I
ejaculated more fluid.  Score one on the Primal Ego Scale for that.
Several days of buildup and the hour of foreplay no doubt produced a
goodly volume of semen.  I remember how wide her blue eyes were when I
was coming, spurt after gloriously throbbing spurt.  She had to have
felt the pulses at the base of my shaft.  I was buried inside her far
enough for that.  Could she also perceive the spreading warmth of my
liquid offering?  I know it oozed out of her the rest of the night.
She was mine.

We fucked a second time that first night.  The foreplay was quicker,
the intercourse was a bit longer, her vagina was slicker, my erection
less rigidly firm.  My orgasm was less intense and hers was again
missing in action.  That night I slept solidly for the first time in a
month.

She did climax the next morning, although it wasn't obvious to me at
the time.  She was on top, at first sitting upright and skewering
herself, but toward the end she just lay down against my chest, brushed
her small pink nipples back and forth in my furry chest hair and
purred.  She seemed content to have barely more than half my cock
inside her while she lightly rubbed herself against my pubic bone, her
face tucked under my chin against my neck, signaling me by her
pleasured gasps that she liked my forefinger playing with her anus.  It
must have been a small orgasm, but she told me afterwards that it was a
real one.

She isn't a screamer.  She'd told me that beforehand, also.

The second time she climaxed with me was the second morning, when she
masturbated for me.  She does that in a shy way, lying on her stomach
and straddling a pillow and applying the muffled pressure of a hand
while her hips gently rock.  I couldn't see exactly what she was
doing.  I caressed her ass cheeks and her long back and her shoulders
with its dusting of freckles, and I whispered sweet nothings to her and
gave her butterfly kisses and tried to not distract her.  By herself
she only took five minutes to get there.  Just a small acceleration of
her breathing, a few quiet gasps, a subtle stiffened arching of her
back.  Her anus winked at me.  I was happy.

Many months passed before we saw each other again.  On this second
occasion we were both more relaxed.  More comfortable with each other
as real life people.  As friends.  As Same Time Next Year lovers.

We made love twice that night, each time longer than any in the past.
I reacquainted myself with her soft smile and even softer hair.  Red
spots on the bridge of her nose hinted at the eyeglasses that she'd
worn on her long drive, only to vainly tuck away in her purse before
arriving at my door.  I kissed her, licked her, tongued her, nibbled
her, sucked her until her musky scent had penetrated my pores and her
juices were smeared across half my face.  Until her pussylips were fat
and inflamed red, her luxuriant red-brown pubic hair was slickered
flat, and her clit was bored with being stiff and her sweet, flowing
cunt was twice past ready.  By then my cock was high and hard, and I
need to reacquaint myself with the rest of her intimacies.

And then I fucked her for me.  On her back with her short legs
straightened, between her embracing thighs and outside of them.  With
her knees low and my cock scrubbing against her clit and her hips doing
that matching slow dance with mine.  With her knees bent and pulled
high, tucked up against the sides of my barrel chest and held there by
my elbows, and my cock saying hello to her cervix.  On her side.  On
her tummy, her legs almost together, my shaft rudely finding her juicy
cunt due south of her winking anus.  I wanted to fuck her.  I wanted
her to feel fucked.

I took my pleasure in her, and she gave her body and her soul over to
me.  I decided that I wasn't going to worry about her orgasm any more
than she was worried about it, and she didn't seem all that worried.
Each time before I came, I rolled her onto her back and gave her fair
warning.  I captured her in my arms, wrapped so tightly around her that
I was afraid I might hurt her, and I plowed into her with full,
deliberate strokes.  I fucked her with a joyous acceleration of raw,
sensual, erotic lust.  I wanted her.  I wanted to propel her, to propel
me.

But mostly I just wanted to come.  I wanted to take her, to have her
absorb my desire, to fuck her like the fuckable woman she was, to fill
her with my male flesh and my male fluid.  To own her for that brief
moment.  I wanted to ejaculate into that silky cunt of hers, that cunt
she was so convinced didn't produce enough welcoming slickness, that
cunt she was so concerned was 10 years and two babies beyond snug.  I
held her tight in my arms and gave her the feel of my larger body, gave
her all of my cock, all of my male hardness and strength, again and
again and again.

We breathed together, we gasped and we moaned together.  Her curly
auburn hair was sweat-plastered to her forehead and a tangled mess on
the pillow.  I kept easing forward to kiss her as I fucked her, to have
that wet, busy connection of our mouths mimic what was happening
between our legs.  Open, with shared tongues.  But at the end I wanted
her to see my face, and I wanted to see hers.  I raised myself on
outstretched arms and we just watched each other.  Her face glowed in a
lusty blush and her eyes glistened and her mouth formed that O of
liberated pleasure, that take me love me hold me fuck me oh God oh yes
final straining pressure push that explodes in the glory of a release,
with sticky pulsing there there there spurts that I hoped to God she
could feel and know was for her and because of her.

I wonder what it would feel like to come in her mouth.  Though that
would have been a clear second best.  I wanted to be in her cunt.  I
needed to be there.  Coming in her mouth would have been a salacious
pleasure.  Coming in her cunt was pleasure for the soul.

The two fucks of the evening were followed by lovemaking in the
morning.  Slower this time.  Less frantic.  More feel me, touch me,
love me, remember me, cherish me, cherish us.  I did.  We did.  "I
don't want to come yet," I told her more than once as I slowed my pace.

"Come for me," she implored, "Please come."  And I did, of course, and
even though we both knew she wasn't near her climax, she matched the
pitch of my breathless gasps and undulated her hips beneath me and
joined my pleasure, magnifying the intensity of my release.  "Yes," she
drew me onward, "Yes, yes, yes."

And in the afternoon, we had a blessed few hours before the clock
conspired to separate us.  She opened her legs to me for one more time
of unhurried joy.  Now it was for her.  Directed by her whispers,
of "lower" and "more" and "just like that" and "don't stop."  Avoiding
direct hits on her sensitive clit.  Finding that perfect steady soft
rhythm of tongue that goes on forever until forever arrives.  Twice she
rose to Almost, only to sink back down and give me that much more
delight in the giving.  And then the third was the breakthrough, with
the final rapid breaths arching back oh there oh yes oh there and her
soft squeaks and shudders.

She left a six inch wet spot on the bedsheet.

Finally, I mounted her for one last farewell, a last rhythmic stroking
caress of her velvety sheath with my cock that just wanted to reach
inside her for one more time, to touch her deepest private place and to
leave that bit of myself there.  To add to the wet spot on the bed.  To
show her how much she aroused me.  I brushed my chest across hers,
grazed moist skin against moist skin, my hips now dancing with hers.
We were friends.  We were lovers.  "Feel me," I murmured into her ear,
cheek against cheek.  With a plunging drive, my knees dug into the
mattress and I buried myself, and I surrendered to heaven.



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