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Religious Experience (MM)
by Mushroom

((((())))))

This is an attempt to paint a picture with words, to deliberately
arouse images and feelings in the reader.  If you don't like it,
delete it.  If you don't understand it, don't worry about it -
it's just my own, personal, paltry attempt to capture the essence
of the beast with two backs.  I don't know what it is, but it's
not literature and I don't think it's pornography - maybe it's
poetry.  If you like it, if it strikes a chord in your mind, then
shut off this damned machine and go live it!

A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
by MUSHROOM

     "The closest thing I ever had to a religious experience was
in the arms of a woman...", I said to my sister as she finally
over tried my patience while trying to convince me to give up my
wicked ways and find GOD.  She shut up, and I remained convinced.

     A woman's body is smoother than a man's, soft and warm.
Fingertips skim lightly over contours that please first the eye
and then the touch.  Lips soften and open to allow exploration of
taste and texture in another mouth, while breathing becomes a
shared experience.  Hairy skin rasps over smooth as communion
becomes imminent.

     Breasts have their own taste and texture, and the allure of
their purpose - the source of nourishment for new generations,
eye magnets for the male of the species, the wondrous otherness
and endless variations of form.  The tongue slides effortlessly
over the silky flesh, delighting in contrast between the smooth
surface and pebbled, extended tips.

     The navel is ticklish, muscles bunching and sliding under
the skin as I lave attention on it on my way past.  I linger a
while, but grow impatient to press on.

     Ah, the goal and the source.  The first whiff of ammoniac
scent, the surprisingly harsh feel of hair on the otherwise
smooth body, the slightly salt and slightly chalk taste of that
first, tentative probe into feminine mystery that can only be
shared but never experienced.  The inner thigh is the smoothest
and softest place on the female body, sleek against my ear and
warm to my cheek.  I can feel goose bumps erupt as I taste the
folds of flesh where legs meet torso, using my tongue to outline
and define my triangular target.

     Guardians of the portal begin to unfurl, coaxed patiently by
lips and tongue.  Small, sucking kisses help reveal that most
fascinating altar, humanities gateway to the imperfect world.
Convoluted, warm, and wet, its secrets waiting to be read by
lingual braille.  Slippery secretions await the questing tongue,
to be spread reverently over newly exposed surfaces as tension
slowly winds through the muscles and sinews of the supine body.

     The small knot of nerves near the triangle's apex deserves,
and gets, special attention.  Tremors begin to occur, radiating
from the center with increasing frequency until the body
convulses, synapses discharging singing sheets of fire along
nervous pathways unused to such high levels of excitation.

     Before the storm has died, while calm is still only
something that might be reached, I begin my journey back up the
body, dragging my own aroused and engorged center up the bed in
the sure and certain expectation of release.  Natures miracle has
made flaccid flesh into rigid anticipation, nudging blindly
toward a lubricious welcoming clasp.  Muscles strain toward an
ever closer, tighter union.  Liquid friction becomes unbearable,
and the world shatters as half of life bursts from one to the
other.

     As breathing slows, heartbeats drop, and the world comes
back into focus, it is here that I find . . . peace.
