I Love It When He's Inside Of Me

He wants no more delay and he does exactly what I ask of him and frankly, when he thrusts forward, he knows that the latter part of my request is fulfilled just as much as the former. Because I part like the petals of a flower for him and the tight embrace of my sex welcomes him with eager attention and my whole body grows taut as I moan pours out of my mouth and my eyes roll into the back of my head and I melt, fulfilled once more and given life by his body.

He pulls back. He pulls back and hovers near the edge of me but he doesn't leave me. He thrusts forward and he fills me again and I take him greedy just as much as I take him sweet and I rise on the blessing of his attentions, of his hard cock throbbing so potent as he fills me a little more with each stroke of his hips.

There is nothing quite like getting fucked. As a man I'd had pleasure, but it was never like this. And I don't know if that's because I was always meant for this life, for this side of the equation, or if it was that the body of a woman is so much more intensely ready for pleasure than a man.

But to compare, well the only thing I can say is that the sensations of a man feel so much duller. Like pushing at the world through gauze, like only feeling some small portion of the fullness of experience available to me.

The pleasures of womanhood were revealed to me bit by bit over the time where I was exploring myself, where I was learning what it was to be Emily. It was good I took my time because this particular intensity? Well it was almost too fucking much to take.

It was sudden and everywhere and yes there was the sensation of him burying inch after inch of his cock inside of me but it was more than that. As a man I'd always felt like a man, felt my pleasure so centered around the singularity of my cock. But as a woman I felt everything with all of me and every sensation, from the feel of him stretching me out to the feel of the cushions beneath my fingers to the bounce of my body as he thrust against me, all factored into the fullness of my pleasure.

I could not pick out one single thing. I could not concentrate on any one sensation. I could not rely on one moment when all of it was speaking to me all at once.

All of it was screaming out for my attention and I was loving all of it in equal part.

Oh it was better as a woman. That much I knew. It was better as a woman and no one who has ever felt both could deny that. And yes some could feel that and go back to the lesser but I couldn't.

It wasn't the reason I stayed her, but it was certainly part of it.

My man is big. He is thick and he is long and he is not the biggest I've had, but he's close. When he fucks himself into me it takes time for him to reach his limit because my body has to accomodate him. It has to learn once more what it is to have the fire of his passion and his pleasure.

And oh god at times is it almost too much to take.

It's the restraint, more than anything else. The tension at the edge of him as he tightens his grip and exercises the restraint of not just burying all of himself into me all at once. No, he works my body instead. Building within me the ability for me to take him and then building in me the already overwhelming desire for more.

From behind his strokes are slow and steady and while he fucks himself into me with almost languid relief his hands roam over me, stripping me of my clothing piece by piece.

My corset falls away. My bra is peeled off. My thigh high socks remain, because the man has good taste.

And I smile as his hands touch my body once more, as I feel the familiarity of his callouses running over my skin and I shiver into it, letting him pull me up into his arms and take me off the couch as he cups my breasts and pinches my nipples just enough.

"You feel so perfect around me," he whispers in my ear as he holds me to him.

I smile, "Because we're perfect. Because I am made for you just as much as you are for me."

And it's not the truth, but it certainly feels like it. Like we're drawn to each other, two objects orbiting around the certainty of a crash.

And it's always such a spectacular explosion when our celestial bodies collide.

With a thrust of his hips he draws a moan shuddering out of me once more. His hands tighten on my body, one trailing down to my hip to hold me still while he continues to take me with strokes that are growing far more forceful and far less controlled.

"Do you remember that time in the park?" he asks me in my ear, his lips curling into a smile.

"Late at night?" I confirm with him, giggling, "On the swingset. When you left our clothes by the slides and the cops pulled up and we had to hide."

"Stuck for hours in that bush," he finishes my thought for me, "But we made the most of that time."

"Mmm," I agree with him, "I had scratches on my back from you fucking me into the ground for weeks afterwards."

He kisses my neck, his hips rolling into me as I squeeze tight against him and arch my back, pushing back into him. I start to come to life, remembering a little more how much I can give just as good as I can get and remembering that everything is so much more fun when both parties are equal in partnership.

"What about when you took me to the city for the weekend? To the real city, not this two-bit town."

His cock throbs inside of me at the memory and he dips down to kiss my skin again, "I had so many plans. Fancy dinners. Going out dancing. Even just going to museums during the day."

"I made sure we didn't so a single one of them," I informed him, "Kept you in bed all weekend long. Over and over and over again and I always found something new for us to do, or somewhere new for us to do it.

"In the bathtub. On the balcony. Even in that closet in the hallway where they keep the ice machine, nearly got frostbite from that one."

"Worth it," he coos at me.

"I agree," I press back, slamming my ass against his hips as I meet his strokes with some power of my own.

Our bodies start to come together harder. More **** and more power and more speed behind it as our breath starts to get more ragged.

"God and now you have me for weeks," I say, "I've given you so much and now you can have me any way you want. What are you going to do to little old me?"

"I'm going to have my fun," he growls, "And I'm not going to let up. We're not leaving this apartment. We've both been so busy, so preoccupied. It feels like it's been forever since I had you..."

"I saw you three days ago," I laugh.

"A momentary glance and a blowjob in a bathroom on campus hardly count as seeing me," he snarls.

I shrug, "You were the one who got off at least."

His stroke falters and his hand on my hip slips around. I feel it press into the flat of my tummy and then press in and down, sliding in between my legs until his fingers are brushing up against my clit while he fucks himself into me.

"Is that what you want?" he asks me, "Do you need to cum?"

I am moaning instantly. Even the littlest promise of a climax is enough to make me melt, to make me absolutely smitten and entirely beholden to him. Shivering and shaking and trembling beneath his touch as the begging comes so easy to me.

"Oh please don't tease me," I tell him, "You know what I'm like."

He pauses for only an instant before he slides the last little measure, pressing the tips of his fingers firmly into my clit. When he strokes forward his hips press my body into his fingers and the sensation in what just might be the most sensitive place in my body sends a rush of pleasure racing through me, shivering up my spine and making me clench my hands into balls and squeeze them over my body, trapping his other hand on my breast.

"Fuck me," I mewl, "Oh god, you touch me so good baby."

I've been with men who know what they're doing. I've been with men who don't. I've been with men who have this innate understanding of my body, who maybe even get it more than I do.

Men who play mind games and men who are so dumb they might as well just be a big old bundle of rocks. Men who fall in love and men who have their own ideas of what sort of woman I should be.

But this man? My man? He's none of those. He's different than all of them and embodying shades of them all at the same time. He's given over to moments like this, to moments where the briefest touch of his fingers is enough to drive me mad and I think at least a part of it is the simple fact that it is his body doing it.

And maybe that is love. It certainly feels like it to me.

"I love the way you touch me," I confess to him, "The way you drive me wild. The way you make me... oh fuck... the way you make me so close so suddenly and the way that I almost can't help myself around you."

I feel it building within me and it almost always takes me by surprise with him. Because it is so quick and it is always so severe, like I'm being tugged into the air so quickly that I leave everything behind including my breath.

"Oh fuck!" I cry out, wailing at the feel of it, "Oh god baby if you keep going like this you're going to make me fucking cum. You're going to make me fucking cum, baby. Do you want to make me cum? Do you want... Do you know... baby?"

I can feel him tightening. I can feel him start to slow, start to falter, start to stop.

And then I realize what kind of night this is. It's not a night of sudden endings, it's one of long and slow build.

It's a night of denial, and he's sure to let me know that when he whispers in my ear the moment before he pulls away.

"Do you think you've earned that yet?"