THE PEARL (mature)

THE PEARL

The membrane fills with anticipation, moisture releases a sticky surfactant helping the wavelike motions propel the sensation, feeding the need; feeding the want.

The agitator is present and has found its way into the fold.  She is unable to move away. It doesn’t take much time.

"Let me begin.", she is told.

A rhythmic gyration that irritates her gentle wings and creates a small sand like sensation. He writes poetry in places once reserved for the psalms, his devotions, his recitations.

The chalice filled with sweet nectar as the muscles of her wings grew stronger to make her flight effortless, she is beginning to feel the loss of sensation everywhere, waiting no longer – a small bud appears and she feels the intensity where both pleasure and pain fills her senses. 

He rises and sighs with a smile, “Yes, there it is.”

The pearl appears and sits regally upon the opened shell as she lies helplessly shaking upon the softness of the bed beneath her, awaiting her full awakening.

 

Then, the wings lift and part to allow the final mango-electric charge forsaking control, prompting her to succumb, as he lowers his face and pulls the gem lightly onto his tongue. Savoring the texture, he suckles and licks with growing enthusiasm, an intoxicating mixture. 

And then, there is it – a tingling as if the pearl could burst apart from so much energy, yet rather than take it all, it shares and redistributes the synergy producing a gentle cry – first feeding the wings so they come alive and struggle to fly – filling her stomach with a butterfly plea, now awakened, fluttering madly inside of her, begging to be set free.

She opens her mouth to speak and the fluttering continues through her, making it hard to breath in – every exhale produces a quivering purr.

He continues his silent prayer, still on his knees and he leaves nothing wasted in his devotion.

She could hear him moan with unexpected pleasure, intensified emotion. She knew he was responding in kind as he placed a finger in deep, but never letting go of that treasured keep.

She could feel the flow of tiny droplets from her chapel, a holy perspiration that has now flooded from their hallowed place.

He takes her hand and introduces two of her fingers to that magnificent jewel as he lifted his face.

There, there – sitting on top of a ruby red bed of velvet skin - the pearl. Pulsing as she gently touches it. A blissful sin. 

Ah, the pleasures returned to her, over and over again.

He watches as he pleasures himself.

He coaches her as she tries to remain focused on the treasure between her fingers and yet, craving to have him inside of her, filling her with his lust, filling her with his throbs, his release, yet she remains a slave to the wishes and command of this mystical little creature to please.

Watching him finish with a final primal moan, she felt the orgasm that was her own - waves of convulsive spasms coursed through her and carried her home.

Lying still, gentle gasps for breath, falling into a cocoon of bliss, she rests; a petite death.

He is lying next to her. Neither speaks. He rolls to his side, takes her face and turns it gently towards his own and looking in to her eyes, he lets out a groan.

Her curiosity piques as she could taste her sweetness on his lips.

This time, he will thrust between hips...It shall begin again... and begin again and this night shall have no end.

 M TERESA CLAYTON