His arm draped over my side. Touching my cockhead. My arms cross and its fingers find my nips. His touch, never the same - always new, unexpected. Balls, the tip slit now oozing, searching for the jewels of precum just starting to inch their way down the shaft like little snails.
Pressing backwards onto his spandexed monster dick. Caught between this rock and his accepting touch. His palm sometimes forms a dome into which my cockhead thrusts, now thoroughly oiled by my own juices.
I begin rocking with so many variations I’ve soon no idea what I or he are doing. Or who’s doing what. We’re in perfect sync. My cock swells up from what seems to be an ever and ever bigger base into his hand now become dome or pleasure wall.
My nip work is on automatic, its touch too is never the same. Like master musicians, my hands, cock, ass, his hand and my hardness making music madly, faster.
Now it’s as if he’s really formed a sheath, or has he? for it changes as fast as it forms, and my rhythm increases. I reach tentatively to check his cock out and it’s dormant. Is he asleep? Is this his dream? my dream? Are my imagination and hopes and dreams creating its hardness? but at this point who cares?
I sure don’t as I pick up my pace and am now fucking his hand, all smooth at this point with my precum - and it goes on and on and on - a glance at the projected clock on the ceiling, 1am - 1:30 - 2:30. In the meantime - real time - I’ve subsided and risen, and found a different route in his grip, against his precum’d palm, the only thing changing or the same is - ? I’ve simply no idea, no ideas, no thoughts, I’m swimming in this ecstasy and seem to have been in it - for how long? I still don’t care.
I slip my bottom ‘jamas down and it only ups the ante. With this move the stakes are no longer high or low, they're irrelevant. I’m lost in a sea of pleasure, and the sources no longer matter. I know I’m going to cum at some point in the next - millennium? moment? and he pulls his hand away, saying “I’m so sweaty….”, and rolls over, into his own dreamland.
And my hand replaces his, my saliva now roiling into my mouth into my palm and my cock swells and knows the tsunami of pleasure is approaching shore. And it builds as startlingly, as suddenly as any tsunami, totally to be expected, inevitable. I surf this energy set into motion ages ago as it builds, crests - totally surprising the human being still living in his dreamworld, in his ecstasy, and it breaks by simply gushing out, emptying its pleasure onto the shores of my midriff, and I settle, and smile.
And he says “something happened…” and his voice trails off, as does my attention, racing after the many thoughts that by now are far, far away.
This is real lovemaking. Beyond people, players, me/him. Who made this happen? What a useless question. This is a nonevent, and we were involved but it happened of itself.
This momentary maelstrom of pleasure was like a crease in our life’s crust. Beneath this crust, this cascade of permanency, this stage scenery for the play of reality is again shown to be nothing. For beneath all that the lava of love’s juices is always there, waiting for a crack in the tight attention, hard control, and willed ignorance of life’s true essence, purpose, and nature.
Our emotions, juices, desire drill wells through this crust, thrusts through - and our passions crush the crust and allow the lava and waters and viscous fluids - powerful, inevitable, erasing all - our lava love - to come forth and wash away the foolish imaginings of permanency, and refresh us and reacquaint us with the true reason why we’re here, the true pastime and purpose that brings us not just pleasure but a total lack of thought and allows us to live in the eternity of the moment yet one more time.