This part is cross-posted to sexstories, and other parts are here in _oral_sex_ and here in eroticfantasies.
Comments and critiques are always welcome.)
Another aspect of le petit mort, deferred...
You sit astride my erstwhile flaccid member, leaning your body towards me like warm rain coming down, a curtain of hair cascading down to touch my face and neck in the near darkness. You touch the nipples of your naked breasts to my chest, inflaming me as my rising erection slides easily into your body. I hear you give a sharp cry and something shifts deliciously within me. My thoughts turn wicked as you begin to ride me, your ass and your hips pressing slowly, gyrating just the right way... but keeping me frustrated and tense.
I let you take your pleasure, looking down into my dark eyes. I let you have everything you want, because soon you will not have it; soon I will have you, my darling one, and soon it will be my turn to tantalize, to goad.
As your moans begin to rise in pitch, I wait my moment. Before long the tautness of your forearms as your hands grip my shoulders, the acceleration of your once-gentle rhythm against me, the little extra grind you put into the trough of each wave, tells me you are taking your pleasure. I see the rise and fall of your shoulders through my lust-blurred vision, the heaving of your bosom as you arch, luscious and just out of my reach... but not for long. I feel your vaginal muscles tighten against the shaft of my penis, your grip so strong that I can even feel it near the tip of my glans where it narrows. Any other time, even now if I had not just come, your little Kegel meneuver would send me careering over the edge into blissful, spurting oblivion, but not tonight. Not now. I want to possess you too much to come for your again just yet.
I reach my arms up to the sides of my body, where your calves, bending back from your knees at my ribs, are tensed as if you are ready to spring. I grasp them, lean you backward so that you slide off my shaft with a cry of frustrated surprise. Before you can assert your domination over me, I raise myself on my knees over your supine body and grab your ankles, pulling your legs straight. The look in my eyes tells you that indeed the tables have turned.
"My turn," I rasp in a throaty voice. Did I detect a thrill in your reply of "oh!"? Certainly your breath caught. I bring my mouth to your breast and bite gently at your nipple, my fingers parting your slightly moist outer lips, invading deeper. You are not nearly wet enough for me, and I tell you so. I lean your body back against the long pillow you are accustomed to hold in my absence. I would swear it is molded to your form were it not that I know I have not let it get much use... save as a cushion for our calisthenics. I let your hook your ankles over my shoulders. Were you as flexible as I am, I would make you cross them, but the look of half-frightened submission in your eyes as your realize how deep I am about to penetrate you is almost enough for me.
By the dim bedside lamp, I look at you. Your pupils are dilated, as I am sure mine would look if you could see them. You are so vulnerable and naked as I lean myself into you, scything away doubt, that I cry out even as you do: "Oh, please, m-m-ahh---!" I drive myself into you with a vengeance, making the springs creak, the headboard rattle until you reach up to grip the wooden rungs in it, your mouth frozen in a silent rictus of pleasure. I pause.
You groan in fustration, such a scrumptious moan that I cannot help but give you a few more deep thrusts as I drape my body over yours, letting you feel the firmness of my chest and stomach against you, kissing you hard, tasting the divine spice of your agonized scream as it floods my mouth. I consume your scream, I savor it, I give you just one more hard, well-aimed thrust and then cease all movement, holding your body still as I pull back my face and gasp for air. You protest beautifully, almost shrieking for me to give it to you.
Now, I think, you are wet... wet enough for me to spend the next fifteen minutes nipping at your ears, my tongue hot and wet and darting, my breath against the back of the earlobes, on your neck, in the hollow of your throat. Every few tens of seconds - once, twice, three times a minute - I give you a slow, driving thrust, shivering you from crown to heel. I see how you appreciate this as you half-curse, half-beg in your most petulant voice, like a whinging child, for me to ram my cock into you, to make you come, to let you come. Indeed the tables have turned: your passion has become a glowing ember to be kindled into sudden flame by my wine... but the time has not come for me to give you that release. Looking into your eyes, whispering your name, I tell you so softly as I let you simmer, building the fire up, banking it.
Your pleading does not abate, but intensifies. I should have known you wanted this. In fact, I whisper into your ear on the most intense downthrust, one that makes you cry out as if wounded: I did know you wanted this. "Ohhh, God!" I hear you shriek against my ear, an importuning cry followed by a string of every depravity filling your inflamed mind and body. Shall I tell you how beautiful you look in the dim light, screaming for me to fill you with my come? I ask you. No, you cry out, tears of desire streaking your face, you just want me to do it, do it, do it to you.
I wish this could go on forever. I wish you could whip me into an ever-greater frenzy of reaming you, pounding you, driving my cock into your tight, clenching pussy, as you nearly howl from the frustration of not being allowed to come. I just keep my eyes open, my fingers assisting you in the excruciatingly slow climb towards ecstasy, jarring you off one slope and lifting you to a higher one with each sudden bite on your shoulder or breast, each tweak of your nipple, each thrust. Your caught breaths remind me why orgasm is called le petit mort, the little death: you do sound close to giving up the ghost. Bemusedly, I think to myself that perhaps I should get one of those garish mirrors over my bed so that you can watch yourself. No, but that would distract you from the feeling of my weight on you, the clean male smell of my sweat as it drips from my chest onto your breasts, flows in tiny rivulets from my hair onto your cheeks. I brush the sweaty hair from your face and eyes and kiss them, kiss you, taste your hair. I am still driving my shaft into your body, tapping a rhythm at your cervix like a second heartbeat. Your eyes fly open and you cry out, incoherent with need, unable to think of anything to say or to beg for but this feeling of yourself getting fucked...
And now you find your voice and your surrender. You want it, yes, you need it, yes yes, you'll die if I don't let you, you'll do anything, anything. I listen to your beautiful begging voice and am almost sorry to hear it end, but then I think of the graceful lilt of that voice uplifted gratefully in climax, and it goads me on. "Master is kind; master will let you fly, little bird," I coax, "come for Master...", and now I am rolling with you, the thrusts piercing you with an inner fire, and we are screwing, you are on me and under me again, you are coming endlessly, peaking over and over, bawling with passion as your body constricts and arches in its throes. I hear you screaming my name repeatedly, pausing only to announce that you are coming, coming for me. I feel your vaginal walls spasm a fourth, then a fifth and final time as you groan: first in surprise as you feel me jetting inside you, as you hear me tell you that I am coming with you; then in satiety as I roll my unfelt weight off you but draw you close and hold to me as your softly panting, sweating face tells me to what heights I have just taken you.
Now, at last, I begin to feel the weight of fatigue on me, and I hold you near, kissing your lips and neck as we whisper intimately and drift slowly to sleep.
"My very own..."