I’ve always been fascinated by how the sensation of sex is for the other side. As a woman, I don’t have a penis and I’ll never personally know what it feels like to insert it into a vagina, but that doesn’t stop me from being intensely curious about it. Also, something I have always found fascinating is how different people experience the same occurrence from their various perspectives.
There’s nothing that can be done to personally experience either, let alone both, of these things, but I decided to try the next best thing. I asked one of my recent lovers to write down his experience of sex with me in his words, while I did the same in mine. Rashomon in erotica, if you will.
A couple of things before I begin:
First, my lover isn’t a native English speaker, though he handles the language excellently. I have corrected some grammatical and punctuation errors which might cause confusion, but left minor ones alone. And of course his memories of what happened don’t match mine exactly. As any barrister will inform you, if two witnesses agree on every detail, you’re listening to a fabricated testimony.
Secondly, I’ve no patience with people who claim there are 29345 genders and anyone can choose what pronoun to be called by. I’m a she, I’ve always been a she, I’m in no way ashamed of being a she, and my lover is a he. I don’t ask people what their “preferred pronoun” is. If that makes you uncomfortable you might as well stop reading now.
I don’t have a quarantine story because where I live there wasn’t much of a lockdown, and I went to my office fairly regularly except when there were total closures of work for brief periods. However, just before the start of the pandemic, back in late March, we’d had a meeting of representatives from overseas branches of our office, and one of them had stayed back for additional liaison purposes when international travel had come to a crashing halt – not to speak of his home country in total and absolute lockdown – and he’d been stuck in our city.
I’ll call him Yuri. This is obviously not his real name. I remember the day when the lockdown in his country was announced and I saw him in the office, standing between the espresso machine – something that I’d had installed, and don’t ask about the fight I’d had about the cost and the budget – and a large potted rubber plant we call Wells (after HG’s The Flowering Of The Strange Orchid, because it looks as though it could suddenly drag someone to itself and eat him). I’d met him before, of course, but he looked lost and lonely, and while going to get myself a coffee I stopped and smiled at him.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
Yuri shook his head. “Not really. No. It’s just...I cannot go back to ____________ (his country). All flights have been cancelled. I was calling my embassy.”
“And what did they say?” Close up he was really very handsome. Early thirties, a few years younger than me, wavy black hair, and eyes a curious shade of brownish-green I have never seen elsewhere except for coloured contact lenses. And he didn’t have “designer stubble”. I hate that. Either grow a proper beard or shave, damn it. I was so busy admiring his looks – including a thin scar that began at the corner of his jaw and disappeared under his collar, and wondering how far it went and how he’d got it – that I almost missed his answer.
“They say emergency evacuation of citizens to be arrange next week. Date they have not decided yet.” He shrugged. “I finish my work today. After that I do not know what to do. Also –“ he grimaced a little with embarrassment. “I had not been expect to stay away so long.”
I’m not always the sharpest on the uptake, but I could recognise loneliness and near-desperation when I saw them. I have been there too many times myself not to know the signs. Besides, I was not currently sharing my life with anyone, so had nothing better to do anyway. “Hey,” I said. “Why don’t you come to dinner with me this evening? You could do with some company and so could I.”
I thought he was about to refuse, and then he shrugged slightly and sighed. “All right,” he said.
So that evening, after work, we went to eat. Restaurants were still open then, though most of them were closed down soon afterwards. Over pork fried rice and dry white wine we talked, and I got to know him better.
He’d been a soldier, con***********ed in his country’s army and sent to fight a war against separatist rebels in a mountainous corner of his homeland. I’m not going to say where, but those of you familiar with the history of Eurasia in the mid 1990s to early 2000s should be able to guess it easily enough. By the time he’d got there the war was almost over, so he’d been spared most of the hard fighting. In fact, he said, he’d not even seen a single rebel fighter during his entire combat tour. But that hadn’t stopped him from getting injured by a landmine that had exploded near his patrol.
“It blowed...blew?...” he looked at me. “Blew. Blew up too soon, or else I would not be here now.” He’d still spent several weeks in hospital, and they’d had to, he said, sew most of his right shoulder back on. After being discharged he’d gone to college, got a business administration degree because that had seemed to be a good idea at the time, and after that he’d...struggled. The corporate world, he admitted, was not for him. He had always loved painting, and wished he’d been born a hundred years ago when he still might have made a living as a painter. But he hardly even got the chance to sketch now, let alone paint.
The white wine must have gone to my head, because I spoke without thinking. “You can paint me if you want. I’ve always wanted to be painted.”
He’d looked at me. “I would like that. Is lonely for my hands without painting, my fingers feel itching inside until I can paint. But I have no paint or brushes.”
“I can get some,” I said. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it.” So he did – acrylic paints, brushes, art paper, and I wrote it all down. And then we talked about other things.
“No wife.” I’d already known he wasn’t married, of course, a glance at his fingers had shown no ring or sign he had ever worn one. “As for girlfriend...” He shrugged and looked down at his wine. “No girlfriend, not now.” I didn’t press him about it, but he told me about his girlfriends, and especially the latest one, who seemed to have been one of those hyper-possessive and insanely jealous ones who make the lives of their men such total hell that their boyfriends are eventually forced into the arms of other women just to escape.
“When I came here,” he said, “she said I was not, how do you say it in English, really coming for work, but to...” he’d actually blushed. “To fuck the girls here. Tall blond ones with long hair and model figure, she said.”
“Well, I’m not tall or blond and I don’t have long hair and obviously no model figure, so you’re safe.” He blushed an even brighter shade of crimson, but I noticed his eyes straying to the bulge of my breasts. He noticed me noticing and looked away quickly.
“Makes no difference, she said not to see her anymore. Better, really, she caused me much pain.”
“You said your work’s finished tomorrow?” I said, to change the subject. “Then you can paint me tomorrow evening, if you want.”
“But where?” he asked. “No space in office, no space in hotel room. And hotel may not permit anyway.”
“That’s not a problem. You can come over to my place. I’ve lots of space, and you can paint me all you want.”
It was all quite silly and harmless at the time, but on the way home – after dropping him off at his hotel, which was rather expensive, but the company was paying – I stopped off at the only art shop I knew. It was in the act of closing, but the owner, a woman with hair so black it could not possibly have been natural, pulled the shutter back up when she saw me getting out of my car. “Thank goodness,” she said. “You’re the first customer I’ve had all day.”
“That bad, is it?” She was in her late forties, still very good looking, and someday soon I am going to seduce her, if she is even slightly bi-curious. She has that effect on a certain spot between my legs, like an itch that can’t be scratched unless she does it herself. But it’s not happened yet.
“You have no idea. Everyone seems to imagine the virus spreads through canvas and oil, or something.” She looked at my list. “Well, that’s not amateur stuff,” she said. “I didn’t know you painted.”
“I don’t. Someone wants to paint me.”
She grinned. “Looks like fun. I wish someone would paint me” She fished out the things, put them in a brown paper packet, and handed them to me. “Just for saving the day from being a total washout, I’ll give you a discount.”
It was quite a discount. Going by the price tags on the stuff she must have sold them to me for almost cost price. Maybe she is bi-curious, or just flat out interested in me. We will find out one day and if it works out I will write about it here.
Anyway, I went home and fed the goldfishes, and as usual slipped naked between the sheets and masturbated before I fell asleep. And then I had a rather peculiar dream.
I dreamt that I was on a forested mountainside, overlooking a trail along which a column of soldiers in mottled green uniforms were approaching. I was lying on my front, almost buried in damp soil and leaf litter, pressed into it so hard that earth was pressing against my lips and every breath filled my nostrils with the smell of wet ground. I knew that they were the enemy, and that behind me, uphill, were others of my team, and that I was supposed to wait until they were even with my position. Then I was supposed to press the switch on the plastic box in my hand, and the huge landmine buried near the track would go off and blow the soldiers to pieces. Any that survived would be shot down by my team with their rifles and machine guns. It was my duty, it was killed or be killed. I knew all this, but the soldiers were only boys, and when I took a good look at the first one, at the thin face under the oversized helmet, I knew who he was. I knew he was lonely and scared, that he didn’t want to be where he was, and that in any case it would make no difference at all. And I pressed the switch too early, the earth erupting in dirt and stone chips and metal that fell like malevolent rain, but rain that failed to do what it had been intended to, to flay skin and flesh from bone and turn boys to mangled corpses. And then I woke up, my hands pressed between my thighs, sweat on my breasts, trembling.
That same evening I went to a store and bought groceries. I’d been planning to anyway, but when I got there the shelves were already mostly empty and the salesgirl said that there had been a lot of panic buying, so I bought enough to last a week. It would come in handy later, as I was to discover.
The next day was Friday. Yuri finished up his remaining work early, and the office sent around a memo to all employees that we would close early ahead of any “possible lockdown” to allow everyone to prepare. So we were all leaving the office by three in the afternoon.
“I’ll go to hotel and, uh, get fresh, then I will come to your house,” Yuri said.
“What for?” I asked. “Come home with me now. I have a bathroom you can shower and get freshened up in, don’t I?”
He didn’t need a lot of persuasion, and as I drove I pointed out things in the city he hadn’t seen before. In fact I took a detour to show him some of the sights because he’d been so focused on work during the day, and spending his time alone in his hotel room in the evenings, that he’d never really taken the opportunity to see any of it before in the two weeks he had been in town. By the time we got home the sun was far down in the west and golden light and purple shadows were jousting with each other on the buildings and the leaves of the trees.
“Is beautiful,” Yuri said with a smile. “But not as beautiful as you.” And then he blushed again.
When we got up to my flat he saw me taking off my shoes as soon as we’d entered – as I’ve mentioned before, I’m a barefoot girl – and began taking his off too. When I told him that he didn’t have to, he said that it was a custom in his country as well. And as I was feeding the goldfish he asked quite intelligent questions about them. Most people who visit me don’t bother, as though goldfish aren’t living creatures that need care and loving but just equivalent to part of the furniture.
“If you want to shower,” I said, “the bathroom’s over there. The water’s warm and you’ll find spare towels in the cabinet over the sink.”
“No, is all right,” he said. “I’m fine now.”
“Tell me whenever you want one. And here’s the art supplies you wanted.” He smiled delightedly when he saw the things I’d bought for him. “I’ll change, get you a beer, and make us something to eat.”
I changed quickly. Nothing fancy: a light loose summer dress I rarely wore, short-sleeved and knee-length, pale cream speckled with tiny blue and grey flowers, with no knickers underneath. I did keep on a bra, though, since otherwise my nipples would be poking through the fabric. I won’t lie, by this time I hadn’t had sex with another person for nearly a month and the very presence of a man, especially a nice man, in the house with me was sending urgent messages between my legs, so that I had to squeeze my thighs together. By the time I’d got a simple dinner ready, he’d spread out the art paper, brushes and paint on the living room table, borrowed a pencil, and when I looked over my shoulder I found him standing at the kitchen door, looking at me, busy drawing.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Just preliminary sketches. Gives me a...feeling for how you are, how you move. When I do final painting, it gives me guidelines.”
I was amused. “I didn’t know painting me was such a project. Better eat first before you start on it.” I took a look at his drawing. It showed me from the back, my head turned to look over my shoulder, one leg bent at the knee as I put a dish down on the dining table. It was amazingly good. Even the bulge of my ankle bone and the arch of my eyebrow was rendered clearly.
“Shub Niggurath,” I said, “if that’s what you call a preliminary sketch, I wonder what your panting will be like.”
“I am out of practice,” he said self-deprecatingly, “or else I would be much better than this. I thank you for chance to draw and paint.”
After dinner he, despite my protests, helped me to wash up. “Sure you don’t want a shower?” I asked.
“No, I want to start painting. Can I have some water in a mug? For the brushes.”
“Here you go.” I poured him more beer and got the water. “What do you want me to wear?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Depends on what you want. It’s you who get to choose.”
I grinned. “Well, then, that’s simple, isn’t it? If I can choose what to wear, I’ll choose the simplest thing. No clothes at all!”
“You mean?” He was blushing so much his face was bright red. He picked up his beer and swallowed it a gulp. “Naked?”
“I do mean naked. Do a nude of me. I’ve always wanted to be painted in the nude.” Without giving him time to think, I stepped into the bedroom, stripped off the dress, and stepped back into the living room while unhooking my bra. “There you go,” I said, dropping it into a chair. “Now where do you want me to be?”
His eyes were round as he looked me over, from my hair to my feet. “Uh,” he said, swallowing, “maybe next to aquarium?”
“Fine,” I said. “Now, can you tell me how you want me to pose?”
“Uh, one arm on aquarium, and...”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think I can understand your instructions well enough. Come and pose me. Put my arms and legs and head where you want them to be.”
He did. His hands were warm but shaking a little. Then he took a deep breath. “You sure, you do not mind?”
“Why should I mind? I’m the one who wants to be painted in the nude.” He’d posed me turned to my left, with an arm draped over the aquarium, the other on my hip, my right leg bent at the knee. “If I might have a suggestion?”
“Yes?”
“In this position you can’t even see my vul...my vagina. If I’m going to be painted naked I want it to be in the painting as well. Can I face you, instead?”
He swallowed again, hard, and nodded. “If you want.”
“Oh yes, I do.” I turned so I was facing him, maintaining the same pose. “How’s that?”
He nodded rapidly. “Yes, very good.”
“Hey, take a deep breath,” I said. “I’m just a woman, I won’t bite. Well, not unless you ask me to.”
He didn’t say anything, bending instead to the paints. For a long time the only movement in the room was his hand and fingers with one brush after another in them, and his head as he looked to the pencil sketch, at me, and at what he was painting. As far as possible I tried not to move.
At last he raised his arms behind his head, stretched, and rose to his feet. “It’s done.”
“Can I have a look?”
“Yes, of course. It needs to dry, though.” As I stepped naked towards him he blinked in surprise.
“You do not want to put something on?”
“No, why should I? You’ve already seen all there is to see of me anyway.” I looked at the painting and gasped with awe. “Oh my.”
It was beautiful. It took me a moment to realise that the woman in the painting, despite her familiar features, was I. The play of light on the tops of her breasts, the way her hair hung over one shoulder, curling to kiss her collarbone, the deep pit of her navel and the shadows that grew below it, not deep enough to conceal the cleft that began between her thighs...she was beautiful, in a way I had never been beautiful, though every feature of hers, from her broad forehead to the silver glitter of her painted toenails, were mine.
“Oh, my,” I said again, and then I was suddenly pressed to him, one arm around his neck, pulling his mouth down on mine, my kisses mingling with tears that fell from my eyes unbidden.
“Why are you crying?” I heard Yuri ask, between kisses. “Is something wrong? I just painted you as I saw you. What is wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing wrong,” I said, as best I could. “Take off your clothes, my crying’s messing them up. Take them off and come to bed.”
I don’t believe I’ve cried so hard in a very long time as I did as I unbuttoned Yuri’s shirt, took off his belt, and slid his trousers down his legs. It was not just what he’d done for me, or what he’d seen in me that he’d translated into paint on paper. It was a catharsis, for all the years of dying hopes of fame, of the unsatisfying jobs that followed one after the other, the little and big disappointments. It was for the lovers who flitted through my life, gave and took a few moments of pleasure, and then disappeared into the veils of memory and regrets. It was even for my mother, who might have been a much nicer person if only my father had lived, and with whom I might have had a relationship like normal mothers and daughters have. And it was for Yuri, for the scar that began at the angle of his jaw and ended at his right shoulder in a twisted sunburst of pink and orange and red. I kissed that scar over and over again as I cried.
Once I’d regained composure to some extent I found myself lying on my beck in bed, Yuri looking down at me with concern in his face. “Are you all right? Should I get help?”
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.” I reached within myself and brought up a smile, and it was even a real smile. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”
“I am not, but is kind of you.” He smiled back. “Should I go back to hotel now?”
“Don’t you dare.” I raised my mouth to his, and my hand slid down his flat stomach to circle his penis. It throbbed, warm and alive, in my hand. I needed it inside me so much.
“You are very beautiful woman,” he said. “I will paint you again, if you promise not to cry.”
“You can paint me as often as you want,” I said. “But, right now, you need to fuck me.” I pumped his penis with my hand, feeling it throb as it erected even further. “Will you do that?”
In response he bent his head and kissed the side of my neck, and then his tongue flicked out and slid down my throat. An electric shock ran down my body all the way to my toes. I moaned and shuddered.
“Don’t stop,” I begged.
He didn’t stop. His tongue, tracing its way down my collarbone and over the slope of my breast, traced a circle around my right nipple. I shuddered and moaned again.
“Shh,” he said. “Just lie down and enjoy yourself.”
Still gripping his penis, which twitched and throbbed, I felt my breasts being pushed together. His head flicked across the nipples, licking and tickling, and then he took the right one in his mouth and rolled it between his teeth, nipping enough to push me right to the edge. Then he did the same with the left nipple.
“Stop this torture,” I moaned. “Just fuck me, will you?”
“In short while,” he said, licking down the cleavage where he’d pushed my breasts together, and turning around in the bed so that I could keep rubbing his penis. His tongue licked across the bottom of my breasts, and then down my belly to circle my navel, then dipped into it.
“Your girlfriend gave up this?” I wanted to ask, but my breath caught in my throat, so all I could manage was another moan. He licked my navel a little more, and then slid lower in bed so I had to release his penis. In a moment I felt his hands, pushing my thighs apart, and his head nuzzling between them. And the wet, warm, point of his tongue pushed out and flicked up and down my cleft, from my perineum to my clitoris and down again.
I began to orgasm, helplessly. I would have bucked and thrashed but he held me down with far greater strength than I could have imagined in his slim body. I came and came again, moaning and crying, until I literally couldn’t try to buck and thrash any longer. With a last sigh, I lay still.
His body slid up my sweat-slick nakedness, kissing me again, from my navel up to my breasts, then my neck, until finally his mouth found my lips. His hot breath mingled with mine.
“Fuck me,” I said when he broke the kiss. “Don’t wait any longer. I can’t.”
In response I felt the head of his penis slide up and down my vulva, between my labia, wetting itself in my lubricating fluid. He raised himself on his elbows over me, and I felt his hips thrust my thighs further apart as his penis searched for my vaginal entrance, and then found it.
[Until this point I have written the story from my perspective only. I will now describe what happened from two viewpoints, first mine, and then Yuri’s.]
This is what a penis penetrating my vagina feels like to me:
As his glans pressed apart my labia, I felt myself spread wide open, as though I’d been split apart. A moment later, with exquisite slowness, I felt his penis enter, and, involuntarily, threw my head back and gasped.
(I always gasp when being penetrated by a penis. Many times I’ve even been challenged to not gasp. I have never managed it. The sensation of being penetrated with a penis does something to me that makes me throw my head back, shut my eyes and gasp, whether I want to or not. Strangely enough this never happens when I’m penetrated with a finger or a dildo. Some of my female lovers have told me it’s the same with them.)
I had been without a penis inside my vagina for long enough – at least three months, my last lover before Yuri had been a woman, actually two women – that I had begun to feel a half-subconscious emptiness inside me, like a near ache that needs relief but never quite gets it. Now, as Yuri’s penis slid deep inside my vagina, I felt myself filled up at last. His penis was hot and throbbing inside me, far warmer than a dildo or a finger, and I felt my vagina clench around it as my perineal muscles tightened involuntarily.
“Oh god,” I moaned, as he began thrusting, slowly and lusciously. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. Each thrust was exquisite, starting from almost my entrance and ending only when there was no way to go further, with his pubis pressed against mine, his pubic hair mashed against my clitoris, and his scrotum rubbing against my perineum. I felt that we were no longer two people, but one person, joined immutably to each other between our legs. I put my feet flat on the bed and began thrusting my hips at him, trying to force him in even deeper every time he pushed into me. I cried out, my fingers digging into his shoulders, as I felt another orgasm approaching, building somewhere in the pit of my stomach. And then it struck, with waves of pleasure clenching my vagina from cervix to clitoris, and racing out from my pelvis to wash over my body.
Even as I came off that first orgasm I felt him speeding up his strokes, his breaths coming in grunts as his hips slammed against me. With each thrust my breasts wobbled back and forth on my chest, an amazingly pleasurable sensation that I somehow never find anyone else talking about. You'd think women writers of erotica, who presumably have sex and have breasts of their own, would talk about it, but they don't; not even the Nancy Friday books I ever read mention this. My clitoris, under constant stimulation from his pubic hair, sent darts of pleasure up into me and suddenly, without a warning this time, I was orgasming again, crying out as I came.
“I’m going to come,” he whispered as my second orgasm began to recede.
“Come,” I whispered, my hands clasping his buttocks and pressing him to me. “Come inside me, please.” I have never really felt properly fucked by a man unless I can feel him orgasm inside my vagina. “Fill me up.”
And a moment later, shuddering, he did, grinding his hips against mine in a circular motion that, incredibly, pushed me over the edge for the third time in as many minutes. I felt his warmth and wetness flood my insides even as I added my own flood of lubricating fluid, melding our emissions into one sweet nectar of love.
At last it was over. He lay on top of me, wrapped in my arms, while his penis slowly softened inside my vagina. And then he kissed my lips tenderly.
“My girlfriend was wrong,” he said. “It was not blonde model type girl. You are far more beautiful than any one of those.” I could feel his heart beating against mine, and didn’t want it to ever stop.
I have been unhappy many times but was most unhappy when I was at _____________ [my city: Juliana] alone and lonely, with nothing to go back to either because Svetlana [not her real name: Juliana] had dump me. I was at extreme bottom when I got informed that even flight home was cancelled because of coronavirus. And then when I was seriously thinking whether it would have been better to have been blow up by rebel mine in _________ when Juliana came to talk to me.
I had met her before during meeting and work, of course, but not close up, not to talk to on personal level. She is good looking woman, brown and slightly plump with black hair, not sort I often see back in my own country. Also she is friendly, sympathetic type, so soon I found myself telling my problems to her over dinner. And somehow, I do not know whether she suggested it or I did, I found that next day I was promised to paint her.
That night in hotel room my heart beat with excitement. Last time I had painted anything it was mountain scene from memory, with sun setting over lake with hills in background. I had also remembered old song from another language, not mine:
Bo tvoya vroda
To e chistaya voda
To e bistraya voda
Z sinikh giir.
(“Your beauty is like clear water, is like flowing water, from blue mountains.”)
Now I was going to paint Juliana, and she is kind of person I wanted to paint, my fingers wanted to paint. One of my favourite art objects is Venus of Willendorf, which is Stone Age statue of beautifully crafted plump naked woman. She is more than 25000 years old but is perfect example of what nude art should be. If you have not seen photos of her, she is very obese but with perfect round curves for sculpting, or to paint. Juliana is not obese, but her curves and her whole manner make me want to do something to get her on paper like Venus of Willendorf. I cannot of course suggest that she pose naked; I can only imagine in my mind. But still in my hotel room that night, for first time in weeks, I masturbated, and I guiltily thought of Juliana’s face in fantasy while I did. Though she had told me that she was not married and without any boyfriend, I was sure she was only being kind to me to ask me to paint her, so it was something to be ashamed of.
Next afternoon Juliana took me in her car direct from work to her home, showing me city on the way. She has nice flat on upper storey, with large rooms, and I was surprised to see she had bought art supplies for my painting. She says I had told her what to buy but I do not remember it. While she made dinner I did some preliminary sketches with pencil, which only showed me that she is really prefect for painting naked, and my biggest regret was that I would not be able to ask her to pose without clothes for me.
But to my surprise, when I say that she can wear anything she wants, she herself replied that she wants to pose naked! And before I could even gather my breath about it she not only stripped her clothes but asked me to position her. My heart was hammering so hard that I was afraid she could hear it, and when I was putting her leg as I wanted it I found my eyes at level of her vagina. It was hairless and her inner lips protrude out like little flower petals from bud, and all I could think was how much I wanted to suck on them.
I had positioned her to face away to one side, so I would paint curve of her body and breast but not have to look at her vagina and want what I had been thinking about last night. But she herself said she wanted to be painted from front with her vagina visible, and that is what I did.
I do not really think about what I am painting when I paint. It is always need too much concentration on each part, on what I am painting any given minute. But it is easy this time to see Juliana, match her form to sketches and Venus of Willendorf, and almost before I realise it painting is finished. I stretched and told her it is done, and next minute I find her kissing me and crying as though her heart is breaking.
It is something that make me very sad, that this beautiful and kind woman should cry.
But she was then unbuttoning my shirt, pulling me by hand to bedroom, and helping me remove trousers and underwear. I found myself kissing her as she massaged my penis, which had been hard for too long, And without even thinking what I was doing I heard her asking me to fuck her.
It was long time since I last had sex with anyone. Svetlana was not very welcoming with sex. She only opened her legs to me a few times in year we were together, mostly on occasions that she wanted to celebrate with sex, like New Year, our birthdays, and similar. Juliana was not like that. She like flower that open to engulf me. Let me explain.
I am leaning over Juliana, kissing her breasts, while my finger penetrates her vagina and moves in and out, rubbing her G spot, like tiny knot on front wall of vagina. She is massaging my penis, her warm fingers clutching and moving from tip to where it join my pelvis, sending pleasure flooding up into my body.
I remember moment when I found myself between her open legs, her vagina open for me to suck her vagina folds like I wanted to do when I positioned her at beginning of painting session. When I took them between my lips she cried out and thrust her hips against my face.
I have been good at oral sex for a long time, since first girlfriend who wanted to be virgin till marriage but who wanted sexual pleasure from me. And when I licked Juliana’s vagina she tasted as I remembered, salty and of woman, but as soon as I touched her clitoris with my tongue tip she clamped her thighs around my hips and began bucking and thrashing against me. Even a moment to draw breath was too much, she pressed her hands on my head and pushed my face down to her vagina again. I have never known woman to orgasm like this; she must have come twenty times at least before she spread her legs apart and lay back sighing.
I kissed my way back up her body, reaching her mouth at last. Her hand was already back on my penis, guiding it to her vagina. She raised her legs, crossing her feet behind my hips as I entered her, pulling me into her.
Sensation of penis entering vagina is hard to describe, but roughly is like this: if you are woman, imagine that your clitoris is on tip of your finger. Then, insert your finger into your vagina, and try to imagine that your sensations are not in your clitoris and vagina, but in your finger. It is something like that. And as you keep moving your penis in and out of her vagina, her vagina gets wetter until you feel as though sheath of warm moisture enveloping penis, as though you are fill with pleasure as of womb.
As I pressed my penis into her vagina, Juliana threw her head back and closed her eyes and sighed. This itself is very erotic, made me want to push as deep into her as I can. As I did, she began sometimes thrusting her hips at me and sometimes locking legs behind my back, pulling me closer. Suddenly, she trembled and began clutching me so tightly that later I had bruises on my back with force of her orgasm, while she raise her head and press mouth to mine.
She had come two times when I felt my own orgasm building to climax. I thought I should pull out but she put her hands on my buttocks to pull me closer, walls of her vagina clutching my penis like her hand, and then I felt my semen pulsing out through my penis into her. I think I cried out, I know she did, and then strength in my arms gave out and I collapsed on top of her, feeling her breasts against my chest and her vagina caressing me.
The next morning, at my insistence, Yuri checked out of his hotel and moved in with me for the remainder of his stay. He painted me several times more, in various poses, for example lying on bed, propped up with pillows, with my legs wide apart; or in the pose of his favourite Venus of Willendorf, my head bowed so as to hide my face while my arms crossed protectively over my breasts. And we had sex so many times that my vagina would have been sore had he been a less experienced lover.
When the emergency evacuation flight finally took place, I dropped him to the airport. We kissed as many times as possible on the way to the airport, and would have stopped for a quick fuck on the way had it been night. But this is not the end for us. When this pandemic is over and international travel becomes easier again, I am going to visit him, and he is going to return to visit me.
It is not as though we’re not going to sleep with other people. By no means. But for once in my life, I have found someone that I would want to keep.