Like a 9-lb Hammer

I can see, through bliss-blurred eyes, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, feel the tremble in his biceps, hear the raggedness of his breathing; the vestiges of control are slipping, quickly, and we both know there is too far to go to stop now.

He stills his body above me.  All but his hips, rocking, softly and slowly, shallowly teasing the tender tissues at my entrance, swollen and wet from sweat and sex and insatiable salacity.  My fingers, furiously rubbing a double-time rhythm to his slow strokes, press and swirl and circle relentlessly, pushing, prodding, demanding, cajoling my body into complying.  I need to cum.

A single look, shared.

The message clearly stated, in silence:  NO.

That’s all it takes, and I can see he has backed off from his edge.

Yes.

He pushes again, thick and hard, in long, slow, steady strokes, providing the penetrative friction I crave for culmination, and it is not until I begin to clench and shudder around his swollen cock that he loses his re-won concentration once more and begins again the ragged trembling last-step ascent before tumbling over the edge into ecstasy.

Later…  After tingling limpid limbs have regained some semblance of composure, after hearts have ceased hammering and breaths have retreated back into the lungs from which they made their heaving escape…  After the sleepy sated smiles have faded and we can see one another again through clear eyes…  Later, he will look at me like a child with a secret – one that is desperate to get out – and tell me what it was that caused him to back off from the edge he was riding in that narrow-eyed moment of mutual-gaze concentration.

“I did a typical guy thing,” he explains, “and thought of something that was as far from sexual satisfaction as I possibly could.”

He can’t possibly be telling me he was reciting baseball statistics, I think to myself.  He doesn’t know anything about baseball.

I tell him as much.

“Nope!”  He grins proudly.

“Uhmmm…  Okay…?”  I invite further explanation, girding myself internally for all manner of horribleness.  The man’s mind travels peculiar distances and I know this conversation could easily lead us to previous un-navigated territory; I suppress a shudder at the thought.  Snakes?  Lions?  His mother?  Where are we going, here?

“I pictured myself in a large pit,” he says.

Okay, perhaps it’s an Indiana Jones thing…

“I was in a giant pit surrounded by huge boulders,” he continues…

Boulders.  Hunh.  Is this a breast reference?  There are no boulders here.  Pebbles, maybe.  No boulders.

“…and I was smashing them into little bits,” he elucidates…

Nope, not boobs.  He loves boobs waaaay too much to be smashing them.

A giant pit, surrounded by large rocks…  The thought makes me grin.  Not breasts.

…smashing them.  Not testicles either…

“…with a sledge hammer.”

.

A beat of silence.

.

.

Two.

.

.

.

Bwuuuaaa-haaa-haaa-ha-ha!  The hell that’s not sexual.

“So what you’re telling me,” I say, unsuccessfully choking back a laugh, “is that you lay it down like a nine pound hammer.”

“Weellll…” he grins goofily, drawling out his response, “I did say it was all in my head.”