I've confessed long ago that I enjoy watching, enjoy being the spectator, watching other people in the throes of ecstatic sex. Does it come from watching too much porn in all its varieties? Possibly, but for me there is an utter fascination in watching the illicit, the forbidden, that goes way past the enjoyment of watching smut on screen. (As an aside, She and I just finished re-watching Murder One on dvd, a brilliant legal procedural that was on tv for only two seasons, and successful for only one, the good season starring Daniel Benzali, Dylan Baker, Jason Gedrick, Patricia Clarkson, and the villian Stanley Tucci, playing the Devil incarnate. In the very last episode, as he's dying, he confesses to having videotaped the crime in question, and watching it over and over, a sexual liason gone very bad. Hm...)
There are times when I'm crouched between her legs on the bed, her knees spread as wide as she can, her legs opened much wider than a 90 degree angle, my tongue buried deep within her, and as I reach up to pull hard on her nipples (which she likes, but only when I'm going down on her), I look up and become the third person in the room, watching her as she lies totally inert, battleing mightily to cum, hands reaching to her groin to spread herself even wider open. And I watch her expression as she struggles to get there, her mouth open and her eyes scrunched way shut, my fingers deep inside her openings, my tongue and lips finding newer and newer patterns.
We've talked about how I've grown fatigued with always being in charge, always making the sexual decisions, and last night we started to turn the tables, as we lay head to feet on the bed, she pushing my hands away, losing patience with the struggle for satisfaction, starting to move towards me, hoping to climb on and ride me until one of us came. But I stopped her, guiding her hand back to my very lubed cock, taking her other hand and putting it down lower toward my butt, forcing it so that the first two fingers pointed forward and then moving it towards my opening. She continued to stroke away, moving her partially fisted hand forward so that the two fingers entered, and then started to move that hand back and forth in opposition to the masturbating hand, then together, then opposed.
And I was gone, gone in a second, and I felt heavy breathing and then soft moans coming from my throat. She continued, continued, and at one point, I opened my eyes just a little, just a bit, squeezed shut as they were, and saw her. She was watching me, her eyes open, not wide open, just looking, just seeing me gone, clinically observing, becoming for once the watcher rather than the watched, the doer rather than the done.
Earworm---Englishman in NY, Sting