I sit with my back to the bedhead. I feel like Asaph Hall. Before me are Phobos and Deimos, the twin moons of Mars. They are pale in the evening light. There are no electric lights on in the room.
I will myself not to move. This time, I tell myself, I will be patient. I keep still and meditate upon the curves in front of me. Their milk surfaces are like two great ageless rollers of the ocean. Their tegument is marbled with stretch marks like the zephyr raised rustles. My wife calls them evidence of cellulite. I call them history. History of the life she has shared with me.
My patience fails. I lift my hands and place the tips of my fingers on her ass, right where the curve of each shifts from upward to down. There are the zeniths of the callipygous heart of her buttocks. Impossibly it seems to me at the points I touch her the plane of her ass is perfectly flat.
The feel of her skin is always other than I expect. I anticipate the cold, hard smoothness of stone but find the warm, textured compliance of felt. When, I wonder, does the smoothness of a baby’s backside develop such character. Spass down whispers against my fingers.
With just my finger tips, I slowly stroke to the fold across the head of each leg. I watch the depressions my motions makes well across her surfaces. My passages are diverted by her folds. My hands slip inwards to the terminus of her crack.
The edges of my index fingers fit within her creases. They belong there. I fold my thumbs across my palms and heft her weight.
She is tense to begin, still shy after so long together. As she relaxes her buttocks flow onto my hands. They fill them as well as any breasts.
I look along her back. Her haunches are like curved horizons. Above their crests I just see the ridges of her scapula. Lost between them is the hollowed nape of her neck. In some other life, I think, it is there that wings would have sprouted.
I slide my hands along the boundaries of her buttocks to her hips. I pull her butt towards myself and curl against it. She is moist and warm against my chest. I reach forward and rest my hands upon her shoulders. I slide my fingers along the line of her throat to her collar blades. I begin to massage her shoulders.
She arches like a cat, her breasts against my legs, her belly catching my cock. She can take this for hours. As she relaxes her backside softens against my chest, parting, spreading.
My joints ache. I start to slide my hands along her back. She moans a complaint. I make myself massage some more.
The skin of the small of her back is a tone darker than higher up. It is almost furred. With difficulty I bend enough to kiss her there. My dick twitches renewed erection against the fold of her stomach. I push against her bottom and her tits slide to my ankles. Between her thighs I see the fat curves of her pussy.
Between her knees I ease my legs and free my balls.
I place the flats of my palms upon her haunches with my fingers spread. So, so slowly I trace opposing circles. The cleft before me opens and closes with my motion. I glimpse the dark red-brown skin deep within and the pucker of her asshole. I know that she feels her pose is less than beautiful. I feel privileged that she takes it for me. I take my time and admire.
Her weight grows heavier on my legs. Her fingers appear between her legs and spread her sex. The rose within is wet and engorged. I drizzle oil onto the top of the ass crack. I hold her cheeks apart and watch her dark skin glisten as the oil runs across it. The drips onto my cock. She takes hold of me and pulls my cock head against her clit. As she rubs herself against me I will myself not to come.
Her asshole winks it’s readiness. I slip my thumb into her. It goes in more easily than I expect, until my palm is hard against her buttock. Inside she is hot and velvety and cavernous.
Her fingernails scratch my erection as she pushes past it and penetrates her other tunnel herself. Against my thumb I feel her fingers. I count them — two, perhaps three. With the fingers of my free hand I stroke her puckers.
Her fingers inside her are moving faster. There are now at least three. They arch as she finds her honey spot. She presses hard against my thigh as she angles her other hand onto her clit.
I shift my leg.
Perhaps she misinterprets. Her hands still in and against her, she sits up. The angle is wrong for my hand and my thumb slips out of her. I spread her haunches and lift her off my lap. My cock slides along her crack, catches for an instant at her opening then bounces against my stomach. I press the head of it back against her asshole and savour the feel of her tightness.
Almost before I am ready for more she slips lower onto me. Her sphincter is tight around my cock head. I want her further onto me, her tightness behind my glans, but I don’t want to hurt her. My hands, still against her buttocks, tremor. Her dark skin has grown crimson. I hold my breath.
She takes me further, my hair against her skin. I feel the softness within her slip against my cock. Her hands, working her cunt and clit, jostle my balls. Then, right inside her, I come.
As I soften she keeps me within her. It is my favourite moment as my cock still feels her fucking herself and she arches back in orgasm.