La petite mort
I couldn’t describe an orgasm. Not even if I tried. But for you, dear reader, I shall try.
There’s something transcendent about it. Fingers working in tandem with the sensations pulsing through my body. The way they flick and rub my sensitive nub, ushering me to a higher plane of existence.
Carnal fantasies swirl around my head. Strong hands gripping soft flesh. Red marks painting my thighs. Mouths nipping at my sensitive buds. The messiness of pleasure.
It’s like running a marathon. Muscles tensing as every caress draws me closer and closer to the edge.
Until I leap…and soar.
My back arches off from the bed, drawing raspy moans and murmurs from my lips. Body thrashing back and forth from the overwhelming thrill of being airborne. I ride my high until I cannot float anymore.
I’m left breathless. My body singing with sleepy comfort. A dopey smile spreads across my face.
My fingers sticky with the residue of my pinnacle—its slight saltiness tantalizing.
Earthbound as we are, it’s the closest we’ll get to flying.
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