One
Her weight is on top of me. As she guides my dick into her and settles down on her haunches. I can feel the weight of her. When I’m on top I don’t feel that weight. She’s ethereal, ungrounded. But like this I canfeelher. All of her.
Two
Different girls fuck differently. Some press their small hands against my chest and lift themselves up, squeeze down. Others twitch their hips – a rolling movement that makes their ribs and abdomen ripple.
Three
Watching her fuck me, the idea that she is fucking herself, impaling herself, forcing herself down again and again onto my dick, moaning as though it hurts but doing it to herself – this thought is inescapable, utterly compelling.
Four
At times I slip my hands into her armpits and take her weight, forearms along her ribs, holding her up above me and fucking up into her. It makes her look appealingly limp, arms dangling, ragdoll, like she’s suspended in a harness.
Five
When I fuck up into her particularly hard, she drools. She does not mean to. Her mouth is open. She’s moaning. A thin string of spit falls from her mouth to my chest, connects us momentarily, then breaks, forming a warm wet spot on my chest.
Six
The effort of being on top makes her pant. Makes her skin radiate heat. Makes her sweat. After we are done she is smaller and more tired than she ever normally is. She lies, gasping, on top of me, the heat of her body radiating down into me, warm as the sun.
