Mule: a sterile, cross breed between a horse and an ass.

Large thumb 62f016ce515e6968

He felt huge. 

Like a swollen rod of unrelenting and unapologetic desire that would not be refused entry into the promised land of sensual bliss through the reception of my body, it pushed further in until it could go no more and then I pushed back on it to receive more of it.

Discomfort and slight pain sparked around our union, like electrical strikes arcing between us in spite of the ample amounts of lubrication applied. My ass had become a gateway to forbidden pleasures and deep, yielding release. My pussy had already been pounded into sublime submission. His cock was an army with a battering ram of desire, demanding entry and weakening the wall of resistance that separated me from the crowning jewel of my orgasm. His erotic siege upon my orgasmic autonomy while we moved and grasped in a tangled, writhing mass of skin, flesh and sweat climaxed into a gushing outpouring of womanhood raining down upon him as if to refresh him from his efforts and tamper down some of the fire that had built from so much friction.

After the liquid nectar of womanhood escaped and lay everywhere around the root of his tree like a rain that brings with it a flash flood, everything else then softened with it and opened up, hungry for more of what had been discovered. My pussy and clit throbbed madly like the echo of a drum beat after a congress declaring war had been beaten out across the desert vista with smoke signals and warnings to nearby tribes. The pulsing throb kept its own time; an instrument of erotic music and at the same time, my ass shyly opened and whispered longing and surrender but only if he could hear it.

A finger slipped in. A scouting digit giving subtle warning of an exploring army following it. A burst of sensations and a surprised breath, followed by a sigh and a moan as mind races ahead into the realm of what might possibly come.

What feels like a giant knob gently nudges in optimistic hope that the slick and ample expression of my previous orgasm would be enough to transition seamlessly into more resistant territory. Lubrication is required to slide past my resistance and finally, we settle into position and carefully break the invisible seal preventing entry.

A loud gasp and a frozen moment of stillness while I try to make sense of the overwhelming sensations that occur together. It feels like ice and fire and ripping and sealing, all at once. I take a few breaths in the pause and when it is the right time, I signal for him to continue. 

He is larger than most men. An obscene display of nature's caricatures with its exaggerated proportions; all comically given to a man with the contradictory presentation of someone who appears like a boring, vanilla flavor, suburbanite middle aged dad. (Although, in these instances, you have to wonder who it is we DO expect to see with an overly-endowed appendage if we are surprised by the appearance of the people who have them.)

In, it slides, and out escapes my moans, earnest and refusing to be delayed like prisoners fleeing their capture. I can hear his breathing change, muffled sounds as he mumbles something, his hands grasping my hips and ass as if he weren't sure how long he could stay seated in his saddle for this ride. Slow and deep, I demand from him. I want to feel it all, deeper inside than his anatomy will allow. I want to swallow him into me and feel the absolute limit of him that I can take so that I can push him back out and start again. He pushes and pulls, enters and retreats. I can feel his balls slapping against me, protesting their inability to join their comrade in its mining expedition below the surface of respectability. His balls continue to swing and tap against me, I can feel his hips meeting the boundaries of my flesh and bone as he pushes in as deep as he can go and I push back on him harder and deeper. I am taking him, claiming him, fucking him. His entrance into me is only a technical detail because in this moment, I am the one fucking him, not the other way around and it doesn't matter who is inside what. He stays in position, frozen into place, allowing me to swallow him whole, hard and deep. In this moment, he knows he is my fucktoy and he is being used as such. 

Expletives, vulgar commands and unexpected, plaintive girlish voice pleading sexily spill out from me as if a broken doll had been accidentally stepped on and the contents of its voice recordings all released in chaotic order. His pace quickens and the sound of my voice and my words accelerate the intensity of my dominance in this moment, the erotic whisper of my submission underneath it, the overwhelming tidal wave of libidinous desire that opens the gates of taboo, dirty adult sex for sex sake, all take their toll. He struggles to hold back and continue giving so that my orgasm can rain down on us both like Heaven opening up above us and taking us in with it...his grip tightens, his protests become louder, my thrusts become more urgent and I demand that he fuck harder, deeper, longer, don't stop... because I am almost there. I am standing on the precipice of my own erotic surrender and I can feel the gates to so many dimensions of my locked down psyche about to explode open and release me from my own internal prisons. I must have this. I must arrive there. I must be able to get the momentum necessary to jump this gorge and reach the other side safely. And only he can give me what I need to launch so I can arrive there.

Don't stop.

Do not stop.

Keep going.

Harder.

Faster.

Deeper.

Don't let me go.

Don't leave me hanging so close to the edge or surely I will fall somewhere between desire and ecstatic flight, struggling to come back to a place where I can try again later; hamstrung on a short hook of his poorly executed intentions. And there would be no forgiveness for this failure to launch. 

He catches himself before he slaps my ass. He knows I won't tolerate being beaten like a dumb mule and it would only result in turning this heated lava flow of my desire into an icy cold river of rejection. I am not that kind of woman. He knew that when he met me. Instead, his hand reaches up and winds itself into my hair, gently. My head up and hips up, with back arched, I look back at him with a defiant grin and speak obscenely with even more ferocity. Let the games begin, motherfucker! And with this act of playful, primal behavior established between us, I can feel my orgasm building and taking over. I am now being dragged in its undertow as surely as he is being pulled along by the increasing demands of my body and then, it happens.

Deep guttural moans and a shivering final push, shaking off the energy like an animal coming in out of the weather, and a deep, relieved breath from behind closed eyes; we swim in this crowning moment of primal need wearing the perverse sexual behaviors of civilized modesty.

I will think about it later but the memory will not be as satisfying or intense as the actual experience and like a drug addiction, I will crave it again, need it again, wait for it to present itself to my web again.

In the meantime, I will satisfy myself by acting as the purveyor of this deep, psychic surrender to special males who know the joy and understand the need for... letting someone in.

When it is good, it is addicting and liberating.

When it is bad, it is painful and traumatic.

When it is mediocre, it is ... that's not actually possible. This is a Heaven or Hell kind of experience. There is never a middle ground.