Our Lives As Genitalia

Our Lives As Genitalia

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Our Lives as Genitalia: A novel with an intense beating erotic main theme.It is subtitled: Signatures from between our legs, aroused by sex, penetrated by memory, yet screwed by the mind to always confront life in the present. The narrative begins as a series of erotic driven encounters but they all ripple back through later relationships in time, place and memory. It seems in the coupling moment that pleasure ignited by pleasures ignition remains uncomplex pleasure for two. However, memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our skin. It will meander back through association. The central crux of the story is reflective in its sensual unfolding: we are left with lingering consensual sexual memory. To sum up; the story is best described as thinking erotica unfolding a deep romantic core and the better side of our human nature; though in the heat of racy randy coupling and later separation; this is the last thing on our mind and that’s okay and the story lingers repeatedly in those intense pleasurable memorable moments of life and asks the reader to do the same...our lives as genitalia. The insight devoid of ego may come eventually. An erotic romance novel in forty chapters

Summary

Our Lives as Genitalia: A novel with an intense beating erotic main theme.It is subtitled: Signatures from between our legs, aroused by sex, penetrated by memory, yet screwed by the mind to always confront life in the present.

The narrative begins as a series of erotic driven encounters but they all ripple back through later relationships in time, place and memory. It seems in the coupling moment that pleasure ignited by pleasures ignition remains uncomplex pleasure for two. However, memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our skin. It will meander back through association.

The central crux of the story is reflective in its sensual unfolding: we are left with lingering consensual sexual memory.

To sum up; the story is best described as thinking erotica unfolding a deep romantic core and the better side of our human nature; though in the heat of racy randy coupling and later separation; this is the last thing on our mind and that’s okay and the story lingers repeatedly in those intense pleasurable memorable moments of life and asks the reader to do the same...our lives as genitalia.

The insight devoid of ego may come eventually.

An erotic romance novel in forty chapters

Chapter12 (v.1) - Desirable

Author Chapter Note

Jenny questions her own sexual desirabilty and Luke is awestruck at her signature sexual move. Jenny's marshmellow pussy.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 281

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

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Chapter Twelve: DESIRABLE

It was already getting dark when we entered my bedroom the next evening. Suddenly, life was in over drive, following a sequence of kisses in the lounge room, no time for touching breasts as Jenny had her own panties off, my briefs followed suit, my penis already upstanding. I was ready as in primed, but not ready as in prepared for Jenny’s signature sexual move. It was feminine genital exquisiteness, where it came from, where it was learnt, where it had been practiced, my cock didn’t care to write a memo to itself to find out. Genitals accept, only minds turn over events.

It was planned; as precise as the opening gambit of a grandmaster in competitive chess. Jenny’s signature private manoeuvre was a sole deft sliding of wet labia on rigid, still dry penis along its underside. I was beneath her on the bed, her moist spread labia moving ever purposefully upwards along the shaft from where the scrotum joins the penis to below the head. One swift caress by two parted lips; pressure but no pressure. There was a gap between our two bodies, the point of contact solely genitals. It was a defining opening sexual move; as powerful as a high-speed unplayable ace opening a tilt at a grand slam championship. Jenny’s sole focus was purposeful, deliberate, definitive touch. She knew what she was doing, the pleasure for herself and for her partner.

This was a personal sexual autograph; genital to genital, a complete moment of giving and taking. How could I do less than reciprocate, providing the gentlest sex of my life, my penis floating, suspended in Jenny’s body.

It was an inauspicious start; the augurs of sex hadn’t prepared me in advance. I was not used to aiming blindly under the sheets in enveloping darkness. I miscued my entry. I was touching well above her vagina and closer to her clitoral hood, though in truth better to aim high than be embarrassed trying to force low, I wasn’t a complete novice to female anatomy.

Unease circulated in Jenny’s head, I know because it was expressed as, “What’s the matter, aren’t I attractive or desirable enough?”

Nothing could have been further from the truth. I replied as I corrected my entry. “No, it’s okay... I’m just nervous.”

 It was factual. I had failed in the dark and a false start doesn’t necessarily mean your race is run. I set my rhythm to feathery extended, ever so gentle thrusts, easy to maintain in her sea of feminine moisture. My cock was lubricated to the pitch of perfect friction, suspended in Jenny. My penis was floating like the most diaphanous of memories through my mind, supported by mellifluous thoughts and gossamer associations. Jenny’s interior invitation was filmy wet and our private flesh together was the perfect pastiche of the malleable and the robust. Here was the quintessence of two individuals’ physical parts, two sharing their elixirs of vitality and fleshing out to an unknown definition; our then previously separate lives as genitalia.

You could tell there was support, but her pussy was wet, so wet, for its new shaft invited in hard and dry only to be coated and smeared all over by moist juice inside. There was the initial hint of a nervous movement, because I really liked her in the sense of attraction both physically and as a person. I was inexperienced in wanting to do this right, not penetrate her for myself. I felt something more, a need to be gentle. In fact, I was too gentle and probably wouldn’t be invited back. Inside her my hardness was in a tunnel, no more like a tube of absolute moist delight like it was raining inside a cavern, a grotto where the walls were perpetually seeping dampness. Her vagina held me but it was so relaxed it actually had no grip, though I was aware of its surrounding presence. Her opening shaped my shaft when it was deeper and defined the limit for my glans’ ridge to stop at, to stay inside her with each gentle thrust—too gentle, but I knew and wanted to give no more. This was absolute respect.

We were both new to each other; our genitals were figuring out their fit with each other, our minds were enjoying sex, happy we were desired. This was our first exploration of each others’ full sexuality, a further awakening and insight than previous sexual experiences was occurring here. There was a growth of being and the parameters of self were changing.

This was also gentleman sex, missionary position, male pleasure. Sure, accepted, still loads of tenderness and affection here, the inner lubrication of her body held me in the convex, concave moment of male and female. When you can’t possibly conceive of the moment you are in, then it’s true bliss. My cock was sated and I was more than satisfied.

The question is what was Jenny making of this? Was her body enjoying this? Did she need more vigour, traction, the basic friction on her clit, the even more basic deep male thrusting?

What had she expected and what reaction from me had she anticipated in her labial sliding delivery? Jenny had obviously done it before; it was too sure and exact. Then I had seemingly hesitated on entry, making her question what was happening. She had initiated desire, yet I left her questioning her desirability? I hadn’t gone vocal or groaned or responded passionately to her signature move. Was Jenny thinking: what does this guy need to get aroused? She wanted it in her as she hovered above me. Jenny already knew what she wanted and how. Then she nearly wasn’t going to get it in her mind and when she did, it was compelling gentleness.

Jenny’s body didn’t move. She lay there, accepting the placid, tender movement and hopefully the message accompanying it. With hindsight, her signature move showed she could lead quickly and with excitement. However, she gave me my leading moment and summed me up in it, I suppose. I was like any guy potentially being assessed in his opening sexual moves. Is gentleness a signature sexual move? Her pussy was marshmallow soft; there was no animal rush here, no moans or pleasurable sighs. The gratification was a combination of genitals being gentle with each other. It was refined, dignified and well mannered, which is saying something for the brashest, most unruly part of the body. Yet physically it was on one side, crumpled bits of open flesh and on the other, a stiff full headed energy. Then moisture was everywhere, leaking out, dribbling down her perineum, semen spurting gushes adding extra volume, overloading wetness to saturation till it too seeped out in creamy little dribbles. Then my penis went flaccid streaked with sticky combined cum and we both had strands of pubic hair matted to our bodies. Still, whether genitalia are seen or felt in this post sex state, all this matters little or is not the focus; it’s the involuntary well being, the closeness, the laying together, the quiet acceptance of natural function and the peace of sleeping in each other’s arms.

Klimt again is the artist for the moment. In his piece, Fulfilment; the focus is the female’s face as she is sexually satisfied and the male’s body cocoons and embraces his woman. The male’s head is only seen from the back, cradling on her shoulder. Swirls, circles and square and rectangular shapes mix masculine and feminine through the space around them as the lovers’ genitals mix. This is gentle love, fulfilled love, a love reaching for the spiritual; as all which is concealed in the bedroom is revealed in public art. Klimt continues the dialogue of genitalia in the wider world beyond private rapture.

Was it or wasn’t it a spiritual moment with Jenny? Was their fulfilment? I doubt Jenny had an orgasm; my male orgasm was happily fulfilled. But I was so gentle—so fucking gentle. Could gentleness fulfil and create the wish for more? As for a spiritual experience, we were both young and tasting what was proffered, and it’s not harsh of either self to say there was nothing more. We had sex, however, there is always more; the gluey bodily substances and the mental trimmings of the moment shape and reshape being. Where our spiritual sexual self begins it journey and where many facets of its development lie is a journey of a lifetime. The closeness of the sex did carry Jenny and me away in sleep until the next morning.

It was, and has become in my mind what first time sex with a partner should be like; touch dominant, the veil still in place, bodies felt but not seen, and the coupling a point of memory containing more than having it off together.

Yet this wonderful first time always equally holds both intense revealed vulnerability and wistfulness. There was my gentle exposed probing and its miscue and Jenny articulating, the question of allurement and desire, body ready for the body we mutually long for. But we crave more to be desired too: it’s taking a double helping of cream. Our desire to be desired, the knowing we are the desired of another and overlayed by our own pressing rampant desire for sex.

To be desired is the aim, to question your desirability at the point of penetration, took me by surprise. ‘Desirable enough’? Jenny, you were driving me insane. I thought you were such a tease; was I ever going to get inside your panties? Those long afternoons learning about your breasts and your pleasant happy response to my undivided attention to your cute curvaceous chest melons. Even brushing and touching acne marked skin as I held your face close to mine was building a picture of you, piece by piece and the mysterious piece your Janus face awaited. Of course I desired you, all of you, body and self already.

So Klimt is invited to your rescue. All women are desire and are desired, Jenny. Klimt’s Expectation, sees a woman alone as Jenny felt alone in a moment before penetration. Here the woman waits alone, between The Kiss and Fulfilment, sumptuous female beauty, her inner self, or what we can make of her internal self; her fixed gaze across and out of the canvas to her lover—expectation and anticipation can be all. Her hands are to her face like they are supporting her thoughts, which are a mystery like the repeated but varied luxurious swirls and golden triangles of the composition. Here is a woman’s golden mound, the repeated source of male anticipation and a woman’s life as genitalia. The swirls are anticipated desire and subtle carnal knowledge. What lies this way is a knowledge perhaps built on previous experiences, but never the detail, the actual specific minuate shaping this sexual encounter, making it distinct from any other. In art, Klimt can hold the moment; in life it moves fluidly to the act, yet the fluid swirls lead naturally beyond expectation, the model’s body tilts at the edge of control, stability of thought is still in the rational present but it will be subsumed in fulfilment.

However, the feast of love is anticipated. Touch is expected, a lover’s embrace is certain, signature moves will unfold and coupling is ensured. Between the kiss and fulfilment lies the shadow of expectation and expectation fulfilled is life shaping. In sex, the moment of anticipation is a moment alone like Jenny’s. Can we be fulfilled? Can our desires be realised fully? Can we bridge through self to the expectations of others in sex? Can we anticipate how others will view our genitals before and in a new encounter? Here our ambivalence and shadowy insecurities are given in naked hope; there is a point in anticipation of rejection of self and genitalia by others finely balanced by the optimism of ours and our genitals’ acceptance. Klimt’s model doesn’t have these doubts; she has her lover’s gaze held. Jenny, so humanly aware in expressing her thoughts openly: ‘Am I desirable?’ How could you not be? A self about to be given freely and with the expectation, the tantalising prospect, the vista of your womanly recess with such a signature move of genital trust already given, feminine fluid spread in anticipation of a male’s fluid spreading too.

Desired, yes

And all I can evoke now is desire; being smeared in desire and being the gentle instrument of desire.

Given Jenny’s unexpected tantalizing female labial adroitness and the equally unforeseen tender male penile response of the night before, the following morning was mayhem and rush. Habitual daily life sticking its butt in where it wasn’t wanted, deadlines to meet, places we were both expected to be, a distorted timeframe of speedy, sloshed coffee exit. There was the dash from my dwelling rapidly to Jenny’s abode and then our separate engagements of the day parting us. Left to ponder if anything had gone right, we look for faults in hopeful starts, even when they are not there. Yet it was Jenny’s open expression of doubt at my confused seconds of genital awkwardness which tangled us. Was this going to see me matted more than sexually to a woman? The ease of opportunistic sex with Coral or Lena and Leise seemed far off and unhelpful. Porn was raised by my genitals; as guidance, but I ignored it.

The boundaries of memory were left far behind. The auras of other women lingering in my memory teetered away. The sharp frame of my mind was Jenny, zesty ardour and keenly delineated.


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