Female Icarus

We are spending the weekend at a beautiful rental home in Hermosa Beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The timing is perfect: You are in your insatiable part of the month, the lunar cycle of lust when it seems the moon pulls on your nipples as it does on the tides, keeping them taut.

The ocean continues the beat of its erotic rhythm--its swelling and cresting--as it builds to a crescendo with the onset of high tide. We absorb within us the energy of the waves. Our own pattern of swelling and cresting begins.

The tide of desire speaks through us: lips mating together, fingers sliding down, finding you moist, slipping inside, parting you open. You take my cock, hold it in admiration, then, like a surfer on his board, you mount me.

The sun climbs the sky, the waves swell in higher crests, you lean back, spreading wide your legs, and you play with your clit in favorite motions, circling and circling, bringing yourself to the verge, following the sweet line inside of you that will hook into and hold fast the orgasm building in your depths, kindling yourself for intense pleasure, now rocking back and forth as you start reeling in the sweet line, the demands of your clit dominating all your movements, as you breathe hard, but slowly, though tempted to pant in breaths short and quick.

I pull you down on me, surround you in my arms, hold your ass tight, and thrust hard and fast, slapping into you from behind, and like some hang glider finding the thermals, you soar over the cliffs, over the ocean, towards the sun, a female Icarus, burning up, melting into wax, as orgasmic ecstasy dissolves us into two candles melted and fused together by the fire of our passion.

I confess: I love it when there is that desperation to our sex, that primal, headlong, cockstrong, cascading desire to penetrate and plunge into you. But what is most erotic, I whisper, is whatever slows us down, whatever gives us a long oasis moment to luxuriate in the arousal of all of our senses and harmonize with the rhythms of the sea.