Small Moments - Sex Stories

Small Moments

... clench elicits louder moans as I begin to tense up all over, sweet pain almost like the burn right before a muscle cramp. Your legs shaking around me tell me you're reaching your edge too, as you writhe below me. I don't just spill, but feel my seed frantically rocketing out of me, in what seems like endless thick ropes plumbing depths in you even my hardness can't reach, as your sex squeezes and milks every last drop I can give. Barely able to move, everything in me feels raw, exposed, and sensitive. Your arms cradle me and my head just rests on your neck as I calm with each breath, each one inhaling the scent of your hair, our bodies still randomly trembling from our powerful release. They're welcome aftershocks that we both share now. I collapse on you, muscles limp, still joined. You always want to keep me inside of you for as long as possible, while stroking every inch of bare skin that you can reach, soothing me in the quiet afterglow. Every kiss in this space of time is long, languorous, and lazy. Content in the knowledge that we can drift into sleep if we wish, or just cuddle this way for now, enjoying the soundtrack of breath and calming heartbeats. Soon, we're snuggling, spooned on our sides, facing one another, legs entwined like braided ropes. Our hearts have slowed down to patient thuds, careless of the exact hour or the cold. Existing under these blankets together is the only thing that matters. You've been petting my face for a while now. It almost sounds ...

... like your fingertips are gently running along sandpaper as you stroke my cheek and look into my eyes. I once asked why you like doing that so much. You smiled sweetly and simply said you love the feeling. That you love the way my eyelids close slightly from the warm caress as your palm rests and moves up and down. You said I don't look so serious then, that I'm relaxed. It's true. It's always something so intimate to me, so private, to let one touch that way around a nexus of so many senses. I never tell you how much I love it. I think you see how much I do each time. I also don't want anything to interrupt this, to break the glimpses I'll catch from you of pure adoration radiating in your eyes. It's as if your hand and the spiralling grooves imprinted upon them are trying to memorize the textures that I'm built from. The curves, the skin, and dark stubble of my face. It's these times I truly know words can only say so much, that sometimes they can be useless noise floating around scenes better left in the hands of two sharing the quiet. Your touch alone writes reams of poetry. My arm draped around your hip is a sonnet. They're written in a language we all understand. That's the last thought passing through my head as I drift off; that we don't really need words for some important things. The small moments we share, the things we feel and see in the other... words are hard to find for them because maybe we're not meant to. It would take away time better spent just being close ...