She looked at me with shock and surprise and admiration. With a blow I had slain the Freudian dragon, and her now hot cunt opened and welcomed me in with a great hurrah. The kid went on oblivious of the action below. At his point in the drama, he was only interested in what happened above the waist. We both looked at him, and in that glance I became his spiritual father and, I suppose, Regina and I were married, although there was nothing like that on our minds. I began to move slowly, feeling the sublime squishiness of her pussy sliding under me. It seemed like a box made of quicksand, rolling from side to side, bubbling up from the deep center and enveloping my cock, and then giving way to let me sink deep into her. She made almost no sound, but her mouth opened in a silent cry. It was as though her entire body went into a single prolonged spasm, and she held onto it, using it as a center around which she moved her legs and arms. Her head rolled from side to side, and her eyes closed.
I looked down as though from a great height. “Regina!” I called, but she didn’t seem to hear me.
I gazed at the boy, and he seemed to have dozed off. The nipple had come out of his mouth and he slept open-mouthed on her breast. Suddenly I felt all alone in the room. The kid was sleeping, Regina was tripping on some intense inner sexual drama, and I was left dutifully moving my cock in and out of her, feeling the sensations, but somehow not connected with anything. I thought it would be as good a time as any to see what I could find out about the mechanics of her cunt, and perhaps do something about making her come.
I moved back and dropped my pelvis so I could bring my cock in from a lower angle. Immediately I felt the difference in heat and penetration. I flashed the connection and brought my cock to bear inside her. But no sooner had I found a beautiful inner niche to lodge the head of my prick, she bucked back and froze. Her eyes opened and I got the hate glance again. “It hurts there!” she said, almost spitting at me. “Excuse me,” I said, “no harm intended.” She stuck out her chin and turned her head to the side as though waiting for a blow, but I bowed out, and in a moment she relaxed and lay back down. I began moving again, slowly, and again she caught the rhythm of my rod and started to groove on it. Again I felt as though I was on the outside looking in and this time reached under her legs to bring them back to her chest. I raised them half a foot when she went rigid again. “I don’t want to put my legs that way,” she said.
I got pissed. “Well, what the fuck do you want?” I screamed. “It hurts this way, you don’t want to do it that way. Why don’t you just go fuck yourself?!” To my surprise, she burst into tears. “That’s what I usually have to do,” she said. “All men are so insensitive and don’t know how to touch me and then they blame me for being frigid. I wind up having to masturbate.”
Now, it’s a funny thing about sophistication. If anybody else had made that speech under any other circumstances, I would have properly sneered and made some inner gesture concerning the sorrow of sexual unhappiness in the world, and then quoting Dylan to the effect that “it’s not my problem,” split. But she had the Indian sign on me, and before I could catch myself, I had fallen into a pseudo women’s lib conversation concerning the plight of the female in male chauvinist America. Of course I understood. Of course I was not like all those other nasty men. Of course she could give herself totally to me, if I would just have patience. Wasn’t she a prize worth waiting for, worth cultivating? And when she was all mine, no other man would have what I have.
Like an idiot, I fell for it. Partially, I suppose, because it was true. But truth merely indicates, it does not prescribe. Something in me needed to run this particular treadmill. We talked for a few minutes, and then she asked if I would
I looked down as though from a great height. “Regina!” I called, but she didn’t seem to hear me.
I gazed at the boy, and he seemed to have dozed off. The nipple had come out of his mouth and he slept open-mouthed on her breast. Suddenly I felt all alone in the room. The kid was sleeping, Regina was tripping on some intense inner sexual drama, and I was left dutifully moving my cock in and out of her, feeling the sensations, but somehow not connected with anything. I thought it would be as good a time as any to see what I could find out about the mechanics of her cunt, and perhaps do something about making her come.
I moved back and dropped my pelvis so I could bring my cock in from a lower angle. Immediately I felt the difference in heat and penetration. I flashed the connection and brought my cock to bear inside her. But no sooner had I found a beautiful inner niche to lodge the head of my prick, she bucked back and froze. Her eyes opened and I got the hate glance again. “It hurts there!” she said, almost spitting at me. “Excuse me,” I said, “no harm intended.” She stuck out her chin and turned her head to the side as though waiting for a blow, but I bowed out, and in a moment she relaxed and lay back down. I began moving again, slowly, and again she caught the rhythm of my rod and started to groove on it. Again I felt as though I was on the outside looking in and this time reached under her legs to bring them back to her chest. I raised them half a foot when she went rigid again. “I don’t want to put my legs that way,” she said.
I got pissed. “Well, what the fuck do you want?” I screamed. “It hurts this way, you don’t want to do it that way. Why don’t you just go fuck yourself?!” To my surprise, she burst into tears. “That’s what I usually have to do,” she said. “All men are so insensitive and don’t know how to touch me and then they blame me for being frigid. I wind up having to masturbate.”
Now, it’s a funny thing about sophistication. If anybody else had made that speech under any other circumstances, I would have properly sneered and made some inner gesture concerning the sorrow of sexual unhappiness in the world, and then quoting Dylan to the effect that “it’s not my problem,” split. But she had the Indian sign on me, and before I could catch myself, I had fallen into a pseudo women’s lib conversation concerning the plight of the female in male chauvinist America. Of course I understood. Of course I was not like all those other nasty men. Of course she could give herself totally to me, if I would just have patience. Wasn’t she a prize worth waiting for, worth cultivating? And when she was all mine, no other man would have what I have.
Like an idiot, I fell for it. Partially, I suppose, because it was true. But truth merely indicates, it does not prescribe. Something in me needed to run this particular treadmill. We talked for a few minutes, and then she asked if I would
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