There's that thing that moves you sometimes, in the middle of the night, to reach out and touch the body of your lover as her breasts rise and fall with the gentle tempo of a peaceful sleep. A sense of cocooned warmth that starts off peacefully platonic - and ends up being flagrantly physical. And so it was. I turned towards her and, on an impulse, reached out and gently brushed the sleek lines of her outer thigh with my fingertips. In that moment, she sighed happily, sleepily, and moved against me. Our legs slipping between one another's - comfortable, luxuriating, feline. I'm not sure of when the switch flipped, or even if there really was a switch. The sensation of slipping into the sensual is, at that time of night, more languid than that. It is without the encumbrances of conversation, or the threat of outside distraction. It's just you, your lover, the bodies you have grown to understand, the desires you have grown to anticipate, and... unfettered possibility. I burrowed head-first under the blankets, my head finding her willingly flexible knee-joint, and lifted it over my left shoulder as my mouth was cradled in Everyman’s Neverland. The intoxicating smell of Tinkerbell in my nostrils as I began to lap at her. Now, everybody has certain things…certain moments that inflame them, and which live on in their sexual memories after the fact. One of these is when she lifts her crotch hungrily to my mouth and writhes into my face while holding my head to herself. Just the scene that plays out in my mind’s eye as I write this is enough to get me going. The sensation of having my slave-like mouth used for her satisfaction. That’s exactly what she did, and I revelled in it. My lips, my cheeks, my nose, my chin, were all gleaming with her wetness before long. Her downwards glances and impassioned “yes, yes, yesses” as she saw herself covering my skin, saw the unabashed lust in my eyes. The sensation as she cums on my mouth really is worth repeating, too. She senses its onset and, as a result, so do I. Her breathing stops for three or four seconds, and she (in a state of mind not unlike the fear of falling) nears the proverbial precipice. It’s agonisingly beautiful. Not as beautiful, however, as the series of sharp exhalations that escape from her as she plunges into raging, throbbing endorphine glory. Oh. My. Fucking. God. The frantic breathing, churning, rubbing, tongueing, burrowing bliss of being literally inside my lover’s pleasure. Can there be many more precious images than these? I’ve learned to watch for the first sign of post-coital hypersensitivity. While my mouth is on her, my fingers are tickling her pretty little nipples – but both her nipples and clit become far too sensitive for prolonged contact a little while after she’s climaxed. In those climactic moments I try to sense, without being told, when it’s time to end the stimulation. Quite often I’m lucky, and that time only comes after the second or third extended orgasm. I consider it a victory to know when to stop before she tells me, by word or gesture. Then, as gently as it came, the moment is over and we drift, sated, back into the warm, moist night.