I orgasm quietly. Always have, and more likely than not I always will.
I don’t know if our sexual expressions are ingrained naturally or if they’re learned with the encouragement (or discouragement) of partners. Perhaps I never lost the secretive silences of self experimentation while living in the family home, or I just internalise a lot of my pleasure like I internalise a lot of my non-sexual thoughts and responses.
Young Lion has asked previously, that when we meet, I should shout when I’m about to come and yell his name at the moment of release. I delayed my response to those messages because I was torn: he was only telling me this because loud demonstrative behaviour turns him on and I’d like to please him in this way, but if I am being truthful and authentic with my own sexuality, the moment I start having to think about my behaviour leading to orgasm, the less likely I am to come. The natural order of things is thrown out of balance when I interfere with its patterns. I don’t mind if I don’t orgasm when that’s how things (don’t) roll at the time, but I most certainly do mind if an orgasm is within reach and withers away or is sabotaged.
The Country Boy knows when I come if using his fingers on my clitoris as I shove his hand away when I become too sensitive. But sometimes he’s asked after penetration if I’ve orgasmed because my internal wild rollicking and crashing and thunderous finale apparently isn’t obvious to the man inside me. I have to remember to communicate with him.
Words weren’t necessary the other day. I was laying on my back with my arms outstretched at a perfect 90 degrees and my legs apart in the air like an open pair of scissors. He entered me and we fucked lazily as we watched his ivory fair, blue-veined cock slid in and out of my swollen, dark pinky-purpley labia. I think I have a fetish for veins: Country Hottie’s striated forearms had my mind racing at lunch before we had sex for the first time, and the Country Boy’s cock has at least half a dozen visible veins that pulse blood to his heart for recirculation and feel like they’re splitting me in half sometimes. And I’ll have to post a photo I saw on the web yesterday of a man’s veined abdominal area that captured my attention. Or, I should concentrate and finish this post.
He brought my legs together vertically so I couldn’t see his face, nor watch the action. He thrust more deeply to the point I almost couldn’t tolerate his size, and in that haze of pain-tinged pleasure, my body decided it was time to come. And come. And keep coming. And a few more times for good measure. I wanted to shout to him then but the only vocalisation I was capable of was something like a strained yowl with a few gurgles thrown in.
Afterwards I was dazzled with endorphins and the part of the brain that manages language was disabled, so I told him, “You know that thing with my legs together and you were driving me through the wall? Yeah, yeah, that. I had like four million orgasms, couldn’t stop, fucking awesome, wow. So good. No idea what you did but holy fuckaroly. Can we do that one again soon?”
I wish I did orgasm more loudly so my partners could be saved from such awful discourse.