Stepping Out

It had been torture, but playful torture, not cruel, and when he did let her crash over, it'd been excruciating ecstasy! She'd had titanic climaxes – flashing like lighting, echoing like thunder, blotting out everything else.

And when he, eventually, had joined her in orgasm, she had felt the huge emission splashing her innards, scalding her deep. Slowing, but not stopping, he'd slowly resumed his trek, leading her once more towards her sexual apex.

He'd stayed, miraculously, rock-hard, and had continued slowly for the longest time. She'd continued to wax and wane, peak and retreat, sometimes reaching a climax, sometimes falling short. So, in that way, she'd orgasmed sporadically while he'd lazily sawed in and out, initially almost effortlessly. But, gradually his rhythm had accelerated, become more insistent. And while his conquest of her had never actually been frenetic, never really urgent, it'd become progressively more determined.

She'd thought she could feel him swell further. She'd been able to detect him start to shiver and shudder within her velvet grasp. Her climaxes had begun to come closer together, one on the heels of the next. Then his thrusting and plunging, the heaving of his hips, crashing against her upraised thighs had become increasingly intense. Still, there was no violence, just a hyper-activity, fomenting a sort of hyper-pleasantness.

And then the mother of orgasms awoke within her. Her perception had constricted, blackness crowded in from the edges leaving only a spot, a focus of intense white. Gwen recalled the intensity of sensation as a palpable thing centered on their connection, their connected orgasm, and obliterating her awareness of anything and everything else. She had felt her consciousness – as it pulsated – shrinking to a pinpoint, before opening like a camera lens, only to shrink again. Even now, she couldn't tell whether she'd been having one super long climax that just went on in waves, or if it was a seemingly endless series of separate orgasms, crashing over her like surf on a beach. Whatever it was, it had gone on, through a veil of rapture, for almost an hour.

The final orgasm, or the culmination – and somehow she knew this for sure – had been simultaneous with him. She'd felt his ejaculation within her womb. The warm and copious flow of his seed had further intensified, if that was even possible, her climax. Her body had been wracked with tremors of ecstasy that had left her limp and exhausted.

He'd left her inert on the bed, with quietly muttered thanks, while she'd tried, as yet unsuccessfully, to come to grips with what had just happened, indeed, what was happening. In the end she'd accepted it as just another in the continuing series of new 'personal bests!'

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While originally it had been – and she'd tried to limit it to – once or twice a week, here she was, well into her fourth month, and this was the third appointment this week, indeed she'd had three last week as well – the last couple of weeks now she thought about it.

A little part of her, at the back of her mind, suspected that this was quickly becoming unsustainable. Her work – her legitimate work, at least, was suffering. Gwen was concerned about the graphics clients she kept putting off; indeed, she worried about her whole design business which she was neglecting. Not only that, it was obviously only going to get more difficult to hide her activities from her hubby.

Still, she kept raising the bar – meeting and exceeding the definitive experiences. How intense could they get – her best evers? Every couple of weeks she would have an orgasm that surpassed all the others, indeed, every climax between was as good or almost as good. So far she had had no disappointments! But how high could the bar actually go, before that, too, became unsustainable.

And in reality was it ascent – or descent? Maybe she was living an illusion. Was the bar actually rising, or was it sinking – into some well of depravity. "No!" she scolded herself. "That couldn't be. Don't spoil it!" It was easy, given her fantastic history, to banish all the negative thoughts. The positives easily became, as usual, overwhelming – all-encompassing, once again.

All those recollections of past tricks had stoked the flames of her seething passion. Further and further aroused by her anticipation, Gwen waited, warm in the thoughts of the high to come. To borrow a metaphor from the drug world, unlike the alleged "chasing the dragon" of a smack addiction, where the initial high is never recaptured, she was actually catching the dragon every time – as the dragon itself grew – the high getting better and better. She luxuriated in the expectation of sensations to come.

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A tap on the door.

"Come in!"

A lone, male figure enters slowly into the dimness, whispering a tentative, "Hello?"

In a sultry, liquid voice, Gwen replies, "Welcome," as he approaches the bed.

Reaching the circle of light, he suddenly freezes. The blood drains from her face. It's her husband.

"Oh, fuck!"