The guilty taste of your semen --- This Is Heaven --- by Michael Ampersant

Alex and John, the (anti)heroes of the GREEN EYES saga, have hands-free sex (from Chapter 22 of THIS IS HEAVEN, titled "Dirty Meditating"):


He laughs and stares at my crotch, or the location thereof under the blanket.
“Now, John, let’s be serious. Is it really true that guilty sex is better sex?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re always feeling guilty, isn’t it?”
(I have to think.)
“Anything left in the fridge?” he asks, disappears in the kitchen, and returns empty-handed. He splays out on the bed, hand on my thigh again, his right leg across my left leg. “I seem to recall some sources saying that seminal fluid communicates your state of mind. Sounds a bit bienpensant perhaps. ‘Bienpensant’ is a word, isn’t it? Means well-thinking, doesn’t it? Something about the taste. I wonder how guilty your semen tastes right now.”

"Is it really true that guilty sex is better sex?"

He pulls the blanket away. “Where’s your jizz?”
“In your ass.”
“Where’s mine?”
“In my mouth.”
“And? How does it taste?”
I munch on the residue of his goo. “Buttery flavor, a hint of lavender, thyme, lime,” I invent.
“Buttery flavor, that’s my gaze into Greta’s cleavage. Give me a kiss, French.” We kiss.
“Mmh,” he says. “French, Italian, honey-mustard. Honey-mustard, that’s Godehart, of course. But there is something else. Shishito, perhaps? Shishito is metaphysical, isn’t it? Bienpensant’s non-cleavage. I think we need another sample.” He rolls his head, MTV style. “Why don’t you stare a bit at my crotch?” he asks.
Okay, I think, and reach out for his dick. “No, no,” he says. “Free-style. Hands off.”
“I could come free-style,” I say, “in my days. I could will an ejaculation. When I was seventeen.”
“Leering at your own junk.” He laughs.
“It’s a bit more complicated.”
“Sure,” he says, “the lust happens here.” He points at his temple.
“Huh?”
“Orgasms are lustful muscle decontractions. There’s the physiological part, the decontraction, and a psychological part, the lust.” He points at his temple again.
“I tried again last week and failed,” I say.
“Coming hands-free?”
“Coming hands-free.”
“Mmh. Look at him. And him! Your magic works.”

"Your magic works."

Two erections are coming along nicely, especially his own, the veined shaft rising from the scrotum, the cock lips ready to kiss his perfect belly button, the whole apparatus hovering over his tensed-up, rippled abdomen, gently throbbing. “Hands-free. Show me how you do it,” he says.
“Well, I failed.”
“Let’s try.”
“You serious?”
“We’re sitting here on this cloud bank, facing eternity. And there’s no beer in the fridge. What else can we do?”

"It starts with perfect stillness."

“It starts with perfect stillness,” I say.
He’s stretched out next to me, his head on the pillow. We touch sideways. “A few minutes like this,” I say.
We listen to the rumpling A/C.
“Hold your breath,” I say. He turns his head; eyes lock. “No more breathing for two minutes,” I say.
“One, two, three, eternity,” he says.
I’m the first one to gasp for air. “Again,” I say.
Eyes lock again. Another two minutes and we are breathing again.
“Shallow breathing,” I now say, “very shallow. Very.”
“Sure,” he says, “hyperventilation, minimalist style.”
“A few minutes,” I say.
We listen to the A/C.
“Tense up somewhere, start with your right arm.”
I feel his triceps pushing against mine. “Keep the tension and add the left arm.”
“Roger,” he says.
“Feeling heavy?”
“Yes.”
“Heavier?”
“Dirty meditating,” he says.

Dirty meditating

“Now your right leg,” I say.
Legs touch at the outer thighs.
“Your left leg.”
“Copy.”
“The whole body.”

We hold hands. We weigh tons.
“One more minute,” I say. “Then let go for a sec and tense up again. Feel the weight. Live it. Be it. You are the planet.”
Fingers mate.
“Don’t think about your dick. Not like you’re trying to fortify an erection. The opposite.”
“Like you’re saying hello to a cock up your ass?”
“Yes. Now!”
I feel his triceps deflate and tense up again. “We’ll do this three times, without breathing.” I say. “And then we let go. The second time you should feel it already.”
“Yes. The moment we die, we let go.”

(Once.)
(Space recedes.)
(Twice.)
(Time stirs.)
(Thrice.)
(Death.)
“Let go.”

"The moment we die we let go."

And BOOM. The cloud bank shakes. The fountain of Geneva erupts, two founts as it is, squirt for squirt for squirt. It rains. Jizz everywhere. We won.
“Don’t count the squirts,” he says. It takes forever. “Twenty,” he says. “Good.”
We gasp. “Simulated gasper sex,” he says. “Not even dangerous. I had no idea. Did you invent this yourself?”
“Yes.” (I’m not making this up.)
“No sweat. You’re worth it, dude. We love you.”
He bends over. “Now let’s taste the goo.” I feel the rasp of his tongue on my tummy. “There’s still this guilty taste,” he says. “Is this your goo or mine?”

You're still there? Then you'll like the book. It's out now:

Michael Ampersant
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Comments

  1. I don't like the idea of hand off orgasm. "helping the orgasm with hands or mouth, the orgasm gives much more pleasure and cum!!!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Occasionally, one has to experiment, especially when one is writing erotic novels.

    ReplyDelete

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