Normal service

I returned from family vacation on a Wednesday afternoon. By 11.00 am on Thursday, I was in a room at the Herald Square Hotel with D, working my impatient cock into her anxious cunt.

In the two-and-a-half years of our affair, we have never gone quite as long - two weeks - between fucks. We were delayed on our way to the hotel by a meeting with D's sister, who was on her way to her very first extra-marital encounter but interested beforehand in setting eyes on the man who has been fucking her sister; delayed at the front desk at the Herald Square, which is increasingly unwelcoming to short-stay customers; delayed by the slow, slow elevator to the eighth floor: D and I were desperate to fuck the second the door of the room closed behind us. With a high bed for use, we went straight into an edge-of-the-bed fuck. I hiked up her skirt, stripped off her panties, dropped my pants to my ankles, lifted my shirt, took aim, and with my eyes locked on hers, drove my cock steadily into her cunt, all the way to the root. D angled down on my cock and took herself straight up to her first orgasm. That was the start of three hours of continuous sex, followed by another three hours of equally intense, making-up-for-lost-time sex the next day at the Kew Motor Inn.

Sexual pleasure is typically understood as issuing from the satisfaction of desire, and sexual desire is typically interpreted as an appetite, like hunger or thirst. In this model, pleasure comes from the satisfaction of desire, but the desire is not itself a source of pleasure: sexual desire is like hunger, sexual satisfaction like a food that quells hunger, at least for a while. The distinction between good sex and bad sex is like that between good food and bad food, having to do not with the character or strength of the desire but with the manner in which it is satisfied.

This account gets sexual pleasure and sexual desire almost entirely wrong (and isn't much better as a model of food and drink, hunger and thirst). Sex is as much about wanting as it is about getting; getting fuels wanting as much as it feeds it. But going without for a little while definitely does add an edge, as intense hunger can intensify the pleasure of a meal, prolonged thirst make the quenching of that thirst more delightful. After two weeks of not fucking D, it was wonderful to re-establish the circuit that runs through her cunt and my cock, through my body, my eyes, her eyes, her body. So for three hours one day, three hours the next, we rode the delightful urgency of our desire for each other, as if something huge had been pentup, and now was released.

I wouldn't choose, in advance, to go two weeks without fucking D, in order to enjoy the particular pleasure of fucking her after two weeks without. But I am glad to have had the pleasure of fucking her after two weeks without, and so am glad, looking back, to have gone those two weeks without fucking her.

Now, things are quite back to normal: forty minutes of car sex with D on Sunday evening; an intra-marital handjob on Monday morning; another three-hour session at the Kew with D on Tuesday involving her new red bikini, about which I shall post when I have the narrative in good shape; a quiet Wednesday; and a delightful but brief intra-marital fuck on Thursday morning.