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The Overflow

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That’s it. That’s how it is. That’s how it feels against my skin, against my body, against my common sense. That’s how it works. Fighting. Testing. Teasing. Crossing my boundaries. Clouding my brain. Triggering my mind. I can't reduce it to fragments, to cells, to numbers, to words. I can’t capture it. Not now. I can’t hunt it in motion, and that’s driving me insane. I know it's just the interaction of psychological, neural, vascular and endocrine factors; the result of various stimuli onto the receiving neural areas that have become sensitive and responsive to certain incoming signals. That’s it. Because you are my incoming signal, John. The only one. You are not my flatmate, nor my boyfriend, nor my lover. You are the only incoming signal my brain registers, my body welcomes.


Because I know this is not an act of love. There are acts of love; we have our own acts of love, but this is not one of them. This is just like everything else. The pang of want, the pleasant pain in my limbs, it’s just Nature finding its ways. And I could see it clearly, I could see it how it is, if I could get out of this bed and watch it plain and prosaic. And I would love it just how it is, a mechanism, an instict. But now I can't. Because I am in this bed with you, John. Because the excess is in its roots and it tangles me like the ivy straps the solid wood.


Bound to you.


And I'm here speaking in metaphor, and nothing stops this ridiculous imagery, and nothing stops this flow. Nothing stops this silent, private flow. Because I wouldn’t be able to say all this aloud. Because I’m not speaking in words to you now, I’m not speaking in English in this bed. I’m just moaning, groaning, making undignified, animal noises.


Now, my voice, freed from the constrictions of language, has found its wildest reverberation, has been undressed of the silkiest layers of its wardrobe; and it condenses now, liquid. I know what my voice does to you, and I know what my naked voice does to your naked body. My voice is melting all over your body in low, liquored vocals and nasals that don’t make sense, while my brain keeps dictating this internal, ordered manifest. And you could, but you can’t; you could read it all over my skin, where my pulse is writing, in morse code, all these words. But you can’t, because you are in this bed with me, John; because you are drifting in your own flow. I can feel it, and this is actually what it is all about, the fight to drive you into my flow, while your body struggles to find its own stream, its own pace, and you try to keep me in your current when I am swirling. And sex, our sex, you and I having sex, is just the dirty negotiation between your pace and mine, between your flow and mine sharing the same track, and when that happens, when we converge, then we are stronger, mightier than ever, we are a torrent, and that’s the point of no return, the overflow.


The overflow.


Actually, it’s just the release of the neurohormones, oxytocin and prolactin, which make the brain experience a temporary decrease in its metabolic activity. You studied it. You know it. I read it in your medical journals. I know it. And I would see it if I could get out of myself, out of this bed, and watch us, swelling in our course towards the overflow. Then my mind would be clear and I'd see this just how it is, the violent choreography of our bodies, the sweat, the noises. You, on your back, your feet flat on the bed, my arms lifting your thighs, my fingers digging in your skin; your legs shuddering and me lying between them, flat on my stomach; my head bobbing as my mouth slides up and down on your cock. That’s it. But I can't see it; I can’t get out of this bed because I’m here with you, tangled with you, because I’ve taken root in this bed.


Our bed.


That’s how it is. That’s how my bed is now our bed. This is our land, this is our kingdom, this is the world, and there’s nothing past its limits. Because out there, there’s no air, there’s no land, there’s no water, there’s nothing. There’s just silence. Just silence. There’s air here, though, there’s air so dense and thick it weighs heavy in my lungs, it’s air so addictive and poisoning it feels like smoke. I can breathe the air surrounding you and it’s like smoking, it’s smoothing and exciting like smoke. It’s consuming. I’m consuming you and you’re secretly, dangerously, slowly, so slowly, consuming me.


I’ll never quit you.


I’ll never quit you because there’s nothing like this. There’s nothing like having you in my mouth, there’s nothing like sucking you off, there’s nothing like swallowing you, there’s nothing like feeling you heavy against my tongue, feeling you grow harder, bigger, grazing the roof of my mouth. There’s nothing like lighting you up, there’s nothing like taking you entirely, because my goal is to sink my nose in your groin and breathe you, inhale you. I am breathing you, taking you until the root, and you are shuddering, John, shuddering, and your hands are shuddering as they tug gently on my hair; and you are talking, you are speaking a language that doesn’t make sense out of this bed, out of our land. Because you are asking me to stop because you are going-to-come and you don’t want to not-yet-please; but, at the same time, your hands are encouraging me deeper, faster, just-like-that and you don’t even know what you want.


But I know it.


You want it slow, John. You want to watch, and I will give you a show. My mouth fascinates you since we met. I know that. You’ve been always fixated on my mouth, the fount of all those deductions that amazed you since the first day, the source of the methodical speech of my train of thought. And that’s why mere seconds after I closed my mouth, yours would always open to say fantastic, amazing. Quite. Extraordinary. You loved my mouth even before you knew how talented it was. You worshipped my mouth, John, even before you realized you wanted it stretched around your cock.


And that’s precisely what turns you on the most about this obscene, intimate act. The realization that this mouth which you thought was just an outbox, that you thought was impenetrable, as much as even food entering in it felt as a sacrilege, this mouth, my mouth, would make an exception for you. And that you could profane it as you please. Since the first time we kissed and I allowed your tentative tongue to get in my mouth. Since the first time you cupped my jaw and your thumb traced the shape of my lips before pressing between them; my teeth scratching slightly as it slid in, my tongue caressing the rough skin, the pad, the edge of your nail, until I had your thumb buried to the second knuckle in my mouth and you were already moaning, your gaze unfocused, your bulge so obvious it had to be painful. And then I knew, in that precise moment, that you had come, alone in your room, for countless nights, thinking of how it would feel to profane my mouth. And even now that you have, for countless nights, come in the hot and wet shelter of my mouth, even now, you keep looking at me while I am sucking you as though it were something prodigious.


I look up at you now. And there you are. Staring at me, staring at my full mouth, my swollen lips, your hard, so hard cock appearing and disappearing in my mouth. Staring at me with hooded eyes, breathing heavily, from your throne, in our kingdom, like you were watching the day dawn, the tides change, the full moon. Enraptured.


But. There’s a but. I can see it. You frown and swallow. I see your adam’s apple bobbing, and then, with your dry throat, with your body thrumming in pleasure, you manage to say:


- Stop.


And that’s important. That’s different. Because you’ve said Stop with your mouth and your legs that have tensed, and also with your hands that are holding my head still. So I stop. I let your cock slide out of my mouth with a wet noise that sounds like a why, and I look to you.


You smile, pull the damp curls out of my forehead, and say, softly:


- You are thinking.


And “you are thinking” means It’s one of those days when you can’t switch off, isn’t it? It’s because of that last case, right? You can’t forget it, and you can’t stop it, you can’t shut up your brain, can you? Ah John. That’s it. That’s how you turned my bed into our bed. I don’t need to reply; you add:


- Come here.


And “come here” means I know what you need, Sherlock. Come here, come to my flow. Let me. Come here and I’ll stop the storm for you. Ah John. That’s it. That’s how you turned our bed into our kingdom. Only you, John, could subvert this primal search into an act of love.


You sit up, your legs together, flat on the bed, and you pull me up on my knees, making me straddle your thighs. That places your head just level with my chest, and places my straining cock trapped between your chest and my stomach. My straining cock. I hadn’t realized how hard I was. I look down at you. The grey in your hair is more obvious from here. I like it. It tells, like your wounds, about the dust and the pain of the paths you walked alone, about how they changed you. Marking you. Aging you. Differentiating you. I look down at you, and I feel like I am soaring, soaring above you. Oh, but you look mighty. So determined, so aroused, so out of breath, and still, so in control. You are not my prey. I’m yours.


I’m yours.


You grip my thighs to keep me upright, and your right hand is tracing soothing circles on my skin, as your left hand searches for something between the covers, and there’s the lube, so hygienic, so practical, so you. Your lips are parted and you are tracing soothing words on the air between our bodies. And then fingers, coated with lube, are making their way between my buttocks, circling my entrance, and I am suddenly shivering in anticipation. You are staring at me, drinking in my reactions. You are enjoying this, feeling me melting, changing, being tamed under your touch.


Under your touch.


You are opening me. I feel the stretch, the subtle burn. I close my eyes and the world disappears. All that remains is my brain, constructing the world from the inside; my brain and you. You are my earth-ground, connecting me to land. Your finger, your fingers, two fingers, and the delightful threat, the painful promise of a third finger. You are working me precisely, possesively, and I am making little noises now, panting, falling, grasping onto your shoulders to hold myself upright, searching for proper leverage.


With my eyes closed my other senses take the lead, and I can feel the goosebumps in your skin, and I can hear you are panting too, hot breath ghosting over my body, between the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting in and pulling out. I can smell the dense weight of sex and sweat wrapping us so tightly that I can even taste the salt on my tongue, that darts out to lick my lips, as yours starts to lap my chest, my abdomen, the head of my cock. Just lazily, disorderly, marking me. Just slowly, so slowly, driving me insane. And like that, I can’t wait more, I’m aching, I’m aching, I need you, I need you now. I need you to fuck me now. John. Just fuck me now. I am thinking those four words so intensely, my brain is shouting them so desperately, just these four words and nothing else, that I have to say them aloud or I will shatter in pieces. John.


Just fuck me now.


And that’s it. That’s how it is. The secret, the fluent, unashamed choregraphy of our bodies. You are positioning me on my hands and elbows, you are stroking the curve of my ass, and I know the route you’ll follow, I can predict the firm caress of your fingers, from the two dimples on the end of my back, to the tender frontier where cheek and thigh join. I know the way you’ll grip my buttocks and you’ll spread them, opening me, exposing me. And now the time comes when it’s unbearable, when your hands leave me alone –alone with my brain, alone with myself; as you slick up your cock, and I have to bite my lip trying not to beg. I wait. I want. I don’t beg. And then, at last, there’s the blunt pressure against my entrance. I hold my breath.


You push in. Just a few inches. And you stop. I feel your forehead rest a second on my back and you growl on my skin, the sound vibrating through my body oh-Sherlock-so-tight. I groan in response. I breathe. I want. I beg. I want more but you don’t give me more, you are holding me still, holding me needy. I need it, I need this, I need you, I need more, I need it rough, I need it just like this, I need it now. I need it now. And finally you give it to me now, you push in completely, in one smooth thrust that stops the clock, the world, the light, the sound.


Stops me.


You force my hips to meet yours, angling them, arching me, and start thrusting and kneading me into submission. Thrusting deep into me, and pulling out almost entirely –but not entirely, not leaving me alone anymore; just to thrust again, deeper, even deeper, buried to the hilt. With each thrust, my cock, so hard, so heavy, so neglected, brushes against my stomach and I feel the urgent need to come, growing, hammering, pulsing inside. My head is hanging as you rock into me, I have to press my face against the mattress; and my eyes are watering at the intensity, at the pleasure conquering me, at my body surrending to your pace, at my mind drifting in your flow, your calm, steady, safe flow. And I can’t hear my own thoughts because you are finally driving me to you. Driving me out of my mind.


Driving me with you.


And that’s it. That’s how it is. This bed is our land. My body, my heart, my mind are your kingdom. And you are reigning me. You are surrounding me like water, like air. Wrapping me. Liberating me. This is your act of love. This is our love. This is sex, our sex, you and I having sex. And there’s nothing like this. I know it. And I know I’ll never quit you. Because there’s nothing like this. Because there’s nothing like you. There’s nothing more than you. There’s nothing past your limits.


Just noise.


Your thrusts are becoming erratic, I can feel your orgasm hovering, plunging, like I feel mine. So close, but still out of reach.


I need more.




I need you.




And there’s your hand.  Right where I need it. Oh. Right when I need you. Oh John.


Just there.


Just. John.


Just. You.