In the Pink

He thrusts further into me, and I feel myself spiralling out of control. Desperately seeking to retain some semblance of consciousness, in order not to break either of his two rules: 1. Don't come without permission and 2. Let me know when you're close to coming.

Visions of various traffic junctions roar through my head. I settle on an old favourite -- the traffic lights one up from Tzomet Habankim near Talpiot in Jerusalem -- and concentrate hard. Traffic light colours dance through my head and it is suddenly incredibly important to me what the name of the plant nursery on the corner is.

I return mentally to the present, and lock my brown gaze with his blue twinkle. He smiles at me, not ceasing his frenzied attempt to send me over the edge into Neverneverland, and simultaneously soak the bed. (With the evil, mean and rotten intention of having me lie in the wet patch, of course.)

I manage to gasp out a question:

"How many fingers are inside me?"

He pauses, for maximum effect -- a practice at which he is most accomplished -- and then answers with deliberate slowness.

"Hmmm. Let me see... one, two.... three.... four.... and ooh, look, here's my thumb. Five. All five fingers."

"So.... (oh my god Tzomet Geha!! Tzomet Geha!!) you're fisting me?"

"Well, not exactly. They're all in there, but they're straight -- not balled into a fist. What you might call the Yehudah Amichai approach to fisting."

"Er... wha..? Huh?"

"גם אגרוף היה פעם כף יד פתוחה ואצבעות..."

I laugh delightedly, gasping that I'm close to orgasm, and a desperate request to come, to which he acquiesces. As I lie in an increasingly spreading wet spot, I laugh again.

"What's so funny, tabby?"

"What you said about Yehuda Amichai. I'm *SO* blogging that."