NSFW ~ from "The Heart of the Island," a novel by @breathofshiva
Every sound, every movement against Ben became an answering pull of pleasure in his own body. He watched them, worshiping their beauty, awed by their sure knowledge of each other. He reached to them carefully, touching, feeling the taut movements of their bodies, thrilling at the jerking, feverish motions breaking through, then gathered back into their shared rhythm, the long, controlled stretch of building, building.
He watched them and touched them as he searched in himself for the Ben that went with this, the making of love.
This.... No, Ben had never made love. He had never understood sex. And now he knew that sex as love was the purpose of him, the delight of his thoughts, the most eloquent of images moving, images holding still, catching him, pulling him along. And his body was made for sex, his pleasures uniquely arrayed for another's discovery and delight, the gifts he most treasured, made ready for another to give back to him.
How can it be? he thought, trying to picture himself with a lover in this way, open and accepting of another's desire to pleasure him, to touch and inspect, to taste and to smell what was offered to him, to hear his lover's breath and moans when he kissed and touched with love.
He understood that loving was an adventure that made the giver and the recipient more like all who loved; following the sure path of loving desire, shaped and shaping as they made of their common desires something rare and individual, to be gathered with the sure tenderness of brusque requirement.
Loving was the great and common adventure of all who would love. To climb the highest mountain was to be one of the rare few. To truly share love was to join where all were joined, and say yes to whatever waited there.