Morgan understands, but does not budge; he watches while this solemn woman bends... leans back... reclines... pinning both her shoulders... legs uncrossing... thighs spread-eagle... breasts exposing undersides like over-trusting doves... navel casting crescent shadow... vulva seething scandal as it mimics childlike privates with a grown-up lust for life... inviting him, enticing him, compelling him to enter... to ignore misgivings, yield to fervor, bow to carnal sin... immerse his heart, his mind, his soul, his very consciousness... reintegrate... mesh with her whose atoms likewise hasten to combine... to link themselves to selves distinctive... intermingle attributes... hers receptive... his invasive... hers fulfilled... his launched.

Contractions draw him deeper... pressures built refuse to ease... until the final sperm is siphoned and its wriggling form competes with those already swimming headlong toward their purpose. Morgan sighs. Where she begins and he leaves off is a blurry demarcation that, comprised of both, portends a new persona... joint... apart... dependent... independent... separate yet cohesive.

"I feel your pulse inside me, Morgan. Feel our heartbeats pounding? No, don't go! I need for this, for us, to last the night." 

 

 

3:12.

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