She could hardly breathe as the passion pulled her into its clutches, threatening to smother her. He was all around her, and there was nowhere she could go to get away from him. Goddess, his flesh was so nice. They moved together on a wave of pleasure, and he whispered in her ear in that soft Japanese, encouraging her on. Her name fell repeatedly from his lips like a forbidden confession.
Lovemaking had always been sort of a do or die experience with her. When she slept with a man, it was always like she was telling herself, "Okay, Munroe, you've got to get yours before he gets his." Selfish lovers didn't allow such propensities. It never seemed to be about what she wanted. She never went into sex anymore with hopes of having an earth-shattering experience. Those fantasies were for oversexed virgins.
So, why was this fire swelling in her stomach, rolling along the plains her thighs, rendering her helpless? Her thighs trembled and her breath shortened. She pulled him closer, fingers sinking into his skin with a death vise. She remembered reading a novel where the orgasm was described as laughter between the legs.
Well, ha! Hahaha!
Author's Notes: That particular description of the orgasm can be found in Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye.