The teeth on the lower lip, pink lip turning white from the pressure, eyes clenched shut, shoulders tensed, fingers gripping my right shoulder, fingers on her left hand clenched around the black throe that I've assured her will keep her from making a mess she'll regret, but she won't let go. Her red hair is crimson, dark, wet with sweat, plastered against her forehead glistening in the soft candlelight flickering from the night table. With my right hand sufficiently occupied, I run the fingers of my left through her hair, she nuzzles into my hand, finally letting up on her lower lip, allowing some of the color to return.


The noises that come from her are those of ecstasy, and I know that she's so very near the precipice, that all it will take is a willingness to throw herself over to the other side. To at last experience that which she craves. It's why she tasked me with this, in fact, because I'm good at it. A G-spot whisperer perhaps, should anyone be willing to take themselves so seriously as to call themselves such things. She called me that with a wink over coffee when she asked me for the favor.


"I heard you can," she said.


"I've been known to," I replied.


For me it's the chase, and why I don't generally get involved unless I see the willingness to make the run with me. Some women are so ghastly afraid of their own bodies that there's no way I'd ever be able to coax even the tiniest squeak out of them, let alone the rushing waters of the G-spot orgasm. And now, I run my thumb across her lips, which part again and suck for a moment, then bite.


I'm lost in it with her, the pain and the pleasure, the rising and falling, the heaving of her chest as the first two fingers on my right hand firmly nuzzle just inside her beautiful pussy. It's coming, I know, the breathing quickening, the wild look in her eyes as she experiences something she hasn't before. It's coming; all she has to do is allow herself to fall, to give over to it.


"Become a part of the wave," I whisper to her. My lips now against her ear, my forearm pressed to her stomach, palm resting on a small tuft of curly red hair, fingers doing their finest act within. "Feel it as it gathers, growing and growing as it nears the shore, rising up, higher and higher, cresting..."


I quicken my pace and her breathing follows. With many I will employ a bullet or other vibrator on the clit to accent and amplify what I'm doing below, but my redheaded beauty deserves something more pure. I've seen enough in my time, assisted these women to greatness and glory, to the realization of a power that came from within, the acceptance and rise to their very own form of ecstasy.


For us men, it's so simple, we often accidentally stumble upon it, but so many women, even with a road map, won't allow themselves to fully realize their potential. My wife talked about fear, fear of making a spectacle of herself, fear of being loud, fear of soaking the bed and the mattress and the floor with her amazing orgasm. The woman next door told me that she'd accompanied a lot of young men in almost talking herself out of the ability to orgasm but repressing the expression of it as a young person. When you spend too much time suppressing the wave, it's sometimes quite hard to re-conjure.


As the wave builds inside the redhead who asked my wife's permission to request this favor, I see the potential; I can see the flow, the building and building, the deepening of the draw, pulling more and more energy into it. She begins to buck her hips over the wedge I slid under her, grinding herself against my hand, but my fingers never lose their spot. The heavenly cluster of nerves that Dr. Gräfenberg first stood up and said "hey, this here is interesting" despite all the opposition which still stands against it.


The French called it la petite mort, and as I've seen many little deaths in my time, and I can say one thing with absolute certainty in this world of confusion and lies. Yes Virginia, there IS a G-spot.


I tell her it's time. I see the wave, desperate to come crashing down. She squeezes my left hand, so hard it also turns white, her jaw is clenched, her emerald eyes locked to mine, there's fear there, that same unnecessary fear of judgment that so many women feel when simply trying to cash in a gift given to them by their creator. The flipside of the pain of childbirth is the ecstasy of the orgasm.


"I can't!  It's not gonna happen," she tells me between gasped breaths.


I give her a warm smile, lean down and kiss her stomach. "The wave has built," I whisper, "it's ready to release and wash over the shore, take a deep breath and give--"


But I don't need to finish as the moan escapes her lips and her eyes roll back and la petite mort overtakes her. I continue my rubbing within, as now it's about extension as wave after wave of warm ejaculate rushes past my hand and onto the black throe beneath her. Her eyes open again as she continues to come, bucking against me, and I see elation as she flows. It's happened too for her, this piece of the puzzle, for once you've been to the mountain top it's that much easier to reach next time.


When the flow has ended, I again lean myself down, this time kissing her forehead, warm with sweat and intense concentration, and she has never looked more alluring. Looking up at me, a laugh escapes her lips, she releases my hand and pushes her hair out of her eyes. Another small laugh, disbelief, perhaps, relief, certainly, maybe even something more spiritual, as she's owned her destiny, her ability, her newfound talent.

 

She won't need me again, I know, as she's now slipped the surly bonds of Earth and touched the face of God.