And to his credit, he had done a really good job of making sure that I was well-attended-to sexually, notwithstanding the whole spit thing. As long as I blocked that out of my mind, I was okay. So I just concentrated on the good parts.
I did some gentle pushing to clue him in on my wishes for us to readjust—you know how careful you have to be with men—and although he had already gotten into his groove, it wasn’t like he was heading for home yet, so we repositioned. And that’s what I mean about perspective and how sometimes a little spittle can come in handy.
So, here we were, I in my favorite doggie-style kneel; and he, pumping from behind with a renewed zest and ferocity that surprised both of us. Man, oh man! This was the life. No reason for silver-tongued, white love-lies. No reason for time-wasting pretenses at courteous caresses. THIS was what sex was meant to be: thunder boomers and bolts of lightning.
This old man was shocking me with his stamina; he went on so long that I lost all thought of complaint for myself and my tortured little kitten. I was afraid for him. Like, can’t people go into cardiac arrest or something from that kind of exertion and stress on the heart? Or what about a stroke from the sudden and sustained elevation in blood pressure? It was too late now, though to think about the liability and the possible manslaughter suit his family might bring against me if this man died on my hands…or rather on my back.