Extasis

On a recent post, Anon in Paris left a comment:

I'm a top and religious paintings of mystical extasis often remind me of the facial expressions of guys with my cock inside them.

Before I get into all that, though, I have to tell you that I imagine Anon in Paris as a successful avocat who early every afternoon leaves his office and repairs to a small cafe in the Marais, where he drinks strong coffee and smokes Gitanes Brunes until a sufficiently attractive young man passes by. At that point, AiP gives a small nod and heads back to his office, with the young man following a few steps behind. AiP then sits in his large, comfortable, leather chair at his large, orderly, oak desk. The young man kneels at his feet, unzips AiP's trousers, frees AiP's sizeable cock, and begins going down on it. At this point, AiP summons his efficient and unflappable secretary, who sits on the other side of the desk and takes dictation for an hour. The young man continues to ministrate to AiP's substantial endowment as AiP spends another hour returning phone calls. Then Yves, AiP's partner, comes in with his camera and spends the next hour adjusting the blinds (because the light is so important) and taking photographs as AiP lets his trousers fall, lights another Gitanes, puts the young man on his back on the desk, and fucks him until he (the young man) sees God. The young man returns to the streets, Yves returns to his atelier to begin a long night of painting, and AiP returns more calls, occasionally, perhaps, pausing between calls to wonder what it is like to be a bottom who sees God.


It occurs to me that religious ecstasy is a relatively rare phenomenon that occurs almost exclusively at times and in places where no painter is there to witness it. Consequently, one supposes that the expressions are copied from faces the painter has seen in ecstasy of another genesis, the most likely candidates being sex and chocolate. The elements of ecstasy -- awe of and submission to a wonderful but overwhelming sensation -- are present with both, and reasonable people can differ as to whether sex or chocolate is more effective at achieving the desired state. I have, of course, personally witnessed my share, and, in general, I would say that the expressions of men upon whose nipples I'm biting or who are sitting on my cock are somewhat more intense than those of men who are eating my chocolate mousse, but the difference is only a matter of degree and sometimes not all that great a matter of degree. Of course, my chocolate mousse is very, very good.


I suspect that the most ecstatic expressions arise at the moment when, my hands having carefully parted his cheeks, my tongue makes contact with a bottom's asshole. It has long been a source of frustration to me that I can't witness this expression, but neither b&c nor I have sufficiently little taste to allow the other to line the bedroom walls or ceiling with mirrors. Besides, a clean, rimmable ass is something to approach with great reverence, so that my eyes always close at the moment of contact. I suppose I could solve the problem by making video recordings of my encounters, but I worry about whether I would need to have signed waivers. (I would ask AiP, but I assume that the French intellectual property laws are not similar to our own. Quelle dommage.)


Anyway, the comment was still fresh in my mind Sunday when I got a text message from Judd (aka Client #2 from this post). I'd given him a couple of massages, and I'd meant to give him a massage last Thursday, but I returned home from Annapolis very late, and he hadn't returned my message. His text said that he was sorry but that he'd fallen asleep. Since he was apologizing two days after the fact and since I happened to know that he was leaving the area the next day to return to Florida to seek a teaching credential, I assumed that implied in the apology was an inquiry as to whether I had the time and inclination to give him a massage that day. Judd is young, tall, cute, and not overly burdened by intellect, so I was indeed so inclined, and we quickly set something up.


I started Judd off with the standard massage, exerting somewhat more pressure on his back than usual, perhaps. In past massages, he had responded enthusiastically and with great volume to anal/prostate massage, so I decided to sacrifice something of my own pleasure by using a dildo on him. The most intimate moments of a massage are when you can feel a man's pulse through his prostate and when he cums (and, if you work it right, you can have both at once), and using a dildo in place of fingers transmutes some of the energy from a non-sexual to a sexual nature. So while when Judd was writhing on the table and moaning loudly, I felt not as in touch as usual, I did get a full-on woody, and that almost never happens during massage.

Judd is not, at first, able to succumb fully to the overwhelming pleasure of assplay, and he attempts to mitigate the sensation by playing with my junk. Consequently, I usually massage him in boxers, but I'd forgotten to take off my shorts this time, so while he was writhing, he was also undoing my zipper and reaching in to play with me. I find this practice misguided, but it feels good, so I let it slide.


In any case, I worked him with the dildo for ten minutes or so, then I had him flip over and massaged his face, arms, torso and legs some before returning to his nipples and his cock. He was pretty worked up, and he got more worked up when I pushed the dildo back into him. I positioned the dildo so that he could move up and down on it and began stroking his cock with one hand while the other worked on his nips. His body continued to become more agitated, and his face, well, I reckon he was seeing God. When it all seemed to be getting to be more than he could handle, I left off playing with his nipples, took his cock in my right hand, and used the left hand to push the dildo harder in and out of his ass. His agitation increased, and the ecstatic expression alternated with something more tortured, but he soon shouted and came, drops of ejaculate spraying all over his stomach.

And then he was again at peace. I wiped him up and began to work his shoulders again, and his face dissolved into the blank but beatific expression of children napping in kindergarten, which -- who knows? -- he may be teaching in another year or so.