She takes a long time to get to her climax. She told me that, weeks before we first met. These exchanges of words at a distance were our awkward foreplay. "And I don't get very wet," she'd said. On that count, I was to discover, she was mistaken.

Orgasm isn't everything, of course. Yes, I know "It's the journey, not the destination." I've even declared that myself, more than once. I even believe it. Most of the time, anyway.

Still, I have to admit there is something very special about bringing your lover to her orgasm. It's flat out personally arousing to witness her excitement climb to that mountaintop, to get this librarian out of her modest blue dress and her housewife underwear, sprawled naked on her back with her legs open wide for me, her inhibitions discarded piecemeal on the path from the hotel room door to the bed. I craved hearing her, feeling her writhe above or under my body, watching her lose control of her normally tightly wrapped demeanor for those few seconds of exquisite irrationality.

It's also an ego stroke for me. My stiff flesh is stirring her body and she's climaxing because of that, climaxing because I'm hitting all the right spots for the right amount of time, driving her, stretching her soft insides in all the right ways. Fucking her in a way that's at least as satisfying to her as the way her husband does it.

The first time we encountered each other in person, she didn't climax until the third time I was inside her, the Morning After. The previous evening we'd made love for three hours. The first time we made love, I lingered more than an hour before I finally slipped inside her with something more than my fingers or my tongue. An hour of kisses and caresses, of licks and nibbles. We had undressed without hesitation. We were eager to get horizontal and to discover the realities of warm skin against warm skin.

Did I not loiter long enough on her firm, compact breasts capped by those small pink nipples? Or did my mouth play too insistently between her pale thighs, dividing her surprisingly lush thatch of pubic hair with my nose to inhale her unique scent? Did I slash too roughly at her pale red labia and twig of a clitoris with its deep red head peeking out? Perhaps she was just too nervous and it wasn't going to happen, no matter what I did or what she did. By the time I finally inched up inside her silky sheath and took my pleasure there, I was clearly closer to my mountaintop than she was to hers.

How does that cliche go? The average man reaches orgasm after six minutes of intercourse. The average woman needs eleven minutes. It's the Primal Gender Gap.

I was hopeful that she excused me when I didn't wait for her. Or I couldn't wait, which is closer to the truth. After a solid hour of foreplay, it would be too much to expect that I could hold off my orgasm for additional hour once I was inside her. Her vagina called to me, beckoning my cockhead to cross her heavenly portal and to take the measure of her. Her sweet embrace spoke to me with smooth slickness, with tender clenching nibbles at the entrance and a subtle widening bloom of her arousal as I pressed ever further inward. She lifted her knees up and kept her hips swaying from side to side and my cock got deep, oh so blissfully deep, and that was that. For me, anyway, if not for her.

She never did tell me how my erection compared to her husband's. When you're bigger, they usually tell you, sometimes with her eyes or her hands during your first encounter. Or afterwards, in the contemplative lull of intertwined limbs, both heads resting on crisp white pillowcases. Or, best of all, when you're inside her and some new sensation, some unexpected stretching or pressure or high-up nudging makes it clear to her your different size or shape. She moans her pleasured discovery into your ear, and your competitive masculinity redoubles your desire to bury your fine cock even more purposefully. But most women say nothing.

Yes, it's an ego thing. It's the universal male insecurity. Maybe silence means it doesn't matter. I can only hope.

I may or may not have been bigger, but she did tell me that I ejaculated more fluid. Score one on the Primal Ego Scale for that. Several days of buildup and the hour of foreplay no doubt produced a goodly volume of semen. I remember how wide her blue eyes were when I was coming, spurt after gloriously throbbing spurt. She had to have felt the pulses at the base of my shaft. I was buried inside her far enough for that. Could she also perceive the spreading warmth of my liquid offering? I know it oozed out of her the rest of the night. She had given herself to me, and she was mine.

We managed a second time that first night. The foreplay was quicker, the intercourse was a bit longer, her vagina was slicker, my erection less rigidly firm. My orgasm was less intense and hers was again missing in action. "I love to feel you come," she whispered to me as I remained inside her with my shaft doing its final irregular twitches, my body pressed against hers, her arms wrapped around my shoulders and holding me tight.

"What do you love about it?" I whispered back to her ear.

"That my body excites you," she said. Her hips push upward to mine. "You get extra stiff at the end. Inside me. You get frantic to get deeper."

"I know," I said. "I am."

"And then you release. And the sensations of your warmth filling me. You flood me." I lift my head up and look at her face, and see she's looking at me. "Your come spreading out inside me. It makes me feel... powerful."

"Powerful?"

"Yes," she said. "You know the cliche, that the man is 'taking' the woman." She smiles. "I see it as me taking a part of you. Capturing you."

That night I slept solidly for the first time in a month.

She did climax the next morning, although it wasn't obvious to me at the time. She was on top, at first sitting upright and skewering herself on me, but toward the end she just lay down against my chest, brushed her small pink nipples back and forth in my furry chest hair and purred. She seemed content to have barely more than half my cock inside her while she lightly rubbed herself against my pubic bone, her face tucked under my chin against my neck, signaling me by her pleasured gasps that she liked my forefinger playing with her anus. It must have been a small orgasm, though she told me afterwards that it was a real one.

She isn't a screamer. She'd told me that beforehand, also.

The second time she climaxed was the second morning, when she masturbated for me. She did that in her shy way that I'd seen in a video she had emailed to me. She lay on her stomach beside me and straddled a pillow, face against the mattress, her eyes closed, and applied the muffled pressure of her hand while her hips gently rocked. I couldn't see exactly what she was doing. I caressed her ass cheeks and her long back and her shoulders with its dusting of pink freckles, and I whispered sweet nothings to her and gave her butterfly kisses and tried to not distract her. By herself she took ten minutes to get there. Just a small acceleration of her breathing, a few quiet gasps, a subtle stiffened arching of her back. Her anus winked at me. I was happy.

Many months passed before we saw each other again. On this second occasion we were both more relaxed. More comfortable with each other as real life people, not strangers suddenly intimate. As friends. As Same Time Next Year lovers.

We made love twice that first night, each time longer than any in the past. I reacquainted myself with her soft smile and even softer hair. The red spots on the bridge of her nose hinted at the eyeglasses that she'd worn on her long drive, only to be vainly tucked away in her purse before arriving at my hotel room door. I kissed her, licked her, tongued her, nibbled her, sucked her until her musky scent had penetrated my pores and her juices were smeared across half my face. Savored her until her pussylips were fat and inflamed red, her luxuriant red-brown pubic hair was slickered flat, and her clit was bored with being stiff and her sweet, flowing vagina was twice past ready. By then my cock was high and hard, and I was desperate to reacquaint myself with the rest of her intimacies that she blessedly shared with me.

I fucked her for me. On her back with her short legs straightened, my hips between her embracing thighs and then outside of her legs pressed together. With her knees low and my cock scrubbing against her clit, and her hips doing that matching slow dance with mine. Then with her knees bent and pulled high, tucked up against the sides of my barrel chest and held there by my elbows, and my cock saying hello to her cervix. On her side. On her tummy, her legs almost together, my shaft rudely finding her juicy clutch due south of her winking anus. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted her to feel fucked.

I took my pleasure in her, and she gifted her body and her soul to me for that brief time we were connected. I decided that I wasn't going to worry about her orgasm any more than she was worried about it, and she didn't seem all that worried. Both times before I came, I rolled her onto her back and gave her fair warning. I captured her in my arms, wrapped so tightly around her that I was afraid I might hurt her, and I plowed into her with full, deliberate strokes. I fucked her with a joyous acceleration of raw, sensual, erotic lust. I wanted her. I wanted to propel her, to propel me.

She had told me she loved being held, having her arms and legs restrained, and just being fucked and not having to make any decisions about how to move. This time she just whispered encouragements. "That's it," she murmured, "That's it. Do it. Don't stop."

But mostly I just wanted to come. I wanted to take her, to have her absorb my desire, to fuck her like the fuckable woman she was, to fill her with my male flesh and my male fluid. To own her, to show her how much she aroused me. I wanted to ejaculate into that silky embrace of between her legs, that marvel that she was so convinced didn't produce enough welcoming slickness, that hugging vagina she was so concerned was 10 years and two babies beyond snug. I held her tight in my arms and gave her the feel of my larger body, gave her all of my cock, all of my male hardness and strength, again and again and again.

We breathed together, we gasped and we moaned together. Her curly auburn hair was sweat-plastered to her forehead and a tangled mess on the pillow. I kept easing forward to kiss her as I stroked into her, to have that wet, busy connection of our mouths mimic what was happening between her legs. Open, with shared tongues.

But at the end I wanted her to see my face, and I wanted to see hers. I raised myself on outstretched arms and we just watched each other's face. Hers glowed with a lusty blush and her eyes glistened and her mouth formed that O of liberated pleasure, that take me love me hold me fuck me oh God oh yes final straining pressure push that explodes in the glory of a release, with my sticky pulsing There There There spurts that I hoped to God she could feel and know was for her and because of her.

I wondered what it would feel like to come in her mouth, though that would have been a clear second best. I wanted instead to have my flesh buried inside her body. I needed to be there. Coming in her mouth would have been a salacious pleasure. Coming inside her was pleasure for the soul.

Our two mergings of the evening were followed by gentle lovemaking in the morning. Slower this time. Less frantic. More feel me, touch me, love me, remember me, cherish me, cherish us. I did. We did. "I don't want to come yet," I told her more than once as I slowed my pace.

"Come for me," she eventually implored, "Please come." And I did, of course, and even though we both knew she wasn't near her climax, she matched the pitch of my breathless gasps and undulated her hips beneath me and joined my pleasure, magnifying the intensity of my release. "Yes," she drove me onward, "Yes, yes, yes."

And in the afternoon, we had a blessed few hours before the clock conspired to separate us. She opened her legs to me for one more time of unhurried joy. Now it was for her. Directed by her whispers, of "lower" and "more" and "just like that" and "don't stop." My mouth avoided direct hits on her sensitive clit and tried to find that perfect steady soft rhythm of tongue that goes on forever until forever arrives. Twice she rose to Almost, only to sink back down and give me that much more delight in the giving. And then the third was the breakthrough, with the final rapid breaths and her arching back oh there oh yes oh there and her soft squeaks and shudders.

She left a six inch wet spot on the bedsheet.

Finally, I mounted her for one last farewell, a last rhythmic stroking caress of her velvety sheath with my cock that just wanted to reach inside her for one more time, to touch her deepest private place and to leave that liquid reminder of my masculine presence. I wanted to add to the wet spot on the bed, to show her how much she pleased me. I brushed my chest across hers, grazed moist skin against moist skin, my hips now dancing with hers.

"Feel me," I murmured into her ear, cheek against cheek. We were friends. We were lovers. With a plunging drive, my knees dug into the mattress and I buried myself, and I surrendered to heaven.

"Give it to me," she whispered in my ear. "Give me your heat. Give me your come." Her fingernails dug into my back as I pulsed my seed, again and again, releasing my gift into her welcoming acceptance. Two days later her short email arrived in my inbox. "I felt you leaking out of me on my drive home," she had written. "Thank you."