He’s Cumming

I turn around because he’s stopped fucking me because he came. Not in a big way, like I do, which is always some big, screaming, wall punching, tear shedding production, but in a small way. In a quiet way. There’s silence in the room as he lies down next to me. We’re shrouded in silence, like the not a peep small grunt he made when he came. I don’t know what to say, mostly because when I cum, there’s this sensation of exhilaration or exuberance that accompanies my total sexual release. I smile when I cum. I laugh when I cum. My orgasm is a celebration. But him? He’s just lying there with his eyes closed, and instead of a wave of pleasure that most people get pulled under when they orgasm, there’s something strange about him right now. There’s┬ásomething strange about this scene. There’s something unbearable about the fact that there is sadness wafting around us right now. Like a piece of him is gone. Like he has lost part of himself to fucking me. Like he feels badly about what we just did. He has a look on his face like a child who has been caught doing something bad, but it was an accident. Like a child who is about to cry out, “Mommy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spill the milk and make a mess! It’s so messy now, I’m so dirty. I’m so sorry.” Like he has done something bad, and I am going to be angry if we say anything at all to break this sullen silence.

He falls asleep shortly thereafter, and I continue to lie there, slightly stunned by the weight of the self loathing that burst out when he came. I am covered in him and the disappointment of his orgasm while he sleeps there like nothing awful has just happened.