There is a French idiom/euphemism for an orgasm that’s called La Petite Mort. It’s been interpreted to describe the post-orgasmic state of unconsciousness that some people experience after sexual activity. But you don’t need me to tell you that, because it’s widely known and I’m sure you’d have heard of it by now.
It’s a curious thing, really. Mort. Death.
I think I remember Remittance Girl talking about it at Eroticon. Something about experiencing a short and powerful “death” of the self as a separate individual at the height of pleasure.
I felt it. I feel it all again just thinking about last night.
It happened suddenly. From kissing to him on top of me. But it had been coming all day. Brief, playful bouts of flirtation and cuddling, saying “Oooh, you’re hard!” and all that.
And it lead to this.
It was fast and ferocious. *He* was fast and ferocious, jackhammering my pussy and fucking me absolutely senseless. For a moment, I thought I wouldn’t survive. That surely this amount of pleasure should be outlawed or at least bottled to sell on the mass market (because that shit would make millions, I tells ya) because OH MY GOD.
He didn’t show any sign of giving up. Again and again, we fucked, his moans becoming increasingly desperate and my breath more and more raspy. Until we finally had to call time.
I lay there afterwards, snuggled up in his arms, thinking about all the ways he kills me. All the ways he makes me live the little death.
And I’ve honestly never felt more alive.