The sexual is spiritual

It had been 6 weeks since I'd felt him moving inside me, and as always, that first time it was difficult to fit him in. Even kneeling astride, juicy with longing, my weight pressing down, I struggled to fit him in. A few inches and I wanted to start moving, to rock on his cock, but he likes to savor the feeling of being fully engulfed. So I worked myself down on him, feeling him stretching me open, feeling the upward glide of his heat. I stopped and moaned. "Almost," he said, and turned himself into a bow, his body arching, pressing the arrowhead of his cock deeper. I gasped, winced a little, my body stiffening. I love the place we were approaching, but getting there is not without discomfort. "Almost," he said again, and we pressed against each other and I tilted my hips a fraction and then, ah then, I felt like swooning. "There!" he said, and smiled up at me, and his eyes glowed. "You can feel that?" I asked him, as I ground myself against him, as I ground that spot inside me against the head of his cock. "How can you tell?" I wondered in awe. How could he tell that where he was, right there, gave me so much pleasure that my nipples tightened and my entire being felt like it was balancing on the point of orgasm. "It fits like lock and key," he answered. I smiled, knowing the analogy to be an apt one. We stayed that way for a full minute, at least, and I worked my muscles around him, and he purred with pleasure, and then I started moving, posting on him, up and down, the thickness of him charging through me, forcing me open again and again. I came, hit an orgasmic plateau, and rocked with a series of orgasms that hit in waves, one after another. My body tingled, I felt light-headed, the way I would after a fit of sneezes, and I rode him still, sliding the key home in its lock, over and over again, until my throat was raw from my cries and I was swaying atop him, all equilibrium gone. I slid off him and sprawled on the bed, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling. "Water, please," I whispered, and he got up and brought me a glass of blessedly cool water and helped me hold it to my mouth. He put the glass aside and got back into bed. "Mmmm... thank you," I purred and moved to snuggle up to him. "I'm not finished yet," he said, and fit himself between my thighs. I said hello to the gibbous moon on my way to the stars. Our heavenly bodies moved together, slowly at first as he gave me time to adjust to the different angle of penetration, then faster and harder, until his sweat fell on me like divine rain. Little sounds and changes in breath, harbingers of male orgasm, alerted me, and I worked my muscles around him, clenching and releasing, worshipping the divine spark in him, intent on maximizing his pleasure. We kissed as he climaxed, and it tasted of salt, and he pulsed inside me, and moaned incoherently, his sounds a benediction, his seed a sacred gift. Love was the afterglow, spreading through me even as he continued to gasp and twitch on me and in me. Tears pricked my eyes. I was reminded that beyond the urgency of orgasm, sex grants access to the sacred. Love is sacrosanct in all its forms of expression, and the sexual, in particular, can be deeply spiritual.