She never thought about the sex when she was having it. She wasn’t thoughtless, either, that would be far too hard to pin down, far too hard to acknowledge. There were thoughts there, but they were never the right ones. At the time, they would occupy her mind with a sort of bewildered grace, arriving with a sort of flustered charm that by no means meant they were unwelcome, but their presence made little sense.
It wasn’t even the kind of mundane ‘I wonder if I left the gas on’ stereotype that seemed to pop up in stand up routines and sit com one liners. Instead it was a clinical curiosity about what was happening, an almost childlike wonder at the proceedings.
When is the orgasm going to start to build, so that I can actually feel it, notice it?
I wonder how hot he’s going to be when he comes.
My wrists hurt. The grip is a little too tight, but I kind of like it. Huh.
Observations that evoked an exterior mindset, as if she was watching what was happening, rather than experiencing it. It was frustrating, but never seemed too jarring in the moment. The thought would linger, hovering as if at the door, waiting for an excuse to leave, and then he’d suddenly lance forward, and her eyes would pop wide, and suddenly the thought would be expelled along with her gasp for air.
But the rhythm would settle, and his pace would slow ever so slightly; the ache of how he stretched her would become ever so slightly less noticable, and her mind would have a moment to yawn again, and another thought would drop unceremoniously into her mind.
Is there a stain on the bedsheets?
Is he going to refer to it as ‘my cunt’ again?
And, perhaps, the thought might run away with her, trigger a cascade of sensations that only complimented the ones that he was driving home into her. Or perhaps he’d wrest attention back without even realising that’s what he was doing, and she’d surrender to him all over again.