This time of the year just before the sun goes down, the light is nothing less than sublime. It is not just a shame but a sin to waste it. In celebration of such wondrous light, I take Amanda to bed. I bury my face between her legs and worship her sex. Nothing could be more wonderful than the scent and feel and taste and textures of her cunt and its juices. I devour her. I luxuriate in the slurp and squeak of my tongue fucking her lubricious fuck hole, of her sighs and moans and cries as her excitement grows, of her fingers tangled in my hair, of her hands holding, guiding, pressing my head, of her trembling thighs, and of her spasms when she achieves her peak and, in a sharp, sudden surge, avalanches into the abyss of orgasm. I can only imagine her face as climax takes her, overwhelms her. Later, reflecting on our love, I consider the possibility that should her eyes be open during the course of my devotion, she could observe the progress of her ecstasy in the mirror atop her dresser, and I further muse that maybe someday I will mount a camera there, so that some time afterward, we can watch together, holding hands, a bowl of popcorn on her lap. In truth our lovemaking invariably outlasts the light, for I take care to tongue her to at least half a dozen orgasms before we fall into a full embrace. Then, once I’m in her, she comes almost continuously. Her breathless moans provide counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of our skin. Her little belly clenches and bucks with every second or third thrust. The thirsty hollow of her hot little asshole holds my finger tighter than bark grips its tree. The beauty and bounty of her seizures is almost too much to bear. Helplessly we fall into the final flood. Long later we surface, almost but not quite too tired to kiss. Sated, our kisses are nothing less than sublime.