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This is the way it has, and always will happen, Doctor.
You'll kiss me softly as I enter the room, softer as I enter you. Yet I will not kiss you back--and you will look up at me, in that pitiful way you do, your hands in their usual place, splayed over my chest.
As before, I'll take your hands and pin them down, and fuck you. Slowly. Slower than you want, but it's the pace *I* want, Doctor. I want to learn this body of yours thoroughly; inside, outside. To see if your mouth still falls open when I roll my hips just like *that*. To see whether your eyes will unfocus--and then, close--when you can't hold back a sigh.
And then? I'll stop. Oh, I'll tease you--brush my lips against yours, taunt you with that kiss you want so much, stay still for so long you wrap your legs around me and push up, desperate to be fucked.
At this point, you will call out my name. Really, Doctor, do you think it will be that easy? Do you seriously think I'll fall for that? I have to laugh. It's flattering, and highly amusing, but not what stupendous orgasms are made of. No. That'll only get me to trace a finger down your cock, tap the sticky tip, perhaps. Maybe I'll speed up just a little, just so you'll moan louder.
You see, Doctor, you're going to *mean* it. Whisper it, beg it, scream it; until your throat is raw, until the syllables will stumble over each other, trip up with each one of my thrusts. Now that's more like it--that's the sound of a man who knows he's beaten.
Maybe, maybe then I'll lick my palm and roll it over the tip of your cock. Yes, of course I'll hold you down. My pace, remember? I'll hold your cock lightly, so you can barely feel my hand. This is where you promise me anything. Anything just to let you come, and we both know that's not what you really mean.
You always were a bad liar, Doctor. Especially when you wanted something so bad you were shaking. When you knew it was something only I could give.
In comparison, orgasms are irrelevant. Oh, it's not as if it isn't a great pleasure to have you shouting in my mouth when I finally kiss you, when you shoot come through my fingers (that's a nice four-beat ejaculation, I must say). The real climax, of course, is when you unfurl the barriers of your mind. This is the most honest form of praise, knowing everything first hand: how much you love it when I curl my tongue around yours, how your belly trembles as I rub come onto it, how fucking fantastic my cock feels when I'm balls-deep inside you.
And when you let me deeper into your head--I'll rifle through your memories, shuffle up the index cards, rip out pages, doodle in the margins. There will not be a single thought left in your head, past, present or future, that I haven't left my mark on. There, where you parted a companion's legs--notice how I have cut my name on their thigh? And over here--saving yet another world? Well done, but you'll still hear my laughter from where I rule the world in hiding. Everything you build, everything you destroy, you'll know I'll be there, observing, always looking over your shoulder.
And right here? At the centre of your mind, where I've been from the beginning? Where you are as hungry as you have ever been, where you always need more (just like me, so much like me)?
That's where I'll stay. I've spread pain from memory to memory, ownership from thought to thought, mastered you from century to century, and I smile.
That, Doctor, *that* is what truly stupendous orgasms are made of.