The Weekly Mindfuck: Sex Flush

I've only encountered sex flush once. I had no idea what it was at the time—I'd been with this partner before, but only in the dark, the moon streaming in through the curtain only enough to illuminate a distorted silhouette. This time, my lights and lamps and the fading daylight outside threw the entire room in a yellow tinged with oranges and reds, the color so saturated it made my eyes water. He pulled his shirt over his head after we'd started kissing, his cock already in my hands through the front of his boxers. He was rock hard, and a creeping crimson red was sneaking up his chest in blotches that almost undulated.

I gently stopped him—what are these? He looked down at his own chest as his torso floated over mine, laughing as he looked at the red now moving over the tops of his shoulders. I'm not sure. It happens when I'm turned on. I found this uniquely amusing—almost like the blood that had just rushed to his pants had surged up his stomach and across his chest like a blush-colored Chinese fan. I traced my fingers over the spots, his eyes nearly glittering, his upper body perfectly still though his breath was ragged. I followed them up to his neck and kissed them. They were warm, but I suppose the rest of him was too. Heat is funny that way.

I couldn't tell if the flush made him look like he'd been out running in the cold or sweating in the heat, but I loved it. That night, his body wore excitement like Christmas morning, a prickling and uninhibited vigor that faded very slowly with the sun. 

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