Donald parted Sarah like the Red Sea. Every place he touched seemed to ripple open the universe of everything she had perceived and dreamed of up to that point, opening all the way to the center, where her Self stood, and through her Self to some place where they were both the same.
"God," she said, she answered. She'd been fucked better, longer, stronger, and some men had an amazing ability and eagerness to send her body into ecstatic orgasms, but no one had touched her the way Donald had, like she was a new thing, like she was a river and every time he stepped in she was fresh water he had never felt before and never would again. He touched her the way the sun would, or wind, and his touch reminded her that she was going to the ocean. Every other man touched her like she was water in a glass; their touch said, "Mine."