Stations of the Tide by Michael Swanwick

sides.
    “Yes.”
    “Good.” She put her hands at the base of his spine and abruptly raked them up his back. He arced involuntarily, sucking in air. She’d left stinging tracks up his skin. “You like that too, and it surprises you, doesn’t it? I learned that with Gregorian; he became a god and taught me how close pleasure and pain lie to each other.” She laughed at him. “But one lesson per evening—pull out of me and lie down, I have something to show you.”
    She guided him over on his side, gently lifted one of his knees, and lowered her head between his legs. Playfully she kissed the tip of his penis, slid her tongue down its stalk, teased his balls with her lips. “Down here, this soft spot midway between your scrotum and your anus.” She tickled it with her tongue. “Can you feel it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Ease your left hand down here—no, from behind, that’s good. Now push at the spot I just showed you with the tips of your forefinger and middle finger. A little harder. Just so.” She reared up on her knees. “Now I want you to breathe in deeply the way I do, not from the lungs but from the abdomen.” She demonstrated, and the bureaucrat smiled at the solemn beauty of her breasts in the pale moonlight. Gently but firmly she moved his hand away. “It’s your turn now. Sit up for this. Draw in deeply and slowly.”
    He obeyed.
    “From the stomach.”
    He tried again.
    “That’s the way.” She leaned back on her hands, put her legs about his waist, and drew him close. “This time I want you to pay attention to your body. When you feel ready to ejaculate—not when it’s already begun, but just before—reach back and push down on yourself as I showed you. At the same time breathe in deeply, slowly. It should take about four seconds.” She waved a hand back and forth slowly four times, counting out the beats. “Like that. You can slow down while you’re doing that, but don’t stop entirely, okay?”
    “If you say so,” the bureaucrat said dubiously.
    The tip of his cock was touching her. Undine steadied it, and slid forward, atop it. “Ahhh,” she said. Then, “You think it’s too easy, that if something so simple were as effective as I say, your mommy would have told you about it, eh? Well, whether you believe me or not is of no importance. As long as you do as I say, you can postpone ejaculation indefinitely.”
    He clasped her tightly, lay back beneath her. “I think—”
    “Don’t.”
    *   *   *
     
    He followed the exercise faithfully, listening to his body and stopping the ejaculation whenever it threatened. The moon rocked crazily through the window. Then an astonishing thing happened. Shortly after one of the near-ejaculations, he had an orgasm. The sensation took him, and he cried out, seizing Undine with all his strength, and felt the small taste of God wash through him. Then the orgasm was through, and he hadn’t come yet. He was still erect, and strangely clearheaded, preternaturally aware and alert.
    “What was that?” he asked in amazement.
    “Now you understand,” Undine said. “Orgasm is more than just a squirt of salt fluid.” She was moving atop him, like a ship in the swell before the storm, her eyes half-lidded, her mouth open slightly. She licked her lips, smiled almost jeeringly. Her hair and breasts were sweaty. “You haven’t mentioned Gregorian recently. Have you run out of questions?”
    “Just the opposite, I’m afraid.” He played with one breast, tracing circles about the areola, lightly tugging at the nipple with thumb and forefinger. “My questions multiply with each answer. I don’t understand why your mistress mistreated Gregorian so, why she tried to break him with pain. Surely that was counterproductive.”
    “With Gregorian it was,” she agreed. “But had it worked … There’s really no way to make you understand this without undergoing a similar experience. You’ll have to take my word for it. But when the goddess