An Orgasm. Or any feeling that is similar to tripping out on drugs.
Now, suddenly, he is lodged against your clitoris, pinning it to the wall, as it were; flattening it against the wall, where he polishes it repeatedly, like an old Greek grocer polishing an eggplant, like Aladdin summoning a reluctant genie; polishes it until you can feel it shine, feel it lighting up your vagina like a Broadway Show. Ta-Da! Down the aisle trots the white pony, proud and frisky. With a swish of its mane, it bounds down through the orchestra pit, leaps over the footlights, and lands center stage with a mighty whinny, hooves pawing the boards, mouth foaming, nostrils flaring, eyes popping on and off as if bulbs in a strobe. It brings down the house. And when he showers you with a hot tsunami of liquid white roses, it stands on its head for an encore.