“Yeah, yeah, that might be okay,” I say, because really, what else can I do? His mouth does feel completely amazing. Everything feels completely amazing—to the point where I know that thing is happening to me again. The one where I forget to be polite and restrained about any of this, and find myself falling down a big black hole of messy, greedy kissing and hands all over him and oh, God, oh, God, I think I just squeezed his butt again. No, no, I definitely just squeezed his butt, because he jerks against me, and his mouth loses a little of its previous rhythm. He gets a little sloppy for a second.
Which is absolutely all right with me.
It means he does all kinds of electrifying things—like actually sort of licking at my lower lip in this unbelievably dirty sort of way. A sound comes with it all hot and open, and the whole thing reminds me of other things he licked and so honestly, is it any wonder that I go a little nuts? Anyone would under these circumstances.
Anyone would probably try to climb him.
I just wish maybe I had gone about it with a bit more dignity. My leg seems to want to go first, and so somehow ends up hooked around his upper thigh. Most of his overalls come off his right shoulder, because I have a fistful of the back of it and appear to be pulling that hard. And though I try to keep my kissing to an acceptable level, I know it is veering wildly out of control. I know and am helpless to do anything about it.
I just have to watch myself from a distance, as I try to eat his face alive.
And not even just that, either. Not even just climbing and just really intense kissing and just butt-grabbing. I am also doing something I’m barely aware of, until he pulls me up on it. I feel his hands go to my waist, and he pushes just a little too firmly—at which point I realize. As soon as there is air between our bodies, I understand. I feel the loss of it.
I was rubbing myself against him.
I wasn’t just clambering, I was rubbing.
And rubbing is just a little too far.
“Oh, Christ, easy, baby, easy—calm down, okay, just calm down. We got all the time in the world,” he says, so breathless, most of his words sort of run together. They fall all over one another. Plus there’s the fact that he has to actively turn his face away from mine to get them out—yeah, that should just about put me down. Here is definitely a good reason to let embarrassment lead the way.
Yet the weirdest thing happens instead.
I wait for it. I wait. I wait for it to take over all the other instincts surging through my body, but after thirty seconds, desire is still the boss of me. I can feel myself fighting his grip. He has to lean away from my searching mouth, but I continue to hardly care.
Why else would I say what I do?
“I don’t want all the time in the world. I want you inside me,” I tell him, without the barest hint of shame or second-guessing. No slight flash of my father’s belt on the back of my legs for staring at the neighbor boy. No sense of creeping around my own lustful feelings, like a pervert in a nunnery.
Not even when he answers me.
“Fuck, no, not yet, not yet. You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says.
But he is wrong. Of course he must be wrong. Why else would it excite me when I feel what I feel against my belly? At first I think it might be just a weird man-muscle that I have no experience with, or maybe a roll of quarters in his pocket. But then as I continue to squirm, it dawns on me. I think it dawns on him, too—and especially when I rub against that stiff shape on purpose. I feel it pressing into me all firm and good, and I just move without meaning to, sort of too slow and much too suggestive.
After which, his expression definitely changes. No one could miss it. All the muscles run right out of his face, and his breathing gets very big. Very big and very slow, like an engine powering up and down at the same time. It makes me think he might be enjoying whatever I’m doing, though I have to check for sure.
“Does that feel good?”
“It feels like you’re fucking horny as fuck. I never been with a girl this eager, and honestly that on its own is enough to make me just want to—”
I like that he stops himself.
But I hate it at the same time.
“Just want to what?” I ask, almost on tiptoes for the next bit. Mostly because I know the next bit is probably not coming. I can see him kind of tearing at himself. That hand is still hovering close to my hip. In a second he will probably take a step back, I know he will, and yet it’s so disappointing when he actually does. I’ve pretty much reached my limit on pushing for stuff. It surprises me that I got this far.
And now I’m not going to go any further. I have to just swallow all of these maddening feelings somehow. Maybe put ice on my belly where the imprint of him is still burning. Think about ugly things instead of horny ones, take a freezing-cold shower when he isn’t looking.
Or so it seems, until he breaks.
God, how he breaks.
“Get on the bed. Get on the bed, all right?” he says, like those words were a breath he was holding deep down inside him, and now he just has to let it burst out. Then when I hesitate, he gestures. He jerks his head in that direction, in a way that reminds me of prison guards getting inmates to do what they want. It has this rough edge to it that I am completely unprepared for.
Oh, I realize now that I am not prepared.
And certainly not for the words I get after I comply.
“Now take your panties off.”
“You want me to—”
“Yeah, I want you to.”
“Okay,” I say, but only because my mouth refuses to do anything more. Whole sentences rise up my throat, then fumble at the final hurdle because seriously, does he truly want me to do that? It seems as if he should not, and yet his expression is as still and straightforward as I’ve ever seen it. He just watches and waits for me to do it in this almost impatient sort of manner, even though he has to know how much it makes me fumble. It suddenly feels as though I have seventeen fingers on each hand. Somehow I am no longer able to operate a button or a zip, so it’s kind of a relief when he cuts in midwrestle.
“No, not the skirt, not the skirt—just those panties.”
Yeah, kind of a relief and kind of a thing that makes me shake.
Oh, God, I’m shaking so hard as I try to do what he instructs. Undressing seemed easy before, in the abstract. I thought I could do it no problems, but in practice and with him suddenly talking like this and acting like this, the whole thing is much harder. For a start, I have no idea if he wants me to keep my skirt on for weird reasons relating to things he doesn’t like to look at. And then there’s the elastic, fuck, the elastic on my underwear. I get it tangled, impossibly tangled. One side ends up down and the other ends up never moving, and the more I try, the more it resists.
By the time I get it to midthigh I’m sweating and so hot all over—and not just because of the effort. His stare is like a heat lamp on me. My skin is starting to sear under its glare. He seems so angry suddenly and so intense, and now that intensity is trained on me as I do something almost unbearably lewd. I am pulling down my panties. I am pulling them down and in a second he might get a glimpse of me there.
More than a glimpse, really. The whole thing feels so enormous he could hardly fail to see it—an idea that both mortifies and excites in equal measures. I think of him being the first one and almost moan, then imagine exactly what he will see with those burning eyes and want to faint. It just cannot be right to be as wet as I am. No one should ever be this slippery. Moving makes everything actually slide around, and when it does I can kind of hear it. Heck, I can feel it on the underwear I finally slip off.
Makes me want to hide them immediately, even though it’s already too late.
“Are you seriously that turned on?” he says, and it’s obvious why.
He saw. He has seen.
And now I have to admit it.
“I…I guess so. Yeah, maybe.”
“You get that wet for a kiss?”
&nb
sp; “It was kind of more than a kiss.”
“So what was it in particular?”
“Mostly that you…that you were all…”
“You should probably be able to say if you really want to do this. If you really feel ready for it. Are you sure you feel ready for it?” he asks, and then he does something that makes me want to say no and yes all at the same time. He puts a hand over himself, only not in a normal, innocent sort of place.
Over that thing I felt against my belly.
Over his cock, I think, his big, hard cock, and then I pretty much lose any sense I had left. How else to explain my reaction? I watch him palm that incredibly solid-looking length with one big hand and just start breathing really fast and fierce. I want to stay sitting because sitting suggests that maybe I would rather everything just stay as it is, but somehow I seem to be lying down. I think I need to lie down.
My muscles are too weak to hold me up. The reality of actually being fucked is meeting the far-off fantasy of asking for it, and they both seem to be fighting inside me.
Only fighting feels a lot like being really, really turned on. So turned on, in fact, that I think my high, hot breathing sounds a lot like moaning. It might even be—how can I know for sure when my body seems to be betraying me on all kinds of levels? One hand is on my breast, and it isn’t there to hide my stiff nipple. I think it might be there to rub at it, in this eager and agitated sort of way.
And then there is the nod.
The nod I give him, for that last question.
The one that makes him say words. Oh, God, his words.
“Spread your legs for me, then,” he murmurs, and the thing is—even that excites me. I hear his voice running low and thick like that, and warmth just blooms outward from my already overheated parts. I can actually feel myself getting wetter, even though my hope was definitely for something other than this.
I know that now. I realize I needed something sweet, but I suppose once you push a guy past a certain point, the best you can hope for is rough requests that arouse you anyway and lots of staring at your flushed and slippery sex.
Because he is staring. I can feel it almost as much as I can see it—though the latter I can at least shut off. I close my eyes the second I feel him lean toward me, then squeeze them tight shut for his hand on my thigh. I have to, because that hand is spreading me wider, getting me ready for something I will never be able to take. Not ever, not even slightly. I am not prepared; I do not know how to process.
And as it turns out, I am completely right about that.
I really don’t know how to process what he does.
I’m honestly not prepared for it.
I feel something unbearably hot and slick and soft against me there and almost punch through the wall behind me. In fact, I think the only thing that stops it happening are his hands on my hips. He has hold of me tightly—like maybe he knew this would happen. He knew I would jerk back and maybe also try to pull away, and would really prefer it if I stayed still.
So he can lick me again.
So he can lick my bare pussy.
Not even just bare, either, but completely spread open. If my legs were together and he just did it over the general area, I might be able to keep calm. But this is not that. This is him running his tongue right through all my little folds and curves and bumps, tasting every bit of wetness I know I’ve leaked everywhere. I know I have, but apparently he doesn’t care about that.
He just wants to keep going.
More than that, in fact—he wants to bury his face in me. He wants to revel in it—how else to explain the way he holds me and uses that greedy mouth and ohhhhh, God, the things he says. I want to cover my ears when he breaks away just long enough to tell me the things. I want to grow extra ears just to hear it more.
“So wet and soft and sensitive. Look how sensitive you are,” he murmurs, and then I die. I am dead. Someone please hold a funeral for my body. Of course I know that I am just as he describes, and I get that my reaction is really enormous, but hearing him say it is another level altogether. It makes a wave of heat roll through me. It forces my fists into tiny bunches. And though I want to be polite about this and not completely indecent, I know how hard I’m looking at everything he’s doing. I know my eyes are as big as moons, and that I’m kind of craning forward to get a better view.
But I just have to, okay?
What he’s doing is much too important to miss. It’s the kind of thing that happens to cool girls who wear massive sunglasses and sound French even though they’re not French at all. Not half-scared-and half-excited-out-of-their-minds girls who can barely look without gasping over the things they see. I might have one hand over my eyes, in fact—but could anyone really blame me? Everything just looks so slippery, and I get these flashes of his tongue, always curled to catch the best bits just right.
And the way he almost kind of kisses me there…
I had very little idea that men liked to kiss women between their legs like that. Up until I got to college I had no idea they even did it at all, let alone liked it so much. Sam said her last boyfriend was only interested in things going one way, and in that one terrifying-looking movie she has, it just all seems so mechanical.
Certainly nothing like this. Nothing like Serge.
He makes noises as he does it, just as he did when I rubbed my body against his. More than that, really, because then I wasn’t sure, but now I absolutely am. I can actually feel his moans. I can feel them vibrating against that stiff little bud—the one I have read about and understand completely but always thought was spoken of in wildly exaggerated terms.
Which I now learn I was pretty wrong about.
If by pretty wrong I mean oh my God, oh my God, someone get me an exorcist. I think my head spins around—and that’s just over the vibrations from a moan. He hasn’t really licked it or kissed or sucked that one little spot yet, and after a while I start to guess the reason why. I even get a little impatient before it clicks in my head, so electrically thrilled by the feel of his rumbling voice against me there that I can hardly wait.
And then I realize.
He’s building up to that part.
Christ Almighty, he’s building up to it. This is just the warm-up. The other stuff is coming, I can tell. It’s the reason he makes those circles with his tongue all over and around the outside bits, slowly working his way into the middle like my pussy is a Popsicle with a cherry-syrup center. And it’s why he eventually uses his fingers, too. He pulls away just long enough to rub two of them up and down between my lips, spreading everything even more in a way that makes me quiver.
And not just quiver in the abstract, as a shorthand for Oh my God, this is fucking amazing. I mean I actually see my thighs judder and jitter. The muscles in them no longer want to hold this position—though that turns out kind of okay. It means I lay them down on the bed, and everything opens even more for him. It means he glances up at me, and I get to see his eyes, his gorgeous eyes, now made even more gorgeous by the haze that covers the blue, and those heavy lids and the sheer heat punching through.
But best of all is what he says after he sees me.
“Yeah, you like that, right? Oh, man, look how much you like it. Such a fucking turn-on, seeing you shake like that and get all flushed and soooo wet. Fuck, you get wet over the slightest thing. Barely even touched your clit, and you’re creaming like I made you come.”
There are many things I want to say after this little speech. But of course I can’t get any of them out. My brain is still stuck on the first words he used, never mind the last fifty. Did he say creaming? I think he said creaming—a word that should be really gross but somehow seems to almost make me have an orgasm instead. He just says it, and this violent punch of sensation hits me right in the gut. Most of me immediately melts. And I absolutely cannot stop the gasp that comes out of me.
Not even if I wanted to. Not even if I tried.
But luckily he takes it the right way.
&
nbsp; “Oh, even that gets you going, huh? Or is it more what I’m doing with my hand?”
The doing in question is the thumb he is currently stroking back and forth through and over various things. Sometimes grazing over my almost constantly clenching hole in this teasing way that makes me jitterbug in the bed. Sometimes nearly touching my bud—my clit, I think, my clit, I know it’s my clit, he’s said it now and made it okay—and always working my slipperiness all over everything, to the point where I want to be mortified.
But actually feel the opposite.
The sensation is just too damned good. I had no idea how much I like glossy things rubbing together until he does just that. I had no idea that I liked a lot of things until he decides to do them, and more than anything I want to tell him that. I burn with the urge to be expansive, to rave about his touch and his voice and all the things that free me.
Then am disappointed when I can only manage one word.
“Both,” I say, so faint it probably hardly constitutes speaking.
But he hears it just the same. He hears it all right.
“So maybe if I tell you what I’m doing while I’m doing it?”
“Yeah, that might be okay. I guess that might be okay.”
I actually mean Fuck, yes, do that immediately.
But I will just keep that between me and my brain.
“Like I could talk about how swollen and stiff your clit feels when I stroke it like this—and how good you look the second I do just that. How I can see your nipples poking through your top and hear every moan you want to make on the end of each breath, and oh, Jesus, the way you roll those hips. You know you’re doing that? You know you’re rubbing yourself against me?”
“I could stop if you wanted me to. I could stay still.”
“Fuck, no, baby, I don’t want you to stop. I want to see you come,” he says, which is all well and good apart from one minor problem. I kind of think I might never have actually done that before. In fact, the longer this goes on for, the more likely that seems, because all my previous orgasms were quite a few levels below whatever this is. They were all pale and thin things that barely registered.
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