“You know that I adore you, right?”
As though that point is so vital he has to stop and make triple sure it’s understood.
Which it is. So much so that I feel no reservations about returning the sentiment.
“Probably not as much as I adore you right now.”
“Man, you like that book thing.”
“I don’t think it’s just the book thing.”
“The offer to take you to Alaska, then?”
“It could have been partly that.”
“But mostly something else.”
“Well, it might be the clothes today. Are those suspenders?” I ask, and in answer he snaps one of them. It makes an uncommonly delightful meaty sound against his left pectoral muscle. “Plus, those boots are amazing. I always wanted a pair just like that with all the laces and the top part open.”
“Want to try them on?”
“I would, but I’m kind of afraid of falling into deep, dark places.”
“Smart-ass. My feet aren’t that big.”
“I think I need a size before I agree with that.”
“If I say fifteen, will it prove you wrong?”
“Considering mine are a five, I’m going to say no.”
“Then forget the extra couple of numbers I neglected to add to that,” he says, and I go to laugh.
But then he quite suddenly sits next to me on the bed, and I forget all about being amused. I just feel his leg against mine, and the heat coming off his big body, and after a moment or two I get that sharp but sweet smell of him. He bends over to get at his boot laces and it seems to just drift over me—like a kind of fog, only this one is less damp and cold and more hot and lust-inducing.
How else to explain my next move? He’s just casually untying his boot, idly talking about where he got them from and pretty much being as nonsexual as possible, and then for almost no reason at all my hand is on his thigh. I have no idea why. It just shifts all on its own, as if it somehow started operating independently of my will or the mood or almost any of his actions.
A fact that does not escape him. He stops dead the moment I do it and takes about an age to look over to me. He has to work up to it, I think, and when he finally makes it I can see why. His expression is all shock and awe. Probably because I say thigh but what I really meant was penis. Yeah, I might have just put my hand over his penis. Or at the very least, you could call it extreme upper thigh.
Which he does not particularly want to.
“Did you just put your hand on my dick?”
“I think I did. Is that okay or do you want me to move?”
“Depends on a few things,” he says, and at first I think he still means limits and going slow and all of that nonsense. But then I see him eyeing the door, like at any moment the dean might burst through and have Chris Hansen arrest him.
And I realize.
“My roommate is going to be gone for hours.”
“Uh-huh. So you figure…what? Now we make out?”
“I’ve heard that’s the protocol for being alone with your boyfriend in a dorm room.”
“I see, and in that scenario I’m the boyfriend,” he says, which would likely scare me.
If he didn’t sound so hopeful about it.
“I was going to go with lover, but that sounded even more ridiculous.”
“Any of those is fine. Any of those make me crazy,” he says, then seemed to stiffen all over. Most probably because I just gave a little squeeze. “Almost as much as your hand is now doing. Oh, fuck, where are you going with this? Pretty sure we’re supposed to kiss first.”
“I was thinking we might start a little further along.”
“How further along?” he asks, even though he has to know that’s a super-bad idea. It’s practically holding the door open for me. Not even holding it, really. Taking it off its hinges and hurling it away. The very second he says it, I move closer—and not just so I can whisper in his ear. I also seem to be running a hand over his back and his arm, and the front of my body really wants to press against the side of his. Maybe press and maybe rub a little, in these low, slow circles that make me go all hot.
And force me to say things I otherwise might not.
“Well, you know…maybe with that thing.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he says, as though he thinks I will balk.
But he has to know: I’m way past that point now. I can actually feel him getting hard through his clothes. Whenever my breasts make contact with some part of him, his whole body tenses and relaxes and then tenses again—and the heat coming off him, oh, God, the heat. I feel as if I’m drowning in it. As if someone coated me in it from my stomach right down to my upper thighs.
All of which makes it very easy to say, “That thing you did with your mouth.”
“Oh, Christ. Are you asking me to go down on you? You’re asking me to go down on you. Holy fuck, you’re horny. I seriously can’t take how horny you are,” he says, and he’s not lying. He can’t take it in the least. As soon as he gets that full and complete picture of my excitement, he does something that excites me even more. He pushes me back onto the bed with both hands—one on my shoulder and one on my hip—and once I’m there and spread out for him, once I’m pinned like that, Lord in heaven, I’m pinned, he goes right for my breasts. He smooths his big palms over them, hungrily, greedily, grazing the stiff nipples as he goes.
But grazing isn’t enough, apparently.
One firm touch isn’t enough.
He has to go back for another—and this time he does it with a little more evil intent and a little less helpless desire. He gets a good grip and just kind of draws it in toward the middle, until those two tight points are each trapped between a thumb and forefinger.
And then he pulls.
Just a little.
Though God knows a little is ample. I arch my back on contact, almost unable to do anything but. The sensation it produces is too sharp for stillness, and it only gets more intense from there. He makes it worse, on purpose. As soon as he notes my reaction, he does it again, only this time he finishes with these slow circles around the very top of each one with his thumbs. I swear I feel it in my gums. The bloom of pleasure I get is so thick I have to grab hold of his wrists, but he just keeps going and going. He strokes me until I’m gasping his name and most probably writhing, using the butter-soft material of my pajamas against me in what I think is the worst possible way.
But it’s not half as bad as what happens when he removes it. He starts unbuttoning my top and part of me thinks Thank God, sure that now the pleasure will dial down a notch. And then he looks at my bare breasts with heavy-lidded eyes and tells me how sweet I am—as sweet as overripe fruit—and all of that prior pleasure fades into a dim memory. It might as well have been a dream I had once about arousal, and especially after he leans down to lick.
The licking is too much.
Watching him do it is too much. He has the filthiest tongue of anyone—or at the very least, the filthiest technique. He makes this sound when he does it, this broken, breathless sound, and on the end of each slow stroke he kind of flicks at that stiff point. Then when I react the only way I can, squirming and trying to fucking bite him and panting the word yes like it might be outlawed tomorrow, he decides the best thing to do is suck me there.
Though even that doesn’t satisfy him. I guess I’m not crying helplessly enough, or writhing with the right amount of abandon, because otherwise I doubt he’d torment me further. But tormenting me further is just what he does. He waits until I’m almost beside myself, then sits back on his heels. And just when I’m wondering if I should start pleading with him, he puts two fingers up to his mouth.
Gets them all nice and slick-looking.
You know, so he can do both at the same time. So he can suck and lick one and stroke the other, while I try not to die and go to heaven. I just had no idea that something that simple could feel this good—I thought it had to be between my l
egs to really get this result. To make me shiver and gasp and get this good ache thrumming all the way down to my already swollen clit, so close to making me come, it might as well be called that.
But apparently not.
It seems a lot of things can make it happen. Like when he slides his free hand down to my backside and gives it a little squeeze. Or when he uses just the very edge of his teeth on me. Or when he suddenly sits back again and refuses to touch me at all—even that has an effect on my already-buzzing body. It makes me too wild and too desperate for contact, rutting against his thigh and saying all kinds of insane things.
I don’t just ask him to fuck me. I ask him to use his big, stiff cock on me, despite the fact that using a big, stiff cock on someone is probably not a thing. It sounds wrong in my mouth, and it makes him look at me funny, but the problem is I just don’t know what the right words should be. He seemed perturbed last time I asked him the simple way, and the only other options I have seem juvenile.
What I’m saying now seems juvenile.
So it’s kind of a thrill when he responds to it.
Too much of a thrill, really.
“You want me to honestly do that?” he asks, and all I can do is nod eagerly.
But then, once I have, I expect him to do it.
I don’t expect him to say, “All right. Slide two fingers into your pussy first.”
I mean, what does that have to do with him fucking me? I’ve never heard of that standard protocol before. Usually in movies they just climb on and do it after a bit of kissing, and we’ve had the kissing. Haven’t we? Does kissing my nipples count? I want to say it does, but it seems best to clarify a little.
“What do you…what do you…?” I ask, but he just reiterates.
In a seriously exciting and still quite terrifying way.
“If you want me to take you, I need you to fuck yourself there first.”
I think he just said take. I think take might be the sexiest word in the English language, even though previously it seemed pretty basic. I’ve just been fooled by its four-letter exterior, and now it reveals its true design as some kind of insane lust-inducer. It gets my hand somewhere close to my pussy, at any rate.
The fact that I falter is purely on me and my ridiculous inexperience.
“I…the thing is…” I start, though have absolutely no chance of finishing.
How do I explain that before was pretty much the limit of my experience? He hates finding out about the limits of my experience. It was bad enough when he discovered about the lack of orgasms and the virginity and all the rest of it. This is going to be awful.
Or so I think.
“Yeah, I know you probably never have. Still want to see you do it before we get into anything else. Just put a hand between your legs like you did before and ease those fingers in—real nice and slow,” he says, after which I kind of forget what thinking is. A hot pulse wipes out all rational thought, and not just because the words themselves are insanely exciting. There is also the fact that he said them.
No more worrying about despoiling.
No more panic about my extreme virginity.
Just him gazing at me with those suddenly hazy and heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for me to do the filthy thing he possibly longs for. He wants me to fuck myself, I think, and then come close to a moan of delight. I only manage to pose a question instead by the barest whisper. “Why?” I ask him, “why?” and even though the answer is not quite what I had in mind, it still somehow thrills me to the core.
“Because if you want me to fuck you, then you have to do the hurting for me. If I make you scream and bleed, you’re going to be finishing this night off by talking me down from a ledge,” he says, and then I want to just attack him.
Quite possibly with my vagina.
“Maybe it won’t make me scream and bleed. I sit down really hard an awful lot,” I say, and he laughs.
But he keeps on at it all the same.
“Not really a chance I’m willing to take. Use your fingers first,” he says.
After which it all gets easier and harder at the same time. Easier because I know what this is, and harder because now I have to do it. I have to wriggle out of my pajamas and then put a hand between my legs. And once the hand is there I’m somehow supposed to cope with all my wetness. God, no one in the history of the world has ever been as wet as I get. I barely have to touch a finger to myself to feel it. It’s all over my barely there fur and right up to my belly, and when I do finally go for it, everything happens much too fast.
I just glide right through all of that slipperiness, grazing my clit in a way that makes me jump and gasp and marvel at the things I can make myself feel, everything suddenly so primed again I hardly think about the pain at all. Or at least, I don’t think about it until I’m suddenly fucking myself with two fingers.
And there is actually no pain at all.
Not even a little bit. Not even slightly.
I was right about the sitting-down thing, it seems.
But really, really wrong to take so long to touch myself this way. Oh my God, I was so wrong. As soon as I sink in, I know it. The very second my palm eases over my swollen bud as I rock a little back and forth—just testing a little, just testing—I get it. I almost come immediately because of it. The excitement of doing something this naughty on its own is enough to make me gasp.
And then there is the hot, wet feel of my tight little pussy…the way it tightens around the intrusion and seems to ache all long and slow when I work up a nice rhythm…Jesus. Why does no one ever mention this? I thought the only thing that was meant to feel good was touching on the outside, but after thirty seconds of fucking myself I can feel my legs start to tremble. I think I could honestly do it like this.
Much to his amazement.
“Are you gonna come? Just like that, you’re gonna come,” he says, but all I can do is gasp and squirm some more in response. In fact, I think the note of surprise and awe in his voice drives me higher. I hear that shake in the back of his words, and my body bucks. Now I’m not just fucking myself with my fingers, I’m actively rocking against my hand.
I must look so lewd—and that’s what really does it. The thought of him seeing me be like this, and reacting so strongly. By the time I’m done, he looks as if someone hit him in the face with a brick. His chest is going up and down the way it does when he’s too far gone, and the flush all over him is a sight to see. I’m still warm and lax from my orgasm, but that flush is already priming me again.
When he reaches out one trembling hand and runs it down my body, I quiver. I sigh for him. I almost come all over again. And especially after he says this:
“I’m gonna have to do something now. I just have to do something.”
I don’t know what arouses me more: The word do or the word something. Both offer so many possibilities I can hardly calculate them all.
Though I really only want one thing.
“Yeah,” I say, as I lean toward him. “Now you take me.”
And then I put my hand over his really obvious erection.
Much to his emotional distress. He shakes his head and has to briefly cover his eyes. By the time he speaks, he sounds agitated as hell.
“Christ, I should never have said take. Why did I say take? It sounds like I’m going to kidnap you with my penis. I can’t kidnap you with my penis.”
“Okay, so we’ll call it something else, then.”
“Gimme some examples.”
“How about: gently, gently, gently fucking me until I go out of my mind?”
“That’s better. I can…yeah…I can deal with that.”
“Or maybe you could just make love to me.”
“That’s the one. Let’s go with that.”
“Awesome. All right, then, so—”
“There’s just one other slight issue.” In the gap between his sentences I run through what the issues might be. Plague, fire, his dick dropped off yesterday and that’s a vacuum cleaner stuf
fed down his pants. But as usual I’m way off. “I didn’t actually bring any condoms with me.”
“But you said that if I did—”
“I know what I said. I didn’t think you’d like it that much. I didn’t think I’d want to so much after watching you like it. I kind of pictured you being unimpressed and then I could just sixty-nine the fuck outta you and maybe fall asleep with you sprawled on me.”
I go quiet then. Mostly because I’m trying to remember what sixty-nine is, and when I’m pretty sure I have it—thanks to glimpses of Sam’s copy of Horny Girls Gone Wild—my brains slowly leak out of one ear. He means that he and then I and then we at the same time—an idea that makes me wonder if it’s too late to change my mind. Can I just have that instead of everything else? And by everything else I mean classes, friendships, eating, sleeping…you name it, I’ll give it up.
I want that. I want it so much and so fiercely I almost don’t tell him that I have condoms. I bought them ages ago, thinking he would probably want to screw me right away. Men’s Health said guys want to screw right away. Cosmo said guys want to screw right away. That sex advice blog with the graphic pictures and the happy messages said guys want to screw right away. They didn’t say anything about guys who want to wait way longer than the girl does, to the point where they don’t bring condoms to what is obviously going to be a sex marathon.
He had to know this was going to be a sex marathon.
Yet somehow I don’t think he did. At the very least, he didn’t assume, and for some reason that kind of excites me as much as him telling me to fuck myself. It makes me reach for my bedside drawer and hand one to him, partly nervous about it for all kinds of dear-old-dad-related reasons, but mostly thrilled that I get to do this.
And then even more so when I see the expression on his face.
He doesn’t look terrified or horrified or like he might need to stuff me into a basement or hurl a beer can at my head. He looks admiring. Like I did a thing to be proud of. Me wanting sex and preparing and assuming is something I should feel good about, not bad. I’d even go so far as to say it thrills him, in the same way his patience excites me. He almost immediately starts unbuttoning his pants, with an eagerness I’ve never seen him have.
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