I love the feeling of his skin underneath my hands. The hot surface flexing and breathing beneath my palms, my fingers skipping over and pressing into abs, clear and defined, then sliding up and over the muscles of his chest. I slide my hands lower, till I hit and slip under the leather of his belt, the rough material of his jeans, a slight intake of breath pausing our kiss, his mouth lifting off of me long enough for the word stop to slip out.
“I don’t speak crazy,” I whisper, my hands quick on the leather, the brass of his button, the clasp suddenly free, my hands encountering soft cotton behind his zipper. I pull the top hem down slightly and am rewarded by a brief glimpse of a skin-stretched-tight, glistening head.
Cock.
A real live cock. Twitching, responding, panting for me. The last one I saw was during the first few weeks of community college, when a Friday night kegger led to a heavy make-out session on an upstairs black leather couch, my new acquaintance’s short stub pumping a load into my hand just moments after I pulled it from his pants. He laughed with embarrassment, belched, and stood up to refill our beers. I never saw him again. Jeremy’s cock is entirely different. It is different than KegBoy’s, it is different than the fifteen dildos just twenty feet away. It is there, I can see it, and I want nothing more than to tug down his pants until it pops free.
“You touch that, I won’t be able to stop,” he mutters.
He wants me. I hear the yearn in his voice, can feel the fever in his touch, the jump of his skin when my hand moves lower. The knowledge empowers me, feeds my confidence, and I am shocked when he pulls away, moves down the bed, sliding my dress up and his hand down, its touch hesitant on the lace of my panties. He looks up at me and I nod, unsure of what I am even agreeing to, just knowing that I need more. Anything that he wishes to give me.
His hands dip under the edges of my boyshorts, tug at the material, and I lift my hips to help him, the silk sliding down my legs quickly, his fingers trailing along my skin as he takes them down and off my body. “No sex.” He says the words as if reminding himself of the fact.
I prop my body up at his words, resting on my elbows, my eyes watching greedily as he kneels beside my bed, spreads my legs, and runs his hands down the inside of my thighs. “Is this allowed?”
I don’t know what he has planned, what he is asking permission for. I only know that the throb between my legs is screaming for attention, and the look in his eyes is hot as hell. It is a raging fire, as needy as my own, both of us desperate for something more than we currently have, his right hand sliding further on my thigh until he is close enough to move his thumb slightly and it brushes across my sex.
I inhale, someone else’s touch so different from my own. My fingers spend hours on that area, other objects bumping across that skin hundreds of times a day. I should be immune to touch, should barely feel the calloused ridge of his finger, should play the “cool” card and shoot him a “what else do you have?” look.
But I don’t. Just the slight brush of his thumb brings me to life, pouring sensation through every nerve in my body. He moves the digit again, returning it to my thigh, and I involuntarily buck from the touch, my body instinctively moving closer to his hand, wanting more of what I just so briefly experienced.
“Is this allowed?” he repeats, his eyes on mine, my mouth practically panting as I stare at him, bare-chested between my legs.
“Yes,” I gasp, clenching my inner muscles in an attempt to satisfy the need that is growing there.
He grins, hunger in his eyes, and lowers his mouth to my needy skin. The first touch of his tongue causes my mouth to drop open. My eyes involuntarily close and my head falls back, temporarily blotting out the delicious image of his mouth on me.
I’ve never had a tongue on my clit. Never had the hot, wet sensation, vibrating suction, the delicate play of a talented tongue against pleasure-packed bundles of nerves. It is shocking, how incredible it feels. My nervousness fades, my body relaxing as my legs drop open, giving him full access to whatever he wants. My elbows relax and my upper body collapses upon the bed. Somehow, my hands find their way to his head and I twist my fingers through his short hair. My orgasm is building, growing at a rate faster than I have ever been able to bring it. I worry, for a brief moment, that it will come too quickly, that I won’t have time to enjoy this incredible sensation he is creating.
Then, I stop worrying. I stop thinking. I lose myself in the beautiful experience he is bringing to my body. I don’t think about how close my fingers are to his neck, or the vulnerable proximity of his eyes to my fingernails. I am too engrossed in the arrival of ecstasy. And when it comes, it is the most perfect form of insanity I have ever experienced.
“I don’t speak crazy,” I whisper, my hands quick on the leather, the brass of his button, the clasp suddenly free, my hands encountering soft cotton behind his zipper. I pull the top hem down slightly and am rewarded by a brief glimpse of a skin-stretched-tight, glistening head.
Cock.
A real live cock. Twitching, responding, panting for me. The last one I saw was during the first few weeks of community college, when a Friday night kegger led to a heavy make-out session on an upstairs black leather couch, my new acquaintance’s short stub pumping a load into my hand just moments after I pulled it from his pants. He laughed with embarrassment, belched, and stood up to refill our beers. I never saw him again. Jeremy’s cock is entirely different. It is different than KegBoy’s, it is different than the fifteen dildos just twenty feet away. It is there, I can see it, and I want nothing more than to tug down his pants until it pops free.
“You touch that, I won’t be able to stop,” he mutters.
He wants me. I hear the yearn in his voice, can feel the fever in his touch, the jump of his skin when my hand moves lower. The knowledge empowers me, feeds my confidence, and I am shocked when he pulls away, moves down the bed, sliding my dress up and his hand down, its touch hesitant on the lace of my panties. He looks up at me and I nod, unsure of what I am even agreeing to, just knowing that I need more. Anything that he wishes to give me.
His hands dip under the edges of my boyshorts, tug at the material, and I lift my hips to help him, the silk sliding down my legs quickly, his fingers trailing along my skin as he takes them down and off my body. “No sex.” He says the words as if reminding himself of the fact.
I prop my body up at his words, resting on my elbows, my eyes watching greedily as he kneels beside my bed, spreads my legs, and runs his hands down the inside of my thighs. “Is this allowed?”
I don’t know what he has planned, what he is asking permission for. I only know that the throb between my legs is screaming for attention, and the look in his eyes is hot as hell. It is a raging fire, as needy as my own, both of us desperate for something more than we currently have, his right hand sliding further on my thigh until he is close enough to move his thumb slightly and it brushes across my sex.
I inhale, someone else’s touch so different from my own. My fingers spend hours on that area, other objects bumping across that skin hundreds of times a day. I should be immune to touch, should barely feel the calloused ridge of his finger, should play the “cool” card and shoot him a “what else do you have?” look.
But I don’t. Just the slight brush of his thumb brings me to life, pouring sensation through every nerve in my body. He moves the digit again, returning it to my thigh, and I involuntarily buck from the touch, my body instinctively moving closer to his hand, wanting more of what I just so briefly experienced.
“Is this allowed?” he repeats, his eyes on mine, my mouth practically panting as I stare at him, bare-chested between my legs.
“Yes,” I gasp, clenching my inner muscles in an attempt to satisfy the need that is growing there.
He grins, hunger in his eyes, and lowers his mouth to my needy skin. The first touch of his tongue causes my mouth to drop open. My eyes involuntarily close and my head falls back, temporarily blotting out the delicious image of his mouth on me.
I’ve never had a tongue on my clit. Never had the hot, wet sensation, vibrating suction, the delicate play of a talented tongue against pleasure-packed bundles of nerves. It is shocking, how incredible it feels. My nervousness fades, my body relaxing as my legs drop open, giving him full access to whatever he wants. My elbows relax and my upper body collapses upon the bed. Somehow, my hands find their way to his head and I twist my fingers through his short hair. My orgasm is building, growing at a rate faster than I have ever been able to bring it. I worry, for a brief moment, that it will come too quickly, that I won’t have time to enjoy this incredible sensation he is creating.
Then, I stop worrying. I stop thinking. I lose myself in the beautiful experience he is bringing to my body. I don’t think about how close my fingers are to his neck, or the vulnerable proximity of his eyes to my fingernails. I am too engrossed in the arrival of ecstasy. And when it comes, it is the most perfect form of insanity I have ever experienced.
