dear God, I don’t want that. His knuckles are just about to graze my jaw, and if I hold my breath I know he’ll do more. He’s right on the verge … right on the cusp … just a little bit more and then he gives it to me.
‘And this?’ he says, as his hand slides under the collar of my shirt.
He doesn’t go right for my breasts, however. Of course he doesn’t. Schoolboys with sweaty hands do things like that, and he’s the absolute opposite. He’s from another world where men are calm and cool, and capable of just letting the tips of their fingers trail over a woman’s collarbone.
I feel him press lightly, briefly, barely there, but just as I’m starting to enjoy it he backs away a bit. He lets those fingertips brush against the material instead of my skin, touching buttons in a suggestive way. He might undo them. He might not.
All I have to do is say.
So I do.
‘Yes, that,’ I tell him, fumbling and bumbling over word choice and finally settling on something that makes no sense. Yes, that, I think, and want to roll my eyes. He’s like the endless coils of a clever snake, and I’m this humiliatingly literal and oh, so basic creature.
Not that he cares. In fact, my stunted attempts at being a real person only seem to spur him on. I stutter out the only words I can and he responds with a sultry ‘and more, I’m sure?’
Before that maddening hand does just that. It gives me more – far more than I expect. Running through my head is the image of him cupping my breast, or maybe unbuttoning my shirt a little bit, before I explode. Instead he touches two fingers to his lips, like he’s blowing me a kiss.
And then he licks them. He
licks
them.
It’s probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Dirtier than actual sex I’ve had, dirtier than movies filled with sex. He’s still in his suit, and he looks so elegant and refined, and yet he’s lewdly easing his tongue all over and around his fingers, right in front of me.
Of course it’s then that I realise I’m not going to survive any of this. He hasn’t even done anything, and I’m staring like a maniac. I’m thinking like an unprepared teenager. I can’t even fathom why he’s doing what he’s doing, even though I should absolutely know. Why else would he be making his fingers all nice and wet?
He’s going to touch me, I think, but the thought doesn’t connect with his actions. I watch his hand lower back down to my trembling body, as though everything is suddenly in slow motion. My lips are parted; my eyes are wide. I must look pretty comical, following his fingers as they slide beneath the material of my shirt.
And even more comical, when they slide beneath the material of my bra. I make a little sound and come pretty close to grabbing his wrist, but I swear it’s not because I’m a prude. It’s because I’m far too excited. My nipples are stiff unbearable points, clearly visible through my shirt. I really need more time to compose myself before he does this.
But he gives me none.
He simply eases those slippery fingers over that one tight little tip, rubbing and rubbing before I’m ready. I’m still choking over the first burst of sensation, and he’s making slow, slick circles around one of the most sensitive spots on my body.
Or at least, it’s one of the most sensitive spots
now
. Great aching tingles surge down from that point of connection, turning most of my lower body to liquid. I’m shuddering all over, and so stuffed with heat I could set fire to the carpet with very little effort – and over such a minor thing. It’s nothing really, I think. It’s nothing.
And yet at the same time it’s everything.
He catches the stiff tip between those fingers, and I cry out. I strain towards his touch, without shame. How can I be ashamed when it feels so good? I think I could actually come like this, all mired in the heat and the tension of his presence, stirring restlessly beneath his cool and perfectly assured
‘And this?’ he says, as his hand slides under the collar of my shirt.
He doesn’t go right for my breasts, however. Of course he doesn’t. Schoolboys with sweaty hands do things like that, and he’s the absolute opposite. He’s from another world where men are calm and cool, and capable of just letting the tips of their fingers trail over a woman’s collarbone.
I feel him press lightly, briefly, barely there, but just as I’m starting to enjoy it he backs away a bit. He lets those fingertips brush against the material instead of my skin, touching buttons in a suggestive way. He might undo them. He might not.
All I have to do is say.
So I do.
‘Yes, that,’ I tell him, fumbling and bumbling over word choice and finally settling on something that makes no sense. Yes, that, I think, and want to roll my eyes. He’s like the endless coils of a clever snake, and I’m this humiliatingly literal and oh, so basic creature.
Not that he cares. In fact, my stunted attempts at being a real person only seem to spur him on. I stutter out the only words I can and he responds with a sultry ‘and more, I’m sure?’
Before that maddening hand does just that. It gives me more – far more than I expect. Running through my head is the image of him cupping my breast, or maybe unbuttoning my shirt a little bit, before I explode. Instead he touches two fingers to his lips, like he’s blowing me a kiss.
And then he licks them. He
licks
them.
It’s probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Dirtier than actual sex I’ve had, dirtier than movies filled with sex. He’s still in his suit, and he looks so elegant and refined, and yet he’s lewdly easing his tongue all over and around his fingers, right in front of me.
Of course it’s then that I realise I’m not going to survive any of this. He hasn’t even done anything, and I’m staring like a maniac. I’m thinking like an unprepared teenager. I can’t even fathom why he’s doing what he’s doing, even though I should absolutely know. Why else would he be making his fingers all nice and wet?
He’s going to touch me, I think, but the thought doesn’t connect with his actions. I watch his hand lower back down to my trembling body, as though everything is suddenly in slow motion. My lips are parted; my eyes are wide. I must look pretty comical, following his fingers as they slide beneath the material of my shirt.
And even more comical, when they slide beneath the material of my bra. I make a little sound and come pretty close to grabbing his wrist, but I swear it’s not because I’m a prude. It’s because I’m far too excited. My nipples are stiff unbearable points, clearly visible through my shirt. I really need more time to compose myself before he does this.
But he gives me none.
He simply eases those slippery fingers over that one tight little tip, rubbing and rubbing before I’m ready. I’m still choking over the first burst of sensation, and he’s making slow, slick circles around one of the most sensitive spots on my body.
Or at least, it’s one of the most sensitive spots
now
. Great aching tingles surge down from that point of connection, turning most of my lower body to liquid. I’m shuddering all over, and so stuffed with heat I could set fire to the carpet with very little effort – and over such a minor thing. It’s nothing really, I think. It’s nothing.
And yet at the same time it’s everything.
He catches the stiff tip between those fingers, and I cry out. I strain towards his touch, without shame. How can I be ashamed when it feels so good? I think I could actually come like this, all mired in the heat and the tension of his presence, stirring restlessly beneath his cool and perfectly assured
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