the chaise. “When I come back from thirty hours in the hospital, I don’t even bother going up to the bedroom. I just sleep right here. But before I go to sleep I masturbate, and I think about you—under me, over me, and maybe bent over the armrest. Every time, without fail.”
I was unbelievably turned on.
He yanked off my boots. Reaching under my skirt, he peeled away my tights and my underwear. Now he undressed, smoothed on a condom, and pushed my skirt up around my waist. Then, in one motion, he was all the way inside me.
How did this happen? How did I lose control so quickly? Was it because in my heart I had never wanted any result but this?
I shut my eyes tight and wrapped my legs around him. God, he was strong. When he drove into me, it felt as if I were making love to a race car. I had a death grip on the back of the chaise, so that he wouldn’t propel me clear off it.
“Do you know why I think of you?” He spoke directly into my ear. “You make me come instantly. I put my hand on myself, picture you naked, and I come like a fourteen-year-old.”
The pleasure of his body was volcanic. The pleasure of his words was a conflagration. I was already on the verge when he said, “I come so fast that sometimes I have to masturbate one more time. And when I do that, I imagine fucking you all night long.”
My orgasm was a bullet to the head, a shocking starburst. His was similarly thorough and ferocious. But he didn’t stop. He kept going, kissing my face, my throat, my breasts, until I was trembling again.
Until together we fell over the edge again.
MY BREATH WAS IN TATTERS . So was something far more important: my composure. Fortunately the dazzle of nighttime Manhattan was only a shimmer on the walls, the room dark enough that I didn’t need to worry that he’d see my confusion—and the beginning of my distress.
Bennett kissed me on the shoulder and asked, as if it were an afterthought, “When was the last time you got lucky?”
Should I lie? It would be a good idea here. “You should know,” I said. “You were an eyewitness.”
He kissed my cheek. “I’m busy. What’s your excuse?”
I have closed myself off—and I prefer it that way. Who are you and how did you manage to strip me naked? “I’m incredibly incompetent at getting laid. I could stand in the middle of Times Square on a Saturday night, waving a ‘Free Pussy’ sign, and get no takers.”
“Liar. I’ll bet I ruined you for other men.”
I would have laughed if I could. “So says the man who can’t put his hand on himself without thinking of me.”
He chortled softly. “Put me in my place, why don’t you?”
And with that, he pushed off to get dressed. By the time I slowly sat up, pulled down my skirt, and straightened my top, he was already presentable. He gave me my panty-and-tights tangle, and then my boots. And when I had everything in place, he turned the lights back on and brought me the vermouth I hadn’t tasted yet.
“We’ll have time to finish our drinks before dinner, like civilized people.”
I wanted to ask him whether he really fantasized about me every time he masturbated. If it was true, then he was almost as sexually obsessed with me as I was with him—and that might be some consolation. But I had a feeling he would smirk at me and ask, What do you think?
And other than laughing it off, what response could I give? If I said I believed it, I would come across as hopelessly naive. If I said I didn’t believe a word of it, then why did I bother to ask? Even laughing it off would at best be an awkward recovery from a full-blown faux pas.
So I said instead, “Do you really sleep on the chaise when you come back from the hospital?”
“When I’m on call.”
“So you just sit here and…spank the monkey?”
“You know what happened one time? I had two days off and slept the night in my bed. The next morning I came down, grabbed some breakfast, and sat down to read the news, and ten minutes
I was unbelievably turned on.
He yanked off my boots. Reaching under my skirt, he peeled away my tights and my underwear. Now he undressed, smoothed on a condom, and pushed my skirt up around my waist. Then, in one motion, he was all the way inside me.
How did this happen? How did I lose control so quickly? Was it because in my heart I had never wanted any result but this?
I shut my eyes tight and wrapped my legs around him. God, he was strong. When he drove into me, it felt as if I were making love to a race car. I had a death grip on the back of the chaise, so that he wouldn’t propel me clear off it.
“Do you know why I think of you?” He spoke directly into my ear. “You make me come instantly. I put my hand on myself, picture you naked, and I come like a fourteen-year-old.”
The pleasure of his body was volcanic. The pleasure of his words was a conflagration. I was already on the verge when he said, “I come so fast that sometimes I have to masturbate one more time. And when I do that, I imagine fucking you all night long.”
My orgasm was a bullet to the head, a shocking starburst. His was similarly thorough and ferocious. But he didn’t stop. He kept going, kissing my face, my throat, my breasts, until I was trembling again.
Until together we fell over the edge again.
MY BREATH WAS IN TATTERS . So was something far more important: my composure. Fortunately the dazzle of nighttime Manhattan was only a shimmer on the walls, the room dark enough that I didn’t need to worry that he’d see my confusion—and the beginning of my distress.
Bennett kissed me on the shoulder and asked, as if it were an afterthought, “When was the last time you got lucky?”
Should I lie? It would be a good idea here. “You should know,” I said. “You were an eyewitness.”
He kissed my cheek. “I’m busy. What’s your excuse?”
I have closed myself off—and I prefer it that way. Who are you and how did you manage to strip me naked? “I’m incredibly incompetent at getting laid. I could stand in the middle of Times Square on a Saturday night, waving a ‘Free Pussy’ sign, and get no takers.”
“Liar. I’ll bet I ruined you for other men.”
I would have laughed if I could. “So says the man who can’t put his hand on himself without thinking of me.”
He chortled softly. “Put me in my place, why don’t you?”
And with that, he pushed off to get dressed. By the time I slowly sat up, pulled down my skirt, and straightened my top, he was already presentable. He gave me my panty-and-tights tangle, and then my boots. And when I had everything in place, he turned the lights back on and brought me the vermouth I hadn’t tasted yet.
“We’ll have time to finish our drinks before dinner, like civilized people.”
I wanted to ask him whether he really fantasized about me every time he masturbated. If it was true, then he was almost as sexually obsessed with me as I was with him—and that might be some consolation. But I had a feeling he would smirk at me and ask, What do you think?
And other than laughing it off, what response could I give? If I said I believed it, I would come across as hopelessly naive. If I said I didn’t believe a word of it, then why did I bother to ask? Even laughing it off would at best be an awkward recovery from a full-blown faux pas.
So I said instead, “Do you really sleep on the chaise when you come back from the hospital?”
“When I’m on call.”
“So you just sit here and…spank the monkey?”
“You know what happened one time? I had two days off and slept the night in my bed. The next morning I came down, grabbed some breakfast, and sat down to read the news, and ten minutes
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