entire body feels possessed by my cunt, and there’s no longer just a trickle between the cheeks of my arse—there’s a waterfall. My thighs are wet. My clit seems immense and it aches, solidly, relentlessly. But I stay standing, and I watch, I watch. I watch him stop watching me so that he can stare at the ceiling and maybe pretend I’m not here. I watch him shove his neat gray jockeys down and take his eager cock in his frantic hand.
His thighs stay caged by his trousers and underwear, but somehow that just adds to the overall effect: the one that fills me with bursting, slippery desire. It gets worse when in between rough tugs at his cock, he brings his hand up to his mouth, to lick a wet stripe over the palm.
Before returning to stroke, all over and around his thick shaft. He arches almost clean off the bed to feel it, body twisting and awkward but never losing that tight jerking grip on his thick shaft. The less he seems aware of me, the quicker and meaner he goes at it, rutting up into his hand like a filthy animal, stifling his groans against the press of his lips.
However, he has to look at me when I hand him the vibrator. His expression makes me want to take off all my clothes and spread my legs—you know, for the view. But it seems I’m just fine fully clothed, because he bucks harder into his fist as his eyes travel down my body, and he presses that sweet buzz between his legs, no problem at all.
I watch him rub it over his perineum, his tight sac, the slick tip of his cock, all the time squirming and eventually moaning with abandon. And then finally—and strangely, most arousing of all—he discards his little toy and ruffles his shirt and tank top up, so that he can come all over his own belly.
He grunts once, gutturally, his eyes now on his own surging prick, and then thick ribbons of come spatter over the surprisingly hairy and pretty taut expanse of his stomach.
Though describing it so doesn’t really cover how long it goes on for—long enough for his grunt to dissolve into whimpered moans. He makes a mess of his tank top despite his best efforts, too—he comes with such a force.
And then he’s just quiet, and still, and probably very embarrassed.
The timer’s going off, somewhere in the kitchen. Of course I’m amazed I can hear anything what with this clanging alarm bell of arousal clamoring away inside me, but there it is.
I’m torn. On the one hand: extreme horniness. On the other: I don’t want him to burn to death with his trousers around his ankles and spunk splattered all over him.
It just skirts way too close to dying of horniness.
While he’s still immersed in bliss and not thinking too hard about what he’s just done, I snap to a decision—quick to the kitchen, all heating appliances off, then back to appease the nagging harpy between my legs.
It takes longer than I had anticipated, however—mainly due to the fact that his cooker is three hundred years old. Immaculate, but still—most likely hand-cranked. The lasagna’s probably being reheated by a lightbulb.
Plus there’s the fact that I get distracted, by the photos that aren’t on the front of his fridge, and the post-it notes that aren’t stuck to his neat little cork notice board. He has a cat calendar, and the only thing on it for this month is begin work, in his tense handwriting.
I wonder if he ever wears the vaguely flowery apron hung on the back of the door. I wonder if I’m ever going to get satisfaction from a man who owns scented notepaper.
I’m guessing not, judging by his appearance when I make it back to the bedroom. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed he jerked off not moments before. Would not have believed it. It looks like he’s just finished chapter seven of Uninteresting Books for Boring People. He looks tidied, cleaned, put back together again. His trousers are zipped and his hair is smoothed, and he goes to say something that won’t be explanatory—something light and irrelevant, I imagine, like shall we eat?
I’ll tell him what he can eat, all right.
I can feel tension creeping up my back. My lips, pinching themselves together. I want to kick his legs out from under him, but instead words force their way up before he can talk about lasagna.
“Gabe—you weren’t going to leave me like this, were you? How rude.”
On the word rude, his lips part. He looks startled, uncomfortable.
“Of course not!” he blurts out.
“Then why are you dressed again?”
He searches the room for inspiration, and I’m pretty sure I can actually see his mind working. Figuring out the ratio of immorality to sex. If he puts a hand on my tit, is hell just around the corner, or down the next street?
But it’s me who’s too immersed in hell thoughts, it seems, because when he does step to me, it’s so sudden that I start. He reaches out—almost wary, I think—and then strokes one hand down my arm. Just that. Nothing more.
Though it’s still entirely possible that I gasp. I feel as though I haven’t been touched in a decade, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s Gabe who’s doing the touching. Gabe, who often seems too terrified to make eye contact.
Even if he’s not too terrified to do this. He rubs his hand up and down, up and down—almost like a friendly reassurance, if it were not for my trembling response. I shudder as I watch him watching himself touching me, his too-dark and too-intense eyes following his own hand over the shivering sensitive inside of my arm. He follows it all the way up to my shoulder, where his fingers pinch and rub the material of my shirt in the most weirdly lewd way.
And then the lewdness flickers over to something else, as quickly as it had arrived. Something else worse, because I think he might actually be about to kiss me. He’s very tall, so it’s not hard to miss. He has to lean down, and come so close to me, and I think of all those cheesy movies with the hero going in finally, finally for a kiss. The heroine swooning, hardly able to believe it.
This wasn’t what I had in mind when I started this. And yet I find myself tilting my face up to his, as his parted lips get closer and closer, and all I can think of is the utter hilarity of an odd backwards movie kiss.
That doesn’t make me want to laugh. By God, I think I might actually be swooning—at the very least, I don’t think I’ve ever closed my eyes before on feeling someone’s mouth pressed to mine. And he’s so tender and so gentle that it makes me ache, in a hundred odd and completely unused places. Unfortunate, really, that I don’t have all day.
I want to touch his body and I want him to touch mine, and I want to be naked and writhing with him, immediately. So I worm one sly hand beneath the prison of his olive green tank top. And maybe I also curl my tongue around his earlobe.
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