Steven turned onto his back and squirmed a bit to get comfortable. He was already beyond ready, his cock angry and red, leaking a bit on his hard stomach.
“Am I allowed to talk through it?” He asked, still grinning.
“Mmmm…. Lets see if you can manage without.” I said, kissing him on the forehead. “Mmkay, dear. Tally-ho.”
Steven stretched first. He flexed his arches, pointing his toes, and rolled his broad shoulders. He tossed some of his hair over his shoulders so the ends could brush against his already sensitive skin. Then he closed his eyes.
It took a while.
But slowly, a brilliant soft flush rose up his chest to settle on his cheeks. He bit his lip and strained his head back, the long white column of his neck like an offering to a hungry god. As he pushed himself further into his fantasy, his hips shifted uncomfortably and his nipples rose, dark and pebbled from his chest.
I just watched in awe. He was really doing it.
He tossed his head from side to side, as he gripped the sheets tight in his fists and gave a breathy moan. He oozed more furtively now, dripping down over the side of his thigh, the evidence of his desire glimmering wetly in the light from my bedside lamp.
Steven gasped and arched his back again. He breathed hard, then whimpered. Goosebumps spread up his arms and he shuddered. Then, without warning, he reached up and pulled his hair, yanking his head back even further. He clenched his teeth so hard. So very hard.
But touching his hair was touching himself, so I reached over to pry his hands out of his hair, annoyed that he wasn’t following the rules. The instant I touched him, he screamed and came hard. He wrapped his arms around himself, like he was desperate for someone to hold him, and quaked with the force of it.
When Steven finally settled down, he didn’t say anything. He just scrambled into my arms, still dripping, and hid his face in the curve of my neck.
It has been three days of dryness for him. He was strung tight as a bow and the heat rolled off his skin in waves. He bit down on the pillow and clenched his eyes closed in pain.
Steven was demanding and petulant, like a spoiled child; and as much as it annoyed, I liked that part of him. Particularly when it was coupled with his nakedness.
I had asked him to try going without sex for a week, and it was only Wednesday. It didn’t bode well for him to be this far gone in such little time…
It was an experiment. From it, I learned the true meaning of addiction, and he learned how he could outsmart his body with his mind if things got terribly dire.
We’d laugh about it months later. But for now, he was glaring at me, from under swathes of his silken hair like I had murdered his best friend.
“But,you don’t know what its like.” He bit out
I’d already heard that one several times before Tuesday. It wasn’t going to work.
He looked up at me and scowled.
To this day, I still think he was the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. But that wasn’t going to get him off the hook at all, and he knew it. Steven harrumphed and clutched the pillow again tightly, the muscles bunching deliciously in his arms.
“I’ll give you a loophole.” I said finally. “If you can make yourself come without touching yourself, or touching me, on your back without help from anyone else…. it doesn’t count.”
One day, he requested that I make him an erotic fiction piece and this is what I came up with. Don’t laugh. Its not really my forte. I’m more into sensuality than sexuality when it comes to words. Or maybe I’m just a crap writer. Fuck knows.
He was a beautiful man. Not the best I’d ever seen, but he sure gave the rest a run for their money. And yes, I knew he was cocky, but his arrogance was a surprising turn on. It was that self assured confidence bred from years of success that lingered on blue bloods and middle-aged businessmen that had somehow found itself smeared all over a broke art student.
I would have chuckled at the irony, but my mouth was full of cock. I loved this. Just fucking loved it.
He grabbed my hair and he tasted too good and I could ride him forever. You know that saying “size matters”? Or the defensive one “ It doesn’t matter how big, if they know how to work it.”? Both are utter bullshit. I believe there is a Goldilocks Zone. A Goldilocks Zone of cock, somewhere between too big and slightly below average where the closer you get to the middle the more perfect everything is….
But unfortunately, my pseudo-scientific mental ramblings were cut short by him roughly wrenching me off him. “ Stop. I don’t want it to end like this.”
I pulled forward against his grip and licked the tip with the end of my tongue. Just to show him how much I wanted it. He shuddered. I stood and cupped his face in my hands. I kissed his temple softly, then pushed him back onto the futon.
I like to use this mixture of softness and wantonness with him. It would be easy to haul off and just writhe on him like a slut, but he’d probably expect it. No matter how much I’d love to do just that. But there was something enjoyable about hitting him with sweetness when he didn’t expect it. Kissing his dick before I sucked it. Looking at him in surprised ecstasy as he fucked me hard. Saying ‘please’ in a quiet voice before he came.
I bit each of his nipples hard then kissed the middle of his chest and stroked his sides softly with my finger tips. He grasped my hips roughly, kneading his thumbs into my joints. I arched back and pushed my tits into his face. God, its cute how much he loves that.
I combed my fingers through his hair roughly so it stuck up in spikes.
“As you ready?” I asked.
I lowered myself onto him and moaned loudly, the fullness, Oh the fullness. He arched up and hissed as I took him all the way in. His roommate banged on the wall in annoyance and we both laughed and he banged back. I rolled my hips cheekily and covered my mouth in mock embarrassment. He smirked and offered me his hands. We laced fingers and I began to ride him.
Usually we have more time than today, so it will have to be quick. I started slow, just enjoying the feeling; teasing him, by squeezing him inside on the down-stroke and swiveling enticingly. I tossed my hair back and gasped. It was nice, but I really had to get back to work in twenty minutes so I sped up, bouncing on his dick wantonly.
He bit his lip and thrust up for a while before getting tired of the pace and flipping me abruptly. Not expecting it, I shrieked in surprise, and bounced up from the mattress. We brutally collided foreheads. Both of us groaned in agony and he covered his eyes.
His roommate banged on the wall even harder.
“Would you guys shut the fuck up?!”
It was so absurd and awful and hilarious that I just started laughing.
He raised an eyebrow, then kissed me playfully and scraped my face with his stubble with a vengeance.
“I know you’ve gotta go, so lets make this quick.”
He reached down and fucked me slowly playing with my clit. I wrapped my legs around his back and arched up towards him in encouragement. I could feel myself getting closer, so I rushed forward towards it, pinching my own nipples and leaning up to be kissed.
I gasped and came hard, clutching his shoulders. I tried to be quiet, because really, his roommate is a very nice guy. Law student. And it was finals week.
My art student, however didn’t give a fuck. He moaned loudly as he finished, collapsing heavily onto my chest.
3-2-1 Obligatory cuddling. Then I wiggled out from underneath him and starting throwing my clothes back on. He watched me as I got dressed. Pulled up my stockings and tied up my hair.
“Don’t forget the midterm today.” I said, putting my glasses back on and throwing my purse over my shoulder.
“Is it hard?” he asked, partially muffled by the sheets.
I laughed then patted him on the cheek. “For you, dear, it doesn’t matter.”
There was a moment of silence before I grasped his chin.
I could feel his stubble close beneath the skin. His face was open, his eyes were trusting but a bit scared as they flickered to the closed classroom door. He licked his lips.
“Close your eyes.” I said quietly.
At the first stroke, he inhaled sharply, but kept his eyes closed. I brushed the wand against the tips of his lashes. His lips were parted and full, his breath was warm on my face. I leaned towards him, inches away, close enough to steal a kiss if I wanted to. But I didn’t. Instead, I slotted my knee in between his and concentrated on the task.
He placed a hand on my arm as if to steady himself. I smiled nervously. Brushing the wand in an arc, so slow and steady handed, and gentle like I was calming a foal.
I moved to the other side and began anew. He brushed his thumb against my wrist, and his eyes moved beneath his eyelids as I worked. The silence was deafening.
I put on a second coat for good measure, then blew lightly to dry it. Then I sat back.
He spent a moment with his eyes still closed before opening them to gaze at me.
“Can I see?” He asked, in a whisper so low I could barely hear it.
I handed him my compact and he looked at himself, tilting the mirror this way and that.
When I was 14 I had a teacher who I was very close to.
He was brash and creative and theatrical. Not terribly beautiful, but sharp eyed and he had the kind of dark slicked back hair you only see in mobster films.
We came together over a love of history, stories and epics.
I don’t know how many times I stayed after class talking to him in front of his desk. Admiring the way he stuck his hands into his black silk pants pockets, the hair on his broad forearms, the devastatingly European way he crossed his legs. The tilt of his head and his angular jaw.
One day, we were talking about art and I asked him if I could draw his eyes.
He consented, with a grin, and I pulled out a pencil and paper. He sat across from me, unblinking. Just looking at me deeply as I sketched. His eyelashes were so dark, and he looked kind of sleepy, as if he was in a trance. I finished sketching and showed him my work. He laughed and asked if he could keep it.
“You made my eyelashes very long.” He said.
“Yeah, I guess. But I just drew what I saw.” I replied.
“My girlfriend was trying to get me to try on mascara. Does it hurt to put on?” He asked, in a surprising change of subject.
I laughed. “No. of course not! it just gets in your eyes sometimes if you’re not careful.”
“Do you have any with you?”
“I always bring my makeup with me…. Why? Do you want to try some on?”
He lowered his gaze and blushed prettily. It was astonishingly demure.
I was taking guitar lessons at a park district. My teacher was a lanky man in his mid 30’s. He had crinkles around his eyes and dark brown hair that flopped inelegantly over his forehead. He wore his T-shirts too tight and his jeans hugged his hips and thighs.
I was terrible at guitar. He’s spend hours teaching me where to place my fingers, and what to do with them, but it was just something I couldn’t grasp. No matter how many examples or challenges he gave me.
One day he just threw his hands up in exasperation and shouted “Why do you even want to learn?”
“So I can accompany myself when I sing.”
He stared at me.
“Do it, then. Let me hear your voice.”
“Take me somewhere with more echo.”
He lead me upstairs to a room I’d never been in before. It was circular large and empty, with wood floors. The sun lit the air through the windows catching on the specks of dust to make them specks of gold.
He stood across from me, arms crossed.
So I did.
My voice is crisp. I have absolute pitch; my notes are always clear, like a violin’s. All of the women in my mother’s line are born with this skill. It meant nothing to me at the time. I simply didn’t know any thing different.
My guitar teacher tightened his arms around his chest and stared past me; out the window, at the floor, anywhere but at my face. After several minutes, something snapped. He walked towards me, and I stopped, surprised.
“Go on. Don’t stop.” He said. his voice low. “Your voice…. its… It almost hurts.”
He reached out and pressed his fingers against my neck to feel the vibrations.
I sang through it, my attention completely focused on the warmth of his hand on my throat.
As I hit a high note, his eyes slipped closed. I looked him up and down.
He was hard.
I finished the song, then stepped away from him. I kept stepping backwards until I was practically tripping over my feet to get away from him.
He was still standing in the middle of the room, looking shattered and bereft.
I’m not a thin woman. Actually, I’m quite lumpy and stretch marky, and unashamedly overweight. But I think, of all then men I’ve been with, he made me feel the sexiest.
He used to gaze at my face with something akin to wonder, and stroke the sharpness of my cheekbones. The first time he saw me naked, he looked at me like someone would look at a goddess, and just said. “Wow. You…. wow.”
Once while we were riding the train during rush hour, he told me my eyes were incredible. He said that they were how he imagined Cleopatra’s to look: dark and hooded and …. guarded. A woman behind him raised an eyebrow at us, and I just smiled back.
Zach was no flatterer though, he always said everything very matter of factly, like he was commenting on the weather.
Zach twined himself around me like a vine in public places, daring anyone to comment with his stare.
He was just… magnificent looking. His body was kind of like a swimmer’s. All lean lines and symmetry. He was just so compact and graceful and flexible. His feet and hands were so perfect, like they’d been carved from marble by a master sculptor.
He kissed with playful enthusiasm,and snuck his hands places like he thought he wouldn’t be allowed. I was a precious object to him. Lord, knows why.
Zach was like a selfish little prince. Demanding, and lofty, beautiful and gifted.
He had a habit of making me paper cranes when his heart was too full, and presenting them to me like tokens of his favor.
My favorite thing about him: His eyelashes were so long. They dusted his cheeks like branches from a willow tree. Things like that are best seen up close.
Anyway, Zach was always enthusiastic about everything, and gave amazing back rubs. Very kind, but easily offended and annoyed.
There were some things about him that I just couldn’t understand.
Just like there were probably things about me that my previous partners didn’t understand.
Zach made time for me, but didn’t go out of his way to convenience me, and he was totally about himself and his priorities. (like me)
We did have fun though. We went to museums, and he read to me in the park and we restaurant hopped and watched 90’s movies. He read the book I was writing and helped me with editing it. And I helped him with his painting and gave him…. inspiration.
He was a real art kid. Pretentious to the core; what hipsters wish they were, and pretend to be.
He watched documentaries and silent films and talked about Man Ray. I watched Adventure Time and Good Fellas and talked about Ender’s Game.
*Oh, and his tongue was pierced. Just thought I should mention it.