embarrassed to ask him for things like this.
And I think he knows it.
‘Let me,’ I say, only this time he answers with a little lick.
Right between my legs. Right over my swollen, sensitive clit, and then, just when I want to cry foul and call him a cheat, he does it again. He pins my hips when I try to jerk away, and holds me fast when I protest, and after that he’s free to work on me in any way he wants. He can rub that killer tongue over my little bud, and pump into my clenching pussy as he does it.
And I can’t make a single demand once he’s there. All I can manage is a kind of rough blurt of air and a lot of gasping, followed by my hands that seem to want to clench in his hair. I get hold of it tightly and squeeze, but it doesn’t really help.
I’m going to come, and after a second I tell him so. It’s the only words I can get out, as rude and wrong as they are.
‘Ohhhh, yeah, right there, right there, lick my pussy,’ I tell him, as though I never thought there’d be a problem with him doing this at all. I wasn’t nervous before. I just didn’t know how fucking amazing this would feel – oh, amazing enough to make me lose my mind and spill out things like this: ‘God, I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it.’
I don’t even know what
doing it
means.
And, apparently, neither does he.
‘Doing what?’ he asks, in between kisses.
Only it’s the sort of kisses you couldn’t tell your mother about over dinner. Kisses for my clit, for my pussy. Kisses that leave me hovering on the brink.
‘Orgasm,’ I say. ‘I’m having an orgasm.’
And then the pleasure washes over me in a bright, tight wave. It starts at my clit and bursts outwards, but there’s an underlying note to it, an intensity to it that I don’t quite know how to process. He’s been rubbing at something inside me, something I’ve never really been able to uncover myself, and when the pleasure lets go there’s a dull pulse underneath it. It’s like a weight, dragging that wave of sensation back. It pulls it in until I can hardly bear it, until I want to tell him no, no, that’s too much.
Though I doubt he’d listen. I can hear him groaning, too, over my own embarrassingly guttural grunts, like maybe he enjoys watching me lose it this way. In fact, I know he enjoys watching me lose it, because once I come around from this incredible orgasm, once I realise I’ve curled myself into a ball halfway up the bed, and that my ears are kind of ringing and my body is in spasm, I can hear him.
He’s masturbating.
He’s masturbating and, even more delightful, he’s saying things in Russian. Dirty-sounding things that drag another little spike of pleasure out of an orgasm that should be long done.
‘Tell me what you’re saying,’ I ask him. ‘Tell me.’
But of course he can’t. He’s now in the position I was in five seconds ago: struck almost mute by sensation. Even the Russian words fall away, and then I’m trapped in a sightless world made up of his breathing, harsh and frantic. The sound of his hand on his cock, slick-clicking back and forth, back and forth.
Lord, how I wish I could see him. I wish I could just rip this blindfold off, but I know the effect it would have. He’d back off, I know it, though I’m still not quite sure why. Because the closeness of this and the closeness of me seeing him would just be too much together? Because he mysteriously hates his own body?
Even though it doesn’t sound like he hates it now. The stroke of his hand speeds up, and so do his near shameless moans. It’s like he can’t help it and, of course, if he can’t help this … if he can’t stop this … maybe he won’t be able to stop a few other things too.
Like my hand tentatively reaching out for him. Just for his arm, maybe, or possibly his chest. Perhaps if I start out someplace innocuous, he’ll let me progress.
Or at least that’s the theory, until I actually make contact. I think I find his elbow, but
And I think he knows it.
‘Let me,’ I say, only this time he answers with a little lick.
Right between my legs. Right over my swollen, sensitive clit, and then, just when I want to cry foul and call him a cheat, he does it again. He pins my hips when I try to jerk away, and holds me fast when I protest, and after that he’s free to work on me in any way he wants. He can rub that killer tongue over my little bud, and pump into my clenching pussy as he does it.
And I can’t make a single demand once he’s there. All I can manage is a kind of rough blurt of air and a lot of gasping, followed by my hands that seem to want to clench in his hair. I get hold of it tightly and squeeze, but it doesn’t really help.
I’m going to come, and after a second I tell him so. It’s the only words I can get out, as rude and wrong as they are.
‘Ohhhh, yeah, right there, right there, lick my pussy,’ I tell him, as though I never thought there’d be a problem with him doing this at all. I wasn’t nervous before. I just didn’t know how fucking amazing this would feel – oh, amazing enough to make me lose my mind and spill out things like this: ‘God, I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it.’
I don’t even know what
doing it
means.
And, apparently, neither does he.
‘Doing what?’ he asks, in between kisses.
Only it’s the sort of kisses you couldn’t tell your mother about over dinner. Kisses for my clit, for my pussy. Kisses that leave me hovering on the brink.
‘Orgasm,’ I say. ‘I’m having an orgasm.’
And then the pleasure washes over me in a bright, tight wave. It starts at my clit and bursts outwards, but there’s an underlying note to it, an intensity to it that I don’t quite know how to process. He’s been rubbing at something inside me, something I’ve never really been able to uncover myself, and when the pleasure lets go there’s a dull pulse underneath it. It’s like a weight, dragging that wave of sensation back. It pulls it in until I can hardly bear it, until I want to tell him no, no, that’s too much.
Though I doubt he’d listen. I can hear him groaning, too, over my own embarrassingly guttural grunts, like maybe he enjoys watching me lose it this way. In fact, I know he enjoys watching me lose it, because once I come around from this incredible orgasm, once I realise I’ve curled myself into a ball halfway up the bed, and that my ears are kind of ringing and my body is in spasm, I can hear him.
He’s masturbating.
He’s masturbating and, even more delightful, he’s saying things in Russian. Dirty-sounding things that drag another little spike of pleasure out of an orgasm that should be long done.
‘Tell me what you’re saying,’ I ask him. ‘Tell me.’
But of course he can’t. He’s now in the position I was in five seconds ago: struck almost mute by sensation. Even the Russian words fall away, and then I’m trapped in a sightless world made up of his breathing, harsh and frantic. The sound of his hand on his cock, slick-clicking back and forth, back and forth.
Lord, how I wish I could see him. I wish I could just rip this blindfold off, but I know the effect it would have. He’d back off, I know it, though I’m still not quite sure why. Because the closeness of this and the closeness of me seeing him would just be too much together? Because he mysteriously hates his own body?
Even though it doesn’t sound like he hates it now. The stroke of his hand speeds up, and so do his near shameless moans. It’s like he can’t help it and, of course, if he can’t help this … if he can’t stop this … maybe he won’t be able to stop a few other things too.
Like my hand tentatively reaching out for him. Just for his arm, maybe, or possibly his chest. Perhaps if I start out someplace innocuous, he’ll let me progress.
Or at least that’s the theory, until I actually make contact. I think I find his elbow, but
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