Then he took off his jacket. A lovely ivory-handled pistol sat snugly in his shoulder holster. He slowly removed the holster, keeping his eyes on me all the time, and laid it on a small, delicate end table in front of a goldframed picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Help.
The unbuttoned buttons at the bottom of his shirt were the next stage of his conscientious undressing. When the two front panels of his shirt fell apart, I admired the neatness with which his briefs cradled his cock. It's a neatness I've admired in magazine ads and on street posters, but I had never had the pleasure to see it so enchantingly duplicated in real life.
He stepped closer. His stockinged feet covered the toes of my boots. There was nothing to look at but the enlarging in front of me. Without thinking twice, I cradled his nuts through his bulging nylon briefs.
He backed up a few steps.
“Kneel,” he said.
“No,” I answered.
“I could put a gun to your head,” he warned.
“I know, but you won't.”
He stood there a little longer, then took off his shirt and his drawers and tossed them both on his bed. Then he walked into the bathroom and put on the shower. Michael had left the door to the bathroom open, and the full-length mirror on the back reflected the full length of him. He had a high-jutting ass. I wanted to take a bite from the back and nuzzle up to the front. “Do it,” demanded my body beneath the multiple layers of clothing. I kicked off my boots; I shed my parka and overalls, my sweater, my panties and even my argyle socks.
Michael's body, exquisite when dry, hard, lean, angular and tan, was irresistible when glistening with water. He was soaping his armpits when I joined him in the shower and took the washcloth from him. I went right to work on tightening his loose genitals, which showed their appreciation by jabbing me firmly in the belly. I reached around with both hands to the rear, where my fingers enveloped the full curves of both spheres. I noted that he, like a woman, enjoyed having his pubic mound rubbed.
I knelt down and pulled at his pubic hairs with my teeth, still holding out on taking his cock into my mouth. I wanted to make sure that his alpha was not my omega, so I waited for some indication that my lovemaking would be reciprocated before sucking him.
But none was forthcoming. He got out of the shower, dried himself with the only towel and left it crumpled on the floor in a puddle of water. I shook myself dry while using a tigerskin toothbrush, then hurried into the bedroom to be beside him under the covers.
He had his back to me. I stroked his neck and his shoulder blades and counted each vertebra with the tip of my finger, but I might just as well have been playing with a smooth piece of wood. I stopped and lay with my head on my elbow, refusing to believe this was happening to me. I didn't understand the game he was playing. I certainly didn't understand what I was supposed to do all alone. Did his icy detachment turn some women on? Fuck him, I thought. So I decided to turn over and at least pretend to fall asleep.
According to the bright red numerals on the digital clock, I had been playing possum for ten minutes when his fingers woke me. They were gliding down my sides, up and down my body, along the peripheries of my hot points, the outer curves of my breasts, the edge of my pubic hair, taunting me, teasing me. When his hand slipped into the tight, wet place between my thighs, I locked it there with my tightest grip, as if I'd been riding the slimmest of horses for thousands of years.
He stopped struggling. My legs fell open. His lips retraced his fingers' path and landed, quivering, between my loose thighs. Or was I quivering? By then the mere radiation of his breath brought such an orgasm to my clitoris that it boomeranged along my body, bounding off the top of my head, the soles of my feet and back to my vagina, where it coiled hotly, finally settling down in anticipation of the next one.
His
The unbuttoned buttons at the bottom of his shirt were the next stage of his conscientious undressing. When the two front panels of his shirt fell apart, I admired the neatness with which his briefs cradled his cock. It's a neatness I've admired in magazine ads and on street posters, but I had never had the pleasure to see it so enchantingly duplicated in real life.
He stepped closer. His stockinged feet covered the toes of my boots. There was nothing to look at but the enlarging in front of me. Without thinking twice, I cradled his nuts through his bulging nylon briefs.
He backed up a few steps.
“Kneel,” he said.
“No,” I answered.
“I could put a gun to your head,” he warned.
“I know, but you won't.”
He stood there a little longer, then took off his shirt and his drawers and tossed them both on his bed. Then he walked into the bathroom and put on the shower. Michael had left the door to the bathroom open, and the full-length mirror on the back reflected the full length of him. He had a high-jutting ass. I wanted to take a bite from the back and nuzzle up to the front. “Do it,” demanded my body beneath the multiple layers of clothing. I kicked off my boots; I shed my parka and overalls, my sweater, my panties and even my argyle socks.
Michael's body, exquisite when dry, hard, lean, angular and tan, was irresistible when glistening with water. He was soaping his armpits when I joined him in the shower and took the washcloth from him. I went right to work on tightening his loose genitals, which showed their appreciation by jabbing me firmly in the belly. I reached around with both hands to the rear, where my fingers enveloped the full curves of both spheres. I noted that he, like a woman, enjoyed having his pubic mound rubbed.
I knelt down and pulled at his pubic hairs with my teeth, still holding out on taking his cock into my mouth. I wanted to make sure that his alpha was not my omega, so I waited for some indication that my lovemaking would be reciprocated before sucking him.
But none was forthcoming. He got out of the shower, dried himself with the only towel and left it crumpled on the floor in a puddle of water. I shook myself dry while using a tigerskin toothbrush, then hurried into the bedroom to be beside him under the covers.
He had his back to me. I stroked his neck and his shoulder blades and counted each vertebra with the tip of my finger, but I might just as well have been playing with a smooth piece of wood. I stopped and lay with my head on my elbow, refusing to believe this was happening to me. I didn't understand the game he was playing. I certainly didn't understand what I was supposed to do all alone. Did his icy detachment turn some women on? Fuck him, I thought. So I decided to turn over and at least pretend to fall asleep.
According to the bright red numerals on the digital clock, I had been playing possum for ten minutes when his fingers woke me. They were gliding down my sides, up and down my body, along the peripheries of my hot points, the outer curves of my breasts, the edge of my pubic hair, taunting me, teasing me. When his hand slipped into the tight, wet place between my thighs, I locked it there with my tightest grip, as if I'd been riding the slimmest of horses for thousands of years.
He stopped struggling. My legs fell open. His lips retraced his fingers' path and landed, quivering, between my loose thighs. Or was I quivering? By then the mere radiation of his breath brought such an orgasm to my clitoris that it boomeranged along my body, bounding off the top of my head, the soles of my feet and back to my vagina, where it coiled hotly, finally settling down in anticipation of the next one.
His
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