“Think about how relaxed you’re going to feel after you come, Maeve. Can I say that? Can I say come?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Just don’t… Don’t talk about my body, the specifics, down there.”
“Okay, Maeve, I won’t do that.”
“Fuck,” I say again, but this time it’s void of irritation. It’s a little sigh as more of my body succumbs to arousal.
“You’re doing so well, Maeve,” they say. “You’re being really brave.”
“It shouldn’t be this difficult,” I grit out and I rub harder, almost as if to punish myself, but it hardly feels like a punishment when it pulls me closer and closer to where I ultimately want to be.
“It’s cool, Maeve, just relax. You’re doing so well.”
The way their voice teeters on the edge of patronising should have me yelling at them to shut the fuck up, but I don’t want them to. I really, really don’t. They’re making it easier. They’re making me almost enjoy it.
“You’re going to sleep so well after this. Your body is going to feel so relaxed and your brain will finally switch off. You’ll feel so good, and you deserve to feel good, don’t you think so, Maeve?”
“Yes,” I say again and it’s a desperate little noise. My fingers slide easier now I’m wetter and my clit is more swollen under my fingertips. In the silence that fills the room, a little squelch reaches my ears and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping, praying Loncey didn’t hear it.
“Are you wet, Maeve?” they ask and their voice is so gravelly it sounds almost painful.
“Yes,” I say again.
“That’s good,” they tell me, “that’s very good. That means your body is enjoying what you’re doing.”
“And if I wasn’t wet?” I ask and it’s half-obtuseness, half-curiosity that makes me ask the question.
“That would be okay too. Our bodies don’t always align with what we know we want or need.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth, I say silently to myself.
“Are you still touching yourself, Maeve?” they ask and I realise that my finger has slowed.
“Yes,” I reply and just as my pace picks up, I feel a warm flood of sensation seize my core. It feels like I’ve just taken a giant leap towards my orgasm.
Thank fuck, I think but then I second-guess it. Because I don’t really want this to be over like I normally do. I don’t want Loncey to stop saying nice things to me. I don’t want to stop feeling like I’m sharing something with somebody, something that could one day be a way to connect with a partner, somebody who really and truly loves me.
“Are you still touching yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl. Are you going to put your fingers inside yourself? Are you going to make it feel good inside too?”
“No,” I say, quickly, awkwardly. “I don’t like… that.”
“Okay, Maeve. You’re a good girl for telling me that,” they reply gently.
I close my eyes and release a long sigh at hearing their praise, but then I slam my lips shut and try to stifle it.
“You know, Maeve, it’s okay to make noises. You can show me that you’re enjoying yourself,” Loncey says.
“Like… like sex noises?” I say, stuttering because of embarrassment but also because I’m close. I’m really close.
“Yes,” they reply and they don’t sound amused or deterred by the way I stumbled over my words. “You can sigh. You can moan. You can curse. You can tell me if it feels good. In fact, I’d love to know if it feels good to you.”
I swallow. “Yes, it feels good,” I say, and it’s not a lie. Now I have my release within striking distance and I know the relief that is going to fill my body and mind once it crests, I do feel good.
“What feels good, Maeve?”
