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"Now?"
"After my lesson."
Fuck. "You didn't win."
"I only want the cucumber." Insecurity drips into her voice. "I need the technique. I might have forgotten." Val's blush spreads down her neck and chest.
I tell my eyes to stay on hers, but they disobey me. My gaze goes straight to the neckline of her sundress. She looks too good in the soft white fabric. It's criminal. "It will come back to you."
"Dare." She packs a million things into my name. I should know better than to suggest a learning curve with someone else—and I do know.
But that's the thing. I can't come into the bedroom with her. "If you want to avoid awkwardness, this isn't the way to do it."
"Less commentary. More demonstration."
Fuck, the visions in my head. Val, stripping out of that white sundress, showing off her blue bra and panties, unzipping my jeans.
I can feel her hand around me. And my dick is way too excited to make my fantasy a reality.
There aren't enough alerts in the world for this. What's higher than red? I need a new color. Magenta. Fuchsia. Pink alert.
Deep breath. Unsexy thoughts. This is technical. Clinical. That's it. "Like last time?"
She nods. "There's a cucumber in the fridge. Two, actually."
I can do that. Probably. Maybe. I might die of blue balls. That's a strong possibility. "Grab one."
Her shoulders fall with relief. No more negotiation, no more awkward setup. No, we're ready for the big leagues now.
She moves to the kitchen, gathers the items, returns to the living room with two cucumbers. "Which speaks to you?" She offers me the vegetables.
I can't exactly guess the size of her rommie's dick. "I haven't seen him naked."
Her eyes flit to my crotch.
I pretend I didn't notice. "I don't want to be Goldi-dicks about it, but this isn't a range."
"Goldi-dicks?" A laugh spills from her lips. Her brow softens. Her entire body eases.
We're friends, doing something silly. It's loaded, sure, but we're still friends, helping each other.
Sure, her laugh makes my heart skip and my body buzz, but that's beside the point.
"I guess it's a better lesson if you have to work with whatever the guy is packing." It's not like she's choosing my dick pics here. I grab the wider, shorter cucumber and move a little closer. Until I'm close enough to show her the proper placement.
She blushes as she takes the vegetable and holds it to her pelvis.
I try to ignore the smell of her soap, the feeling of her body next to mine. It's different than with other women. It's overwhelming.
"Hold it there." I stay close enough to demonstrate. It's too close—I'm already losing my ability to think—but it's necessary.
She grips the vegetable tightly.
A more vivid image fills my head—her hand around my flesh—but I push it aside. This is teaching time.
"You want to start like this." I cup the head of the cucumber. "Explore the thing like you find it fascinating." I run my thumb over the vegetable. I ignore the feelings of ridiculousness. "A couple soft brushes." I demonstrate a few strokes with my thumb. "Then get firmer. Firmer than you think."
"I don't want to hurt him."
"He'll let you know if it's too much," I say. "But it's always more than women think."
"I remember that."
My thoughts drift back to our first time doing this. Way back in high school. It felt absurd then too, but it wasn't laced with the sexual tension I feel now. I didn't spend the rest of the day picturing Val's hands around me.
I demonstrate with a few pumps. Slow, to start, then at a good pace.
She watches with rapt eyes. "Can I try?"
"Yeah." I need to be smart here. I can't hold the thing at my dick. I'm already fighting my pants. I hold the cucumber a little higher, near my belly button, and further out, so she can't accidentally brush against me.
She doesn't mention the strange position. She looks at the vegetable, wraps her hand around it, pumps once. "Like that?"
"All the way," I say.
This time, she fists the thing until her fingers brush mine.
I swallow hard.
She watches her movements as she fists the thing again. A steady pump.
"Harder."
She does it again, harder. "For how long?"
"Until he's there."
"What if he isn't…"
"If he has a death grip?" I ask.
"Do I want to know?" she asks.
Probably not. "A guy who watches too much porn. Grinds himself too hard. To the point he can't come from other methods."
Horror streaks her expression.
"He's not the type." Really, the guys who are the type are bad lays. I don't like picturing her with any of them.
"Okay. So, as long as he doesn't have a death grip"—she shakes her head how awful—"this will do it?" She pumps the cucumber again and again.
"Yeah."
"Doesn't it get boring?"
"Not if you're feeling it." Red alert. Pink alert. Every alert.
"If I get bored?"
