AllFreeNovel
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Jesse pushes his jeans lower on his hips, and it takes work because he was clearly sewn into them this morning, gripping himself through his boxers. The black cotton stretches over him as he hesitates, then pulls the fabric down. He’s cut, a droplet of pre-come glistening at the tip, pink and swollen. He holds out his hand. “Get me wet?” he asks, even though his bottle of lube is right there, wet and cold against my side. It sends a thrill through me, one that starts in my chest and ends between my legs, that he wants to get wet fromme.
I spit, once, again into his palm and his eyes are big and dark as he watches me.
“If I wasn’t here. What would you do?” he asks, his hand hovering over himself.
“This, probably.” I stroke my finger over my clit, my jeans stretched uncomfortably around my hand. I pull my bra cup down to glide the pad of my finger over my nipple.
“Would you use a toy?”
“Maybe. Sometimes.” I stroke again and he does, too, rubbing himself off every time I do. “Would you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me.” I push my fingers in and when I pull them out, he can hear it, how wet I am.
He closes his eyes, face flushed. “I thought of you before,” he says.
“Yeah?”
He nods, his jaw clenched. “I was ashamed. It felt like a violation. But I still smelled like you after. I could still hear that sound you made when you rubbed against my thigh.” He means after our date, after I threw myself at him, and I’m seeing it now in a totally new light, his rejection and my reaction.
“I didn’t know I made a sound.”
He opens his eyes. “You sounded like you do now.”
I smile. “Do the voice,” I tease and he bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe he likes to be teased a little bit.
Nodding to me, he says, “Let me see you?” Then, before I can respond: “Can I?” His hand hovering over me. I nod and he pulls my other cup down. My breasts sit high, pushed up and out and on display, my hair feels a mess on the back of my head from how much I’ve pressed it into his pillow. I don’t know what to do with the hand not currently shoved down my pants other than fling it out to the side so my fingers can sift through the comforter on his bed, softer from age than quality. I feel like a mess, but I want to be messier.
He grunts, pushes his pants down farther.
“What did you think about?” I ask. “When you did this thinking of me?”
He flushes and shakes his head, a quick jerk of his chin.
“Tell me,” I beg. “Just one thing.” I reach for him, my fingers brushing his wrist, the tendons and veins corded and tight from where he grips himself. I move my fingers slowly. I feel so close, like I could trip over the edge by accident, and I don’t want to go without him.
“I thought about what I’d do to you.”
I feel bold, my chest bared, my thighs on either side of his. I feel responsible for him, for the way his breathing shudders in his chest, the sweat at his temple. “You’d eat my pussy,” I say.
He groans, falling forward, all his weight onto one hand. He looms over me, his hand moving faster now. “Are you close?” he asks.
I nod.
“Can I see?” he asks again. He loves watching and although I’ve never been much of a performer before, I want to show him everything. He makes it easy. Maybe this is what having sex with your friends is like. Easy, comfortable. Safe.
He helps me pulls my pants down farther, then my panties. There’s a moment when he turns, pouring lube into his hand, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over his dresser. I’m naked from collarbone to mid-thigh, my hair is truly a mess, my hand between my legs, my skin golden under the lamp’s glow. It’s ridiculous, all of it. Us. Two lonely adults who can’t make any friends, but we can make each other come, apparently. It’s ridiculous and I laugh—at the absurdity, at how good I feel, how comfortable—and I expect the sound to bother him but he watches us in the mirror, too, and I hope he sees how beautiful he is, his body thick and strong, the way his ass curves as he fucks into his hand, one leg planted on the ground, his knee firmly on the bed.
He leans closer, dips his head like he’s going to do exactly what he dreamed of—or was it my dream?—and eat my pussy. I almost let him, almost push his head down, but he stops and he says, so softly as I stroke myself, “After you come, will you put your fingers in my mouth?”
He asks for it innocently and like I might say no but now it’s all I can think of, all I want. To feel his mouth, warm, his tongue hot around my fingers. To see if he might like the taste, if I’m what he imagined me to be, and all I want is to come for him. My back arches, my heels pressed into the mattress, looking for purchase. I try to find something solid to grab onto but there’s nothing, just soft, pliable bedsheet, until his hand is there, his fingers brushing the pads of mine. The only points we’re touching are our thighs and those fingers, but I feel him everywhere, like it’s his hand inside me, his cock or his tongue as I burst apart. I shout, the loudest moan, my teeth clenched as I come, my whole body orgasming in a way I haven’t in forever, maybe never like this. He waits for me, watching, letting me pull it all out before, lazily, I lift my hand, my skin glistening and wet. He opens his mouth for me.
“Come on me?” I ask. Apparently, I ask for stuff like that. I want him to finish this mess of me.
He shuts his eyes as he closes his mouth over my fingers. The sweep of his tongue sends an aftershock up my spine and I moan as his come spills onto me. His first pulse hits my chin, streaks across my breast and nipple, then my stomach, my pubic hair. The only sound is our breathing, like we’ve been running or fighting. Or fucking, I guess. My fingers are still hooked in his mouth, pulling his jaw down, keeping him open, his teeth leaving indents on my skin. I let them slip out, dragging them across his chin, down his throat.
Jesse sits on his heels; his head falls back on his neck. He pulls his boxers up.
