She strokes me slowly with one fist, her touch gentle, soft, tender, warm. Her other hand cups me, just holds me, squeezing ever so gently.
I feel myself rising.
I won’t be able to wait much longer.
I groan, aching with the need to come. “Jolene…” I groan. “God, Jo.”
“Are you going to…” She bites her lower lip, a gesture I’m equating with desire, eagerness, nerves. “Wes, are you about to…come?”
I nod. “I can’t…I can’t stop it any longer.”
She kisses my cheekbone. “I don’t want you to, Wes. Don’t stop it.” She rests her forehead on mine. Watches her steadily, slowly gliding fist around my erection, which throbs, pulsates. “I want to know what it looks like when I make you feel good.”
“You’re about to find out, honey,” I growl, hips pushing into her fist—she instinctively quickens her touch.
“When?” she whispers. Eager, greedy.
“Ohhh god, Jo.” I’m bucking into her touch, now. Frenzy rises in me, and I just barely hold it in check. “Now, Jo. Oh…god, Jo.”
More Than Okay
Jolene
My heart is crashing crazily in my chest, beating as hard as it had when he was the one making me feel good. Touching me, driving me wild, bringing me to orgasm.
Now it’s my turn to bring him there, and it’s so far beyond anything I could ever have fantasized about.
He’s so big, so thick, so long. I have nothing to compare him to, but it’s hard for me to imagine anything bigger than what’s in my fists. It takes both of my hands to fully encompass his length, and my finger and thumb only just barely touch when I circle him.
I have one hand on his balls, which makes him weak in the knees. When I cup him like I am, it makes his knees buckle. And now, with my other hand plunging up and down on his thick, hot length, he’s moving. His hips shift and flex, pushing his erection into my hand. When he was touching me, my hips did the same. Seeking—demanding. A silent, wordless plea formore.
“Now, Jo. Oh…god, Jo.” His voice is rough, wild. Hoarse.
I speed my touch, and he responds, hips beginning to move in a rhythm. He lifts on his toes to drive into my fist.
I know, intellectually, that the next step in this process is actual sex, but I’m not ready to think about that. Just enjoy this, feel this, memorize this.
He’s groaning with each flex of his hips, now, wordless snarls and grunts.
Despite having saidnow, nothing has happened yet.
I want it. He said it would be messy, that something would squirt out of him. I remember when I orgasmed—when Icame—it felt like an explosion, like I was coming apart from the inside out. I now understand the term “to come” in deep, visceral, way. I want to make himcome.
So, I tighten my grip on his erection and quicken my touch. Up and down, faster. Squeeze his balls a little tighter, and then try something different—squeezing them in time to my strokes.
He groans at this, which I think means he likes it.
I twist my fist around him as I touch him—I’ve noticed he seems to like that. Faster, and faster. Twist at the top, then at the bottom.
He groans, and his hips are driving forward—hard, now. Something slick and sticky at the same time smears from his tip, coating him as I touch him.
He reaches up, blindly, fumbles for the little complimentary bottles of conditioner and shampoo. He finds the conditioner, fumbles with it.
I take it from him, open it, peel off the little tab covering the opening. “What…what’s this for?”
He’s gasping raggedly. “Friction.”
I comprehend his meaning and squirt a dollop into my palm and then smear it on him. I begin stroking him again, slowly once more. “Like that?”
