“All these veins.” She looks up at me. “When you’re erect like this…does it…hurt?”
I shrug. “It can, yes. Not, like, cutting yourself or stubbing your toe, though. It’s more of an ache. Like when you felt like you wanted to come, needed to come? Like that. Same feeling.”
“So you want me to touch you?”
I press my head back into the pillow, nod and groan. “Fuck yes, I want you to touch me.”
She slides her touch back up my thigh to my belly, parallel to my hard, aching length. Her eyes fix on mine, the quicksilver darkening with the heat of arousal, becoming storm clouds.
Her brow rumples, lips parting, tongue sliding along her lower lip, and then her teeth seize that lip and bite down.
She wraps her hand around me, then.
“Oh…fuck,” I breathe. “Naomi…”.
a burst of boldness
Naomi
Igasp as I fill my hand with him. He feels…perfect. Nothing like I expected, yet so much better than I could have anticipated.
There’s a host of emotions roiling inside me, many of them inevitably comparing my previous experiences with sex to this, with Silas. I suppress those—I’ll deal with them later. For now, all I want is to feel. To experience.
When I take Silas’s long thick manhood in my hand, his whole body goes ramrod stiff.
“Oh fuck…Naomi.” His words are groaned past gritted teeth. There is unadulterated wonder in his voice, along with relief and pleasure.
For a moment, I hold him. My middle finger and thumb just barely meet. It’s so long, straining above my hand. The end of it is round and fat and pink, the shaft of it the same tan as the rest of his skin, marked with stark blue-purple veins. The sack at his base is heavy and tight against his body. He has a thin fuzz of copper hair.
I glance down momentarily at my own privates, at the thick hatch of dark curly hair, and I wonder if he likes it like that.
“What are you thinking?” He asks; he’s so perceptive, always able to read me.
I shrug. “I was thinking about…” I run my fingers through the thatch of hair at my privates. “This. I was wondering how you felt about it.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. “It’s you. It’s beautiful.”
“You have very little hair,” I point out.
“I trim it. I haven’t in a while. Haven’t had time.”
“What do other women do?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Some leave it natural, some trim it, to varying degrees, and others shave or wax it off completely.” His voice is tense, distracted.
I’m still just holding onto him. I put the idle, curious thoughts aside for now, and focus on him. I release him, and he smacks against his belly. I trace his length from tip down to the base with my fingertips—he twitches. I watch his face, assessing his reactions; his brow furrows, his jaw clenches as I simply run my fingertips up and down his length, my touch slow, gentle, and soft.
He feels wondrous, so soft yet so hard at the same time. I feel so lucky to have this experience with a man like him—to be able to just touch him without expectation.
Not the way—no. I dismiss those thoughts. There’s no room in this beautiful experience for the ugliness of my past. The way things were withhimis not the way things are with Silas.
Hetook. Silas gives.
Hedebased me. Silas builds me up.
I shake those thoughts away and gaze down at Silas’s manhood. His belly is sucking in and distending with long, deep breaths, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, hooded with restrained need. He wants more.
I remember the desperation I felt and realize I’m probably unintentionally making this an awful experience for him.
