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She sighed and smiled. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“No,” I smiled back, relieved she let me derail our awkward blow job conversation.
She restarted the video once more.
Forty-five minutes later, we were still huddled together, leaning back against the pillows on Decca’s bed and mesmerized now by a different woman whispering fake high school gossip into a camera while brushing, combing, and braiding fake hair. Once I discovered that the meaning of these ASMR videos wasn’t the actual content, but the sounds of the shit they were doing, I was oddly rapt. I especially liked the ones where the creators made reservations for high-tea at a forest hotel for mice on a very clicky keyboard.
I’d never felt so serene and blissed out. I also hadn’t had a proper orgasm in avery long time.
Decca’s arms hugged her knees as she leaned into me, watching the screen balanced on my lap. At first, her little accidental touches were like electricity, jolting through her body into mine, but the more it happened, the less she cared until, at some point, her legs rested fully against my side, her head on my shoulder.
We’d never done this. Cuddling. Our platonic friendship (not that it was everjust platonicon my side) had never been physical. I was too afraid if I touched her, all my feelings would pour out of me and scare her away.
I relished the warmth of her body against my arm and my thigh, my nerves zinging with her every inhale. I wanted to do more. Mentally, I calculated the actions I’d take if I had more confidence in this. It would feel so right to raise my arm and burrow her deeper into my side, play with those tendrils of black hair that escaped from her ponytail. The sweet, milky, almond cake scent she was wearing today—so much nicer than her burning-at-the-stake cocktail she normally wore—practically curled into my nostrils. It was intoxicating. I wanted to kiss that tender spot below her ear and get even more drunk on her.
She seemed to read my thoughts. She dropped her chin, giving me a coy smile while trying to hide it at the same time. An invitation.
It was now or never. I could accept it or let this moment pass.
“Sit in front of me?” I asked.
She said nothing. I spread my legs, putting one of the extra pillows in my lap and patting it.
“Come on. Get your brush,” I encouraged. She hesitated for a moment, then jumped up, her eyes aflame. She handed me her hairbrush. It looked like it’d never been used. Not a single stray hair lay twisted between its bristles.
My chest tightened when she gripped my knees, positioning herself between my legs and leaning comfortably against my chest as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Thank God for my foresight on the pillow. This was supposed to be a treat for her, and an experiment for me, not foreplay.
I pulled the scrunchie out of her hair and put it on my wrist. The warmth that had been hers singed my skin. I ran my hands through her thick black strands, still a little wet from a recent shower. The rosemary scent of her shampoo competed with her perfume, but the herbal notes were better suited to her than the sweet cloying scent, no matter how much I liked it. I raked my hands through again, gently finger-combing out small tangles.
She arched her back and moaned. “They never mention how the mannequin feels in those videos, but this is pure hedonism.”
I closed my eyes and tried to think about anything besides how she ground the pillow harder into my lap. “Keep going,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am. Should I whisper, too?”
“I’m not really in the mood to hear your church fathers’ philosophies tonight.”
I laughed. “How do know that’s what I’d whisper?”
“I know you better than you think. It would be either that or prayers, written by some monk in the ninth century.”
I stroked, and Decca settled in deeper, her back against my hard cock. I sucked in a breath as the pressure deepened.
“I could whisper about how pretty your hair is.”
“Mm. I just want tofeel,“ she moaned.
Oh, God that moan.One day I wanted to hear it while my cock was buried deep inside her.
She stiffened. “Gus, wait.”
Oh, shit. What did I do?
“Dinner!” She jumped up on her knees, her freshly brushed hair forming a sheet around her bare shoulders and black tank. “The burner’s on. It’s probably burnt to the bottom of the pot by now. And I made your favorite fasting meal.” She hopped off the bed.
Easy for her to do without a steel rod between her legs sucking all the blood out of her brain.
Decca, Lammas/The Transfiguration
