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I want to undo my belt, open my pants. Take my cock out and make you watch as I stroke myself, get myself hard, until that pale flesh flushes dark. Until you can see the excitement beading, cresting, slipping from my crown, then gleaming along my shaft as that hand keeps on pumping.
I want to beckon you forward to the edge of your seat, guide my cock to your chin, watch it disappear between your lips. Watch your face as I feed you every inch, as you taste a man’s desire for the first time.
I want to feel your inexperience in those awkward, eager, nervous seconds.
Your shy hands hide in your lap. I grasp your wrist, make you wrap your fingers around me and show you how tight I want it, show you how hard you make me. Show you how to stroke me so your rising fist meets your swallowing lips. Let you hear the way my breath sucks in with each pull. Make you feel the weight of my hand on your head and the soft tug of my fingers in your hair. I won’t force you, just follow the bobbing of your head.
But that’s only one idea, stranger, and not what really happens.
Not this night, anyway.
What really happens is that I take you by the hand. Coax you to stand with all the airs of a gentleman inviting you to waltz. As you rise, I turn you around, hold you by the waist, then draw you down onto my lap, your back meeting my chest.
You feel my mouth on your neck—the cool, smooth tip of my nose, the harsh rasp of my jaw. As I kiss your throat, my hands sweep over your body from your shoulders down over your breasts, your belly, your thighs.
You can feel that I’m hard, feel me pressing there against your ass, but there’s no details to catch hold of, and you want the details so, so badly.
My fingers close around the hem of that stolen sweater and tug it up to your hips. Though I can’t see what greets me, I feel it. I don’t let you see the shock as my fingers traverse your skin—smooth, smooth, always smooth. Not what I expect from someone so sheltered. Maybe you hear the way my breath halts, or maybe your own gasp keeps my surprise a secret.
The edge of my finger meets your slick, soft folds. So wet I have to wonder what it is you thought about as you waited for a stranger to come home and find you here. Catch you.
I trace you with my knuckles, let you feel my rough skin against your soft lips. I stroke you like that for ages, waiting. Waiting for you to beg. To admit you want more.
Maybe you don’t tell me in words. Maybe it’s your panting breaths that tell me. Or the fingers that curl around my wrist to ride the motions, to feel the flex of my tendon and bone. Maybe it’s the moan that finally escapes your throat. Whatever the case, I finally end your suffering.
I give you my fingers. Two of them, only deep enough to tease. You make it so easy, like you said. You make me feel needed like I haven’t in years. Maybe not ever. You make me feel powerful, strong, big beyond reason. I want to give you my cock, so badly you can never, ever understand what torture that need is like to live with. I want to hold your hips and make you sink down on it, glacier-slow.
I don’t, though. Not tonight.
Tonight you get those fingers. Three of them now, and deeper. Deeper and thicker, enough to help you imagine what you’re missing. My other fingers frame your pussy, and my thumb sweeps low, steals some of that wetness, brings it to your clit.
Does it take an hour to make you come? Does it take a single breath?
Whatever it takes, I’ll give you that. The raw drag of my kisses, the slick friction of my thumb and the steady fucking of my fingers until you come apart in my lap. Shaking, shuddering. Groaning. I keep going until the pleasure crests past relief and into pain and that hand on my wrist is tugging, pleading for me to stop.
And I do. I stop, and there’s just us. Two strangers in my lonely living room, and the smell of you everywhere.
And here I’ll leave you. The boy will be awake soon, though there’s nothing I want more than to lie here and wait for the buzz of my phone in this dark room. But this is bordering on addiction now, so I’ll power it off, like a drunk pouring the last of his gin down the sink.
But there’s always the next night, stranger. There’s always another bottle, another taste. Another temptation I’m too helpless to pass up. So go on, then. Intoxicate me.
7.12am
I think I held my breath through your entire reply. Mostly because it was so hot my skin is now on fire, but also because I never thought I’d ever have anyone say things like that to me. Things that make me wild for them. Things that make me moan.
Things that fill me with joy.
Oh so much joy, just to see the way I seem through your eyes. You’ve never even looked at me, never heard anything but my own nervous descriptions, and yet you take them and turn them into something amazing. I sound so different, coming from you.
Like someone capable of being sexy.
Now the saggy jumper is yours, worn so I could smell you throughout the day. My little legs are porcelain; my eyes are wide. I get to be smooth beneath your fingers, and something like torture to you. Is it all right if I enjoyed being a sort of torture? Because I did, I have, I do. I read that one word and said your name, breathless and desperate.
And I only got more lascivious from there.
I made myself come twice—first from the thought of you showing me how you like it, how much you’d want me to suck you, how good you could make it for me with just your fingers, and then from the idea of what I’d do in return.
You have to know that I would do something in return.
