One Night, One More Time

We are nearly to his house then, and we don't say much else about this. I ask if I can take a shower, and he says of course, but he hesitates.

"What?"

"Could I..." He's actually stammering. I can picture his blush. "Nothing," he says, with a big sigh.

"Oh, come on," I say, teasing. "You've certainly gotten me to tell you some things... You can share what's on your mind."

"This one is weird," he says. "I want to... bathe you."

"Hm. Not that weird. Or if it's weird, I'm weird with you. That sounds kinda..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I can't believe it, but my clit is stirring again, even as I'm fighting waves of exhaustion. It's been a long day, and an even longer night, but I want more.

When we get out the car, I stop for a moment to breathe in the humid air. It's chilly at home, but it's practically summer here, still. There are green smells here, too, which makes it seem more like summer--the distinctive scent of the boxwood bushes that line the walk are predominant, but there are rich notes of earth and grass and leaf mold, too.

After a moment, I realize that I've just been standing there with my head thrown back, sniffing the air, and Geoff has just been watching me. It's a little embarrassing, but I don't apologize, even though that's my first impulse.

I'm in a little bit of a daze now, and the next thing I know, I'm perched on the toilet seat, hands in my lap, staring at the water filling the tub. It's a big tub, the kind with the jets and everything, and it takes a long time to fill. We don't try to talk over the noise of the taps. He brings me a bottle of water and an aspirin and I take them both. Then he hands me a glass of wine. He lights candles, and scents the water with something fruity. I'm impressed by his preparation and his attention to detail -- particularly when he floats flower petals in the water.

He stands me up and undresses me gently with gentle caresses. Then he takes me by the hand and guides me up the little teak stool into the tub. I sink into the water with a sigh and a hiss--the heat feels great on my taxed muscles, and the water stings my flesh that has been slightly abraded by our fucking.

He comes up around the edge of the tub and starts massaging my shoulders beneath the water--long strokes of his thumbs across my collarbones and up my necks, and then light strokes with his palm over my breasts. My nipples pucker, and I moan a little.

When the massage is over, he pulls out a soft sponge, which he soaps up and begins to run meditatively across my skin, following each pass with his bare hand to wash away the soap. It is a thorough cleaning, and I'm not sure what parts are sexy to him, because he seems to be concentrating very hard. I look down--he's stripped to his skivvies, though he isn't naked, and no, he's not exactly tenting the fabric...

"Take your underwear off?" I suggest.

He blushes, but complies. And yeah, he's only half-hard. There's something very sexy to me about a half-hard, recently fucked penis--I'm not sure what, and never have been. I did once tell Geoff this, and he asked if it was any half-hard, recently fucked penis, or particularly one that had just been inside of me, and I honestly didn't know the answer to that. In any case, I almost always want to take one into my mouth when I see one, and I offer.

"No," he says, moving on to washing my feet. "I'm fine."

A little puzzled--if this is a fetish, he's not getting off on it--I let him continue to wash me, just enjoying the sensations. He parts my legs to wash my groin, taking gentle care to clean each fold of my labia, and I can't help it, I rise against his hand and moan. But this is all fleeting, because once he has wiped away the various juices that I've been marinating in for hours, he moves on--to flip me over and wash my whole back side, including my anus.

Eventually, I'm clean of body, and he washes my hair. And then he asks if he can shave me. I say yes because I'm just that interested to know what he's getting out of all of this. He brings the teak stool into the tub and has me sit on it, and gets into the tub himself to shave me--first my legs, then my armpits, then, he has me lean back on my elbows and spread my legs and he shaves my pussy smooth. Was this the reason? Did I have stubble, and he just didn't want to tell me?

But no -- because now he's hard again. He wanted to shave me, I decide. He's got some shaving fetish--

But there's really no more to it than that. He pulls me out of the tub and rinses me off with the hand sprayer, and then wraps me in towels to dry me off, then goes about his own ablutions. Confused, I stand next to my overnight bag, contemplating my options for sleep. I didn't bring any lingerie for the trip, because to Ty this was a business trip. I did bring a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants, though, and while I am probably better off sleeping naked, I find myself pulling them on.

Geoff doesn't take long to clean up -- the advantages of a shaved head -- and he's out of the bathroom and staring at me. I yawn. I can't bring myself to apologize for my pajamas, though I do sort of gesture at them helplessly.

"You look great," he says, and climbs into bed. "Come here."

And I do. I sink back into the pillows and his arms, and we lie still for a moment. "What did you get from washing me?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," he says, and I hear the frown in his voice. "It's kind of like your fantasy about the bed, somehow. I just wanted... to take care of a woman. I just wanted someone to let me care for her."

"Was it... humiliating? Was it something you had to do for Rachel or someone?" Rachel was his last girlfriend, and she was a bit of an amateur dominatrix, from the stories that Geoff had told me.

"No. I ... I wanted to, but no."

"Hm," I say. "Well, did it live up to your expectations?"

"Yes," he says. "Oddly, it did. Though I particularly liked when you pushed your pussy against my hand... and when I was shaving you, your clitoris started to poke out." He's quiet for a moment longer, before he asks, "Why did you want me to take my underwear off?"

"To see exactly how hard you were. I was trying to figure out if the washing thing was a fetish."

"Oh." Heartbeat. "No." Another heartbeat. "Do you... find it disappointing?"

"Do I find what disappointing?"

He is silent for an excruciatingly long moment before he says, "My cock."

"How would it be disappointing?"

More silence. "It's not very big."

It takes a lot of concentration not to laugh, because laughing would totally be the wrong thing to do in this particular instance. But I'm not laughing because of the size of his cock, I'm laughing because he cares about such a pointless thing. Then I'm not laughing. Who the fuck gave him this complex, I wonder?

"It's big enough," I say. "It works just fine."

"Am I smaller than your husband?"

"Shorter when erect, but bigger around."

"And... you..." He trails off. "Never mind."

I roll over and put my hand right on his cock. It's soft again, and rallies feebly. "Why would you think it's not enough? Or that it matters to me--or anyone--what size it is in relation to anyone else's?"

"It matters to some women," he says grimly.

"Pfft," I say. "It shouldn't. I read a study that says that there aren't even any important nerves past the vaginal entrance. All you can feel past that point is, like, vague pressure."

"You can't feel it when someone hits your cervix?"

"Well, yeah, I can, but it's not actually that good a feeling. It's a little too much like the annual pap smear, at that point."

He mulls that over for a moment. "It still matters," he says firmly.

The only woman I've ever known who discussed penis size with me was, yes, concerned about the smallness of her then-boyfriend. I didn't like her much. I thought she was tacky at best and cruel at worst. But I've had lots of female friends over the years, and only she was that lame. So, where was he finding women?

His cock has grown hard and soft and hard again under my hand, and I know that's a sign of being wrung out. I'm wrung out, too. I yawn. He yawns. I feel like there's more to say, more to discuss, definitely more to do, but I can't summon the logic or the words. His arm comes around me, holding me close to him, and my hand doesn't stray from his mostly flaccid cock.

"I still can't believe you're here," he whispers into the silence of 3 A.M.

"Me neither."

We fall asleep.

#

I wake up sometime around dawn because Geoff has pulled down my pajama bottoms and has buried his face between my legs. It's a hell of a way to wake up, and I am coming before I know it, crying out into the gray light of the new day, rocking against his mouth. He's still licking when I'm done spasming, and I have to pull him up to me to get him to stop, because I'm too sensitive to let him keep going.

When I woke up, I thought for a moment it was Ty touching me, and even though I figured out pretty quickly where I was and what was going on, I'm still surprised that it's Geoff's tall, narrow body that I've pulled up over me, and not Ty's. Comparisons are odious, and I couldn't say which body I prefer--coincidence has made them both rowers, though Geoff is the more natural athlete and Ty is simply the more determined one.

In any case, whenever he licks me until I come, Ty then usually stabs into me with one long stroke, trying to feel the last spasms of my orgasm. Geoff, instead, hovers over me like an anxious hummingbird, face glistening with my juices and politely not jabbing his erection anywhere in particular.

"Hi," I say shyly, and arch upwards to kiss him--but he backs away, eyes serious and dark.

"I..." He hesitates. "Please, will you... let me fuck you with my tiny cock?"

I'm taken aback, I really am, but I understand what he wants. I'm also repulsed by it, I have to say, because it's so not like me. "Geoff, I..."

"Please." He's begging me for this degradation, and with no regard for how it will make me feel. Or... maybe he knows exactly how it will make me feel, and maybe, just maybe, knows I'll find it humiliating, on some level, to act like he wants me to.

"Geoff," I start, but it's too soft, too gentle. I swallow, moistening my mouth and throat, and come out with a good bark: "Get in there and fuck me with your little dick."

And he's so unlike the Geoff of the other times we've fucked. He's not the reserved, confused man in the car, pushed into urgency by my urgency. He's not the angry man, righteously indignant during our second encounter. And he's not the masterful, wily exhibitionist of the jazz club. He's not even the gentle, caring man who bathed me last night. Right now, he's something juvenile, shy, shrinking... yet eager. Like a beaten puppy. Right now he's entering me slowly, hesitantly, watching my face with an expression I can only read as a kind of fear.

I understand the role. I know my part. I've read the stories he likes, and I've used my imagination to fill in the gaps of the things he's told me about Rachel.

I keep my face as smooth and as impassive as possible, and when he's inside of me, I roll my eyes slightly and say, "So, are you in yet, or what? I can't tell." God, that's horrible. It's fortunate for the scenario that I'm sure he can't see the color of my uncontrollable blushes in the half-light.

It's just so utterly ridiculous, too, because if there's even any difference between his mode of fucking from a longer man, and I'm not saying there is, it's that he keeps better rhythm. Maybe, with less length, there's less time between in and out? I don't know, but I do know his pubis meets my clit more often and in all the right ways.

It's going to be hard not to come. Women aren't constantly working to hold back the orgasm, like men; women are always running after the orgasm with both arms open, doing anything that they can think of to try and come before their partner gets tired or bored or annoyed. I just don't know how to turn down an orgasm.

But maybe I should come. I can't figure out if it's more important to maintain the scenario that he's not able to and can't satisfy me, or if I should be playing at turned on by his cock now. This is just nothing I've ever pictured myself doing, and I have to bite my lips at several points to avoid making pleasure noises, in case they ruin it for him.

I stretch my arms out above my head, at first reaching for the headboard, but at the last minute laying my hands casually aside, like I'm bored of the whole thing.

"Come on, little dick," I say with a sort of rancorous and false encouragement. "Surely even you can make a woman come with something other than your tongue." And he whimpers then, a sad, pathetic little sound, and freezes, like a rabbit sensing danger--and I feel his cock pulsing inside of me, and know that he has come, and almost, almost, I come, too. That final rush of semen flooding into me, and the way he's holding still, I can almost grip him with my pussy and ride into an orgasm.

But I don't.

And instead of putting my arms around him and telling him thanks for the stellar oral sex he woke me up with, I grab his shoulders and push him away. His cock pops out of me with a gush of his semen. I'm so close. I can picture the white thickness pouring out over my pussy lips. I ache to come. I shouldn't have let him off...

An idea comes to me.

"That sucked. You and your tiny cock completely failed," I say, like I'm enraged. "You didn't make me come. Now, get down there and lick up what you left in me, and don't stop until I'm screaming."

Holy shit, I can't believe I just said that. But he just groans a little and scuttles down and starts sucking the semen from my vagina like it's the best meal he's ever been given. I've never had anyone do that before, and his mouth is all over me, massaging my labia, cleaning each fold, catching every drop of our mingled fluids. I'm so turned on, and when he presses his tongue flat against my clit once, twice, three times, more--nothing more than pressing--and now I'm coming and, as promised, I scream through my clenched teeth.

He lays his head down sideways with his ear at the crease between my hip and thigh, and with his nose touching my shaved mound, panting. His arms are twined around my legs, but one hand is up near my pussy, and he slides his thumb into my hole. He moves only once more, to place a gentle kiss, a thank you kiss, at the apex of my slit, and falls asleep.

I lay there a little longer, thinking about what just happened, how it's horrible that he's made me say such horrible things, and I grip his thumb with my pussy, thinking about it, until I fall asleep too.

#

When I wake this time, it is to the wetness of a hot washcloth wiping my sex gently from front to back. I look down, and Geoff is there, cleaning me with studious attention.

"Good morning," I say.

He smiles at me, sweetly, embarrassedly. "Breakfast?" he asks.

"Uh, sure." My stomach is growling. Dinner at the bar was a long time ago.

We dress and go out. He says he won't subject me to his cooking. There's a little diner nearby that does the usual hash browns and omelets. I'm having a hard time looking at him while we eat, and our conversation is pretty halting.

Finally, he catches my hand and makes me look him in the eye. "You didn't enjoy this morning."

"I don't even know how to answer that," I say. "It... made me feel awful, degrading you... But also, somehow, degraded myself."

"So..."

"Well, obviously, I enjoyed it. I thought, 'Wow, even the fact that I can think of any of this, let alone say it...'" I pause, thoughtful. "Did I ever tell you about Fritz? The guy I didn't date before Ty?"

"You've mentioned him."

"He... well, hands down, he's the ugliest person I've ever met that wasn't also, you know, scarred in an accident or had been homeless and without proper medical care for a long time. Just. Ugly. Empirically not the ideal. I can't even..."

"Did it make you feel shallow at all to admit that to yourself?"

"Yes, horribly shallow."

"Did it make you doubt your attraction to him at all?"

"No..." I hesitate. "If anything, it made me hotter for him. It seemed perverse, in some weird way, that I cared at all." I take a swallow of orange juice. "Sort of like today, but backwards."

"Hm," he says, and munches on his hash browns.

For the first time since I've been here, I look at my watch and think about home. "My flight's in twelve hours," I say. I don't even know how I feel about that. Geoff doesn't look like he knows either.

After breakfast, we go for a walk; after the walk, we return home and shower together. We don't have sex, though there's plenty of touching. Then we lie together on the remade bed, whose sheets are no longer quite as crisp, in much the same positions as when I first arrived: he's on his side, head on curled bicep, I'm on my back, feeling exposed. The only difference is, we're both naked this time.

Soon, it's going to be time to go to the airport and slog through the lines. Soon it will be time to disappear into my real life once more.

But not before we fuck one more time.

I reach for him.

Just once more.