The Houseguest

Being a houseguest was new to me, but the week seemed to be going well so far. Although our days were filled with meetings at the symposium, and the evenings were mostly occupied with preparation for the next day's presentations we found time the dinner preparation, consumption and cleanup to share backgrounds and to joke with each other. It seemed so natural to be with her. Her face was not extraordinarily pretty in the classical sense, but her regular features, ready smile and twinkling eyes showed an inner beauty that made her very attractive to me. She was bright with a quick wit that grinned intellectually occasionally. The way she lowered her voice and looked at me sometimes when we spoke showed me that she had found similar qualities in me.

Because we were both professional we ignored the attraction that was growing between us, and soon after dinner each night would retire to our respective bedrooms to prepare for the next day. However, on the fourth night at about eleven, I felt it best to empty the bladder before going to sleep, and started down the semidarkness of the hall. I truly had no intention at that time to do anything but go to the bathroom and return. What stopped me was a movement I saw through her bedroom door that she had left ajar to allow the evening breeze to circulate more freely on this hot summer night.

There should have really been no movement there that time of night, but as I studied the situation more closely, I determined that she had also left her closet door open and that the full-length mirror on the backside of that door was reflecting her image. I stood there a moment, embarrassed by my inability to take another step; riveted by what I was seeing. There, lit by the soft glow of a distant street light, she lay on her bed with only a sheer nightgown covering her body. I could see the curve of her breasts and her abdomen and the flow of the fabric over her thighs as it molded itself into the hollow between them. She had no idea I was there, or that I was looking at her for the first time not professionally, but as a woman.

Her eyes were closed, and the movement that had arrested me was her right hand slowly moving over her right breast. She was feeling the curve herself, and it dawned on me that had I been there with her I would have wanted to touch her in the same way. She was so sensual in her movements, and I could see her chest rise and fall as she breathed. In that moment, she became the embodiment of all women to me. Her caresses seemed almost random, as she touched one breast, then the other. Although I was only a few inches away from her on the other side of the wall, it was as if there was a huge gulf separating us that I wanted to close immediately, but couldn't. The mirror held me transfixed.

I noticed that the fabric over her chest was tenting slightly, as if she had placed a small gumdrop in the middle of each breast. She was not the only one erecting tents that night because as I looked at her now pinching these confections with both hands I could feel myself lengthening downward and thickening against my jockeys. I felt guilty for not moving down the hall and leaving her privacy intact, but my libido was now raging and was in full control.

While her left hand continued its ministry to the gumdrops, her right hand moved down over her belly and pressed the nightgown down between her thighs, then moved up to the top of her mound. In one motion, she widened the separation of her knees, and pulled the bottom of the nightgown up to the middle of her abdomen. She deftly spread the lips with her fingers, then dipped her middle finger between them.

My own arousal was now deepening and the resulting growth caused a painful restriction as it attempted to pull the elastic top of my shorts down toward my knees which were becoming rubbery and unstable. In order to ease the pain, I extracted it and allowed it to stand distended and tumescent away from my body. My eyes devoured her. My gaze went from her left hand to her right, to her face, to the curve of her waist and hips. My ears were extra sensitive as I listened carefully to the sounds of her sighs. At some point in this, I realized that I had wrapped my hand around myself and was gently stroking the shaft, and then releasing it to stop the arousal from peaking and releasing. I was committed now.

I watched as the intensity of activity with her right hand increased and her hips began to become more involved in the movements. Perhaps it was because my own breathing was becoming louder, or the squishy sounds generated from the pressure changes in the slit in the tip as my hand moved up toward the head. Or, perhaps it was only her desire to open her eyes to see her own body responding to her hands. She opened her eyes.

My own movements probably caught her attention in the same way that hers had frozen me as if I had looked at Medusa. She froze. No movement-not even breathing-for several seconds that seemed like minutes to me. I froze for a couple seconds, and then I involuntarily stroked up the shaft, retraced the path down, and then up again.

During those moments when I was soloing, I could see her looking at the image of my hand in the mirror. Although she did not change her gaze, the fingers of her right hand began to move inside her again and her left hand began to caress her breasts and pinch and scratch the nipples. I turned slightly to the right so that her view of my equipment would be less obstructed, and pulled my shorts down to let her see the full length of the shaft and the swollen knob. She responded by opening her knees more and turning to allow me a better view of her fingers and the thrusting of her hips. We were beginning the dance of love in this unusual way.

She began giving fuller freedom to her vocalizations. The rhythm of her "uh, uh, uh!" matched the up-thrust of her pelvis into her fingers that were buried in the folds and were moving very quickly up and down the length of the slit and almost in frantic circles and tugs near the top just below the mound. I was careful to match her movements, and as her hips curled upwards, my own pelvis was driving my shaft into my hand, only to retreat as she rolled the curve of her backside down on the bed.

I began to sigh in pleasure, but the sounds are more like a growl than a moan. I can feel the tension building in my prostate, and the entire exterior length of the shaft is becoming sensitive to every caress of my palm and fingers. The inside of the delivery tube is full of moisture and has become sensitive, too, waiting for the moment when the fluids will pass and stimulate its span from the tip slot continuously through to the area where the fluids are produced and the ejaculatory muscles contract to press out the semen.

I see her face becoming contorted as the joy of the moment we are sharing begins to crest. Her heels are pressed hard to the mattress, and her thrusting is firm and resolute while her fingers continue their stimulation. As her orgasm begins, I restrain my own to coordinate our climaxes. I sense her peak within seconds as, for the first time since she noticed me, she closes her eyes.

This feels too good. My whole pelvis feels as though every vein and artery is flooded with blood and every nerve ending has been charged with treble the usual voltage. I fuck up into my fist, and the first flood is jetted out. The withdrawal stroke excites the ganglia under the slot providing a stab of pleasure that forces a loud groan from my chest and urges me to drive back up into my hand to deliver the next jet and, more importantly, to make the withdrawal movement that stimulates the ganglia. She opens her eyes at my first groan, and sees the streams of fluid pumping as she continues to manipulate her pleasure centers.

In another minute it is over, and as she recovers her intimate parts with her nightgown, I move on down the hall toward the bathroom to finish what I started that night. My one thought as I retraced my steps past her room and to mine was "What shall I say to her in the morning?"