A Big SurprisebyLiterary_Rogue©
...as I hear the pool-house door squeak, I start, and looking up from the picture in my hand, my eyes struggle to adjust in the sudden bright sunlight which comes streaming across the tiled floor towards me. There is an initial moment where I'm simply confused - the realisation that someone has interrupted my fantasy sinks through the fuzzy, warm, cannabis-induced fog which is momentarily clouding my awareness. I'm sprawled on the couch on my back, in full view of the open door, naked. A picture in my hand, a glossy magazine on the floor where I can see it.
And then almost immediately, the horror crystalises in that realisation. My right hand, wrapped around the base of my erect shaft - ...releases, and gropes for my discarded clothes - a couch cushion - anything... my hardness springing free - standing upright, turgid, engorged. Finding nothing, I then let go of the picture in my left hand, grasping in the brightness, eyes half closed - and finally my panicked hand falls on my T-shirt - dragging it quickly across my body as I struggle against the soft couch to sit up... My mouth, which has fallen open in the wide-eyed look of shock-and-desparation - snaps shut again. And it snaps shut, as I reaslise that it's you standing there, framed in the door way, staring back at me. You. A similar look – also open-mouthed – on your face, and wide-eyed in your surprise. All lithe, pert, twenty-year old sweetness, long dark straight hair framing your green eyes, staring back at me through the befuddling smoke as it clears. You, wearing that bikini.
The next door neighbour's daughter who sometimes borrows my pool on the hot summer afternoons, you've probably suspected that I've secretly lusted after you. You've caught me staring on more than one occasion, as I've worked in the yard while you've lolled on a lounger by the poolside – and yes, you've admitted to yourself that sometimes your lounging is just a little-too-provocative, in an innocent-yet-teasing way. You've never really admitted it, but you've always enjoyed the attention, covert though it has always been. The first time you caught me, you felt confused - it made you wonder just how long I had secretly admired your body. It wasn't like I'd ever said or done anything inappropriate over the years. It made you think back, to before my wife had left me and taken my daughters with her when they all moved away interstate. My older daughter had left the high-school cheerleading squad, which you had always captained – and since then, it had made you smile to yourself, as you wondered if I'd enjoyed the idea of driving the two of you to and from practices.
And now – here I am – naked, staring up at you, as you stand in that bikini – you, apparently transfixed, mouth open, staring down at me. And as I stare, the awfulness – that rushing sound in my ears, my face suddenly burning, the whole terrible hoping-the-floor-will-just-open-up-and-swallow-me-awfulness of the moment rises up inside me – the incongruity of my arousal, my hardness, like an accusation, tenting the t-shirt over my thighs. I reach forward, unable to say anything, mouth dry, down to the floor. The magazine, glossy but well thumbed, is open to a picture of a young, dark haired model kneeling, thighs spread wide, the fingers of one hand buried wetly between them. Her head is thrown back, eyes half closed, the fingers of her other hand pinching at a nipple, with her forearm crooked across her, half-cupping, and lifting both breasts as she does. The picture is taken partly from above her, as she leans back, the camera angle giving her a look of wanton abandon, almost hungry for release.
And as I reach for the magazine, the picture I was holding when you surprised me is dislodged – my hurried elbow, brushing it from where it has been dropped, face down on the couch, only a half-second ago. Spinning it off the edge of the cushion, it slides through the air, and then see-saws to the ground. Face up. Landing in between us, dividing the ten or twelve feet that separate the door and couch neatly, like some kind of marker. And as it comes to rest, there is further rushing sound – this time it is only in your ears, as your own face abruptly flushes – and you recognize the photo. It's a cropped blow-up from a snap, a photo taken at your cheerleading team's end of season party three years ago. The party was held outside the pool-house -right behind where you stand now. You recognize the picture, partly from the haircut – tied back in a pony tail, the way you wore it for cheering –and from the laughing grin on your face. You probably wouldn't have been so happy at the time the photo was taken if you'd known the rest of the cheer team were going tease you about it for months afterwards - about the way that your bikini top had been brushed partly to one side, the tiny triangle of pink lycra over your left breast showing the edge of your areola, and the nipple clearly showing through the wet fabric. But it makes the photo instantly recognizable.
And in that flurried one or two seconds from the door opening, to the photo settling between us, there is silence, punctuated only by my initial gasp. Neither of us say anything once it has come to rest either. I'm still too stunned - aghast – as I glance from the picture – to the now-closed magazine cover – to my t-shirt – glancing up to your red, unmoving face, and back down. You, on the other hand, just stare at the picture – and stare – and stare. A tableau, frozen. And the stark reality – and the almost surreal, yet overwhelmingly palpable eroticism of the situation sinks in, as you look up, and take in the scene. The details that you missed in that first moment. The tube of lubricant on the couch beside me. The title on the magazine – 'Naughty Teens'. The sweet smell of the smoke, which only now you become aware of. And you put your hands on your hips, as you stand in the doorway.
You trail off, your tone accusing. You clear your throat, and again start;
"You were… - you were smoking… - smoking weed, weren't you?
"You're stoned! Mr Jenkin – I never – I never knew…!"
"…and – you were… - you were…"
With a meaningful glance – down, from my face, to look pointedly at the t-shirt. You bite your lip – obviously shocked - The outline – even the bulge of the hard head of my erection – all-too clear through the fabric…
"You were - …you were… - Well, you were…you know… - You were jerking off, weren't you!?"
The rhetorical accusation - almost indignant now – and as you look down to the picture – and then, finally back up, up to my face again, and take in my fixed, panic-striken expression –
"You were jerking off , weren't you!? And you - you - you were holding my picture, jerking off as you did…!"
Your initial surprise, mortified at seeing the picture again after so long, and your accusations, as the whole situation dawns on you. Your surprise, too, at the realization of what you've just uttered, only really sinking in, as you suddenly recall those occasional covert poolside glances, the idea twisting as the thought settles - into a mix of amazement, shaking your head, as you become aware that I haven't moved – or even taken a breath.
There is another pause. Longer. You contemplate the scene – and this time I don't look up. Until I hear your feet move on the tiles. And step over the doorsill. And you repeat – much more deliberately, enunciating each word clearly, almost as I you're listening to the words yourself this time, as you say them. Hands still on your hips, looking down on me now.
"You were smoking, getting nicely stoned, and then jerking off, over my picture, weren't you, Mr Jenkin?!"
At my name, I look up now – useless denial springing to my lips, I look, almost pleadingly –
"No – I wasn't, no, no – no – I was… I was just…"
And this time, its my turn to trail off, realising that no denial, no excuse will hold a moment's examination. As my voice falters, my gaze inadvertently drops, ashamedly, from your face – almost pleading – yet unconsciously taking in your body – your rounded breasts in your bikini top, fuller than 3 years ago. That same bikini top. The sunlight streaming from behind you – your slim waist outlined. Long legs. And in that moment, you suddenly realize, as you follow my gaze, as my lip flickers nervously over my lip, that you have me at a disadvantage.
"No - I was…" I repeat – blushing, all over again as I meet your eyes. I'm vaguely aware that your expression has changed. Subtle… - too subtle – almost expressionless, in fact. Somehow contemplative, yet mostly inscrutable, I'm unable to read it.
"Yes, Mr Jenkins? What were you doing…? You were saying…?", one eyebrow - arched – imperiously, as you wait for my answer
My gaze drops again. "I was…"
"You were jerking off, weren't you, Mr Jenkin? You were jerking off over my picture - and over that magazine!"
Silence this time.
"Admit it. Go on -…" – in a suddenly cajoling, almost conspiratorial tone "…its OK, really"
I look up – some faint hope of avoiding any further embarrassment – and realize that you've stepped closer, silent on the tiles in bare feet. And bending forward, you stoop to pick up the picture, and look from it, to my face, and then… - down to the tented-t-shirt in my lap. I swallow – looking down – and feel my head swim a little…
I look back up – No! - face burning again, unable to look away from your face, shaking my head in disbelief. Your sweet cajoling smile replaced now by a teasing, knowing grin.
"Go on – show me. Show me what you were doing… with this!" and suddenly stepping forward, one hand held out, the picture turned towards me, making me start, making me lean back, as you push it towards my face -
– and not seeing your other darting hand – snaking out – snatching - … the t-shirt suddenly gone. Cool air on my nakedness, as I look down at my achingly hard, my still-oh-so-so-achingly-throbbing-swollen-hard erection.
"Mmmm - …. I see….
"…yes - … I seeeee…" – one hand on your hip – your head cocked to one side – as you study my cock - and a long pause – before you speak again. Again, in that strange tone - ..
"Show me, you bad man, Mr Jenkin. Show me how you were going to…
"…to stroke it … -
"…to stroke your big, hard cock"
Suddenly galvanized – my words tumbling out…
"No! Don't be ridiculous – I wasn't – well – maybe –I mean… but I can't – I mean – I won't. I .. – look, just listen to me! There's no way in the world I'm going to sit here, and let you watch, or make fun of me, or – or – or …with you - watching me, just because you've –you've wandered in and seen me… seen me -… well… well… you…"
And it's the eyebrow again that gives it away, as you let my little rant gather its head of steam, and run on and on, and then trail off… into my silence.
"Yes, you will, Mr Jenkin"
- in that same meticulous, studied tone -
"Yes you wil. Because if you don't… - if you won't,,, I'll show this to my father. This picture that you've printed. I'll tell him that you were jerking off over it, and he'll tell the police. And yes, I know, its not that it's illegal or anything, I know, oh I agree - … but think of it. Everyone in the street knowing. Your wife not letting you visit the girls ever again. Maybe even losing your job… you can't be school principal, can you, if you're caught jerking off over a picture of a previous student , surely?"
"So yes, Mr Jenkin - … I think you WILL show me..."
Protesting. Almost pleading, close to begging. "But... but…"
And in my desparate not-knowing-what else-to-do-moment, you stepping forward – eyes twinkling in your delight, knowing that you'll win – your hand gently pushes me back – and then teasingly, trailing your fingers down my chest, as I sink backwards, stroking lower, closer, flickeringly please-yes-yes-so-close-but-not-quite-touching-my-cock. Drawing a gasp – that shiver of intense-tense-no-yes-no-oh-please-please-no-please-yes-but-yes sensation shooting through my drug-sensitised nerves.
"See? You want to really, don't you… You want to stroke it for me. For me to watch… - "Here … "
- and lifiting my right hand – to my crotch
"…take your big, hard cock in your hand, just like you had it before. There …"
"Now – stroke it for me…"
And even as I look up at you, in front of me – half in a trance - … my body takes over, the familiar feel, my hand, almost disembodied, in its automatic response, moving, barely at all, but rhythmic, squeezingly - slowly - … up and down. Up and down. My last shreds of resistance…
"No – I can't.. I mustn't… I .. –I… - can't.. – shouldn't…"
And your voice – again, teasing – at times, close to purring too, slowly urging me on…
"Stroke it for me, Mr Jenkin. That's it… Mmm – nice and slow. Your big, hard cock…Mmmm. Yes – that IS nice… Stroke it up and down, just like you want to…"
"Now tell me – you WERE jerking off over my picture, weren't you?"
"Yes - …yes – I…" gaspingly… - my hand still moving, gentle, slow tugs, eyes half- closed, not knowing where to look, oh-so-turned-on yet oh-so… so… yes… yes…
"…and what were you thinking about, as you lay there, that big hard, beautiful cock in your hand…?"
Your voice close – whisperingly close now – as you reach - … and suddenly you've got the magazine in your hands too – scooping it from the floor… open – flicking the pages, taking in the tacky, posed, yet reliably erotic pictures… finding the previously open page…
"Ahh - …nice. She's pretty… she looks more than just a little bit like…well, -me, doesn't she…? Nice breasts… - bigger than mine….Mmmm – Mr Jenkin… Were you letting yourself imagine me, naked, like that, were you? My picture in one hand, this magazine in the other? Imagining me, naked, naked and horny, like that, Hmmm? You were, weren't you. Naughty Mr Jenkin… naughty – caught, stroking just like that…
"I don't know if I can – if… - if I can - do this…" –
panting. My head shaking. Opening my eyes – looking up – and realizing you're squatting – magazine open on the floor in front of you. Watching my hand on my cock. Eyes shining. Licking your lips…
"Here. Does it help if… - if I kneel, just like that…? Hmmm…?"
Entranced, I feeze - and watch, as, so saying, you kneel - …not looking away from my face, as you do. A half-smile – knowingly playing across your face, as you lick your lips again. And you flick your hear back off your shoulders. Glancing away from my face only to check the magazine in your hand - leaning back, your buttocks resting on your heels, and then slowly easing your thighs apart. Wider. And wider. Watching my expression again – open-mouthed, yet again – putty in your hands - as you do. Watching, as I swallow. Mouth again suddenly dry, feeling my cock tense… my hand twitching – almost moving of its own accord, feeling the rhythm of my racing heart… burning tension, deep in the bottom of my gut, and deep up inside the base of my cock…
And you smile. And as you lick your lips this time, letting me see – your tongue, teasing over your lower lip – and then biting gently at your lower lip – you whisper…
"Go on, Mr Jenkin… - you want to stroke that cock for me now, don't you? Mmmm – stroke it – nice slow, smooth strokes…"
And as your eyes drop – to my hand - …
And as my hand starts to move -…
"I want to see you stroke it – just like you were lying here, alone with my picture. Do you imagine me, kneeling just like this…? When you lie here, alone, stroking your big, hard cock, do you imagine me… - am I touching myself, like this girl here, as you make yourself…
"…as you make yourself… -
- a deliberate, anticipatory pause. Licking your lips wetly…
"…make yourself… -
"Well? Do you imagine me there – like-that- touching myself, as you cum? You do cum don't you? Nice hard messy orgasm, thinking about me, touching, as you stroke?"
This last sentence is delivered in a breathy whisper, as you watch – unblinking, from my hand, now stroking – up-and-down, up-and-down – to my face…
"Oh .. you - I.. I do, yes…." - through lust-thickened tones.
"Mmm – good - ..and what do you think about, as you do… - as you do cum…? Do you think about me… - touching you? Or…sucking you? Or…"
– and you pause, as you flip the page in the magazine with one hand, your other hand absentmindedly cupping one breast, fingers stroking up and down along the edge of the bikini triangle.
"Ahh – I see…"
- as you look back up – a satisfied smile, almost smug in your understanding now – from the picture on the next page, the centerfold of the magazine. And without looking I know what the photo is of. It's taken from more directly above the dark-haired model - … her head thrown back, eyes half closed, red-painted-lips parted. Convincingly portrayed as lost in her orgasm, her one hand still deep between her thighs, the other reaching up toward the camera, slim hand grasping a long, shiny, hard thick penis… - and thick, wet, glistening streams of cum, pearly white against her tanned skin, ssmeared over her chin and splashed over her breasts.
"That's it, is it, Mr Jenkin? You imagine me kneeling, making myself cum, as you stroke yourself, huh? Naughty, naughty Mr Jenkin – you ARE so bad…
"So - …"
Biting your lip again…
"…so, cum for me now, Mr Jenkin… Cum, imagining me like that. Touching myself. Cumming for you…"
"I… - I.. – I'm not sure I can…"
– my eyes closed - …in that bizarre wanton-needing-to-cum moment, stalled at the three-quarter mark…
Opening my eyes – I'm speechless again, as I adjust – the sun still bright behind you, a moment to realize – to see the bikini top, silently unknotted whilst my eyes were closed, hanging now around your waist - … your left hand tugging gently – pinching, really – rolling your nipple between finger and thumb - …making you arch your back, as the fingers of your right hand tease downward, through your dark pubes, which are visible above the edge of your bunched bikini bottoms.
"Mmm – yes. You want to watch me, as you stroke, don't you? Mmmm – you want to… - Mmmm – to… to…"