Helping Alexandra

"That's it, Brian, just how I want this. My girlfriends will love this." Then to me, "You'll share, right? Send me..."

"Of course." I assure her and hit record.

He has such an inviting way of working his cock; the thumb behind to prop it for viewing but just the index finger sweeping slowly up and down the shaft in front, the other three fingers tucked back away to leave almost the entire length of his penis visible as he strokes. I love how his eyes are already there to meet mine when I look at his face, love that sweet, small reflexive buck of his hips when he sees my gaze shift back between his legs, the jiggle it causes, slightly disrupting the smooth lift and fall of his balls in time with his stroking. That's a really sweet ass, his pelvis tipped upward at just the right angle to please the camera.

"Ah yeah," I tell him, looking down for just a moment at the small screen of my phone to make sure I'm getting this properly, "I'll masturbate to this later tonight."

It's not a line, I will.

I never touch myself the way some women do, during these encounters. I find it a distraction, a pleasure that competes with rather than enhances the gratifications of the power dynamic arising from the disparity between the males in service and the women they entertain in terms of exposure and display and in the levels of arousal up to and including ejaculation. I have learned to gather and bank these pleasures sucked from male submission, pile them like water, building pressure behind a dam, to be released in torrents to surprise some quiet hour alone with my husband or shudder me to bliss in solitary in some out of town hotel, my fingers sweeping up nectar at the memory of these things. It takes almost nothing to open the gates and bring it all flooding back; a glimpse on the little screen of Brian's finger slowly ascending the length of his penis will do it; transport me back here or through some other jumbled collage of vividly embodied snippets of memory; the sudden surge and spurt of some man's cock in my hand as I win the wager at semen roulette and finish him with my ten allotted strokes to the cheers and laughter of my sister players.

Fear not, nothing is lost; everything ripens and is plucked in its time.

"He's perfect. Isn't he perfect for this?" Alexandra sighs, leaning in over the arm of my chair to watch the screen shot on my phone.

"Yes." I agree. Almost too perfect.

I feel a sudden rush of protective angst; a slender thread of his pre-come gleams in the slanting sunlight where it trails from the tip of his penis to his belly; he is surely one of the prettiest ornaments one could wish for to adorn a carnal tableau. But I feel this sudden anxiety that he is somewhat too infatuated with, in Alexandra's words, his bad girl wife. While she, though clearly loving him, is somewhat more infatuated with the access to the use and enjoyment of other men she hopes his submission will open to her.

In every relationship there is always some imbalance of needs and power. And I obviously have a positive and empathic understanding and approval of Alexandra's ambitions for quantity and variety in male playthings. But I fear in her haste and excitement to make use of him as her ticket to such future pleasures, she may inadvertently cast this pearl before swine.

What, after all, has she actually told her girlfriends or others about her plans (or at least hopes) for the bachelorette party? Even if she's told them, 'told them everything' as she assured me she had with Brian, what do they understand are the meanings, implications and extent of his submission for their amusement. Is it to be like that line about Vegas; whatever happens at the party stays at the party? Or is there some continuing expectation (and if so what) for interactions in other settings, such as meeting the next Tuesday with an attendee and her partner as a couple for drinks and dinner?

Perhaps he is, as he seems, a man comfortable and confident in his own erotic skin. But the very thought that so seared my memory with lust at that first perfect awkward, desperate display of his genitals, may haunt some other recipient of such a gesture's estimation of him differently but just as irrevocably; once it's out there, YOU are out there; some things you can't take back.

And as to Alexandra's ambitions that he might serve someday as 'just another cock in the stable'; though I love the image and, even more, the practice she aspires to, my own husband serving my pleasure in that role as often as I can arrange it, the arranging cannot be left to happenstance. Is there some indication the attendees at her bachelorette have their own selection of candidate cocks to nominate to serve in this hoped for stable?

And as for the women themselves, are they coming willing and eager to make festive, celebratory use of him? Or will many (even most) of them arrive cringing slightly at the prospect but unwilling to be seen as less open or liberated than their friends, sit passively, smiling blandly with their hands folded primly in their laps or protectively clutching the inevitable Chardonnay, averting their eyes to the artwork and offering the obligatory cheer when the entertainment (mercifully at last) toasts the bride with the semen from his balls. I do not blame such women at all; their tastes and inclinations though very different than mine are if anything probably more common among women than my own proclivities. But still, such a waste; gems like Brian must be mounted in a proper setting to show to advantage; preferably on a ring wound tight about the finger of a woman like me.

And that is where that sudden rush of protective angst makes me want him now; perfect in his moment, secure here in my hand, before all the 'what if's and 'maybe's even know he's coming.

I don't claim that all that was articulated just then; it is obviously the product of reflection as I try to make sense that sudden shift in perception from prurience to poignancy. But it was somehow 'there'; shadows moving just beyond that little spotlight of conscious thought, darkening my wiser reptilian brain with premonitions of pleasure's fragility.

Premonitions that stir more restlessly still, when Alexandra, irrepressible, basking in the glory of her new license to share her husband, begins to direct it's documentation for posterity.

"Yes, babe, yes." She coos. "You know my girlfriends are going to see this. I'll send it around so they know what they're getting. That's right babe. Audition for my girlfriends. I told them you want this, but show them."

She's leaning over the arm of my chair, watching the screen on my phone as I film. She growls happily, as, at her prodding, her husband curls his full hand around his cock and jacks it quickly causing...

"Yes, yes babe! Bounce your balls. Bounce your balls for my girlfriends. Look at the camera, show them you want this."

She is already somewhere off in the future, listening to her recorded voice saying these deliciously bad girl things as she and her girlfriends hover over her phone (much as she's now hovering over mine) in the corner booth where they won't be overheard by other patrons at where ever it is they like to meet for coffee or drinks, smiling, whispering, rolling their eyes as they watch Alexandra's husband, under the lash of his lust for his bad girl wife, moan and lift his hips high to better display the bouncing of his balls at her command.

It's a beautiful thing to see a man take direction this way; to see him strain excitedly to offer himself to the whims of a woman's amusement, knowing he knows, and is driven nearly to ejaculation by the knowledge, of the inevitability of that little scene in the corner booth, where his wife will use this, use him, for a boast and a laugh with her friends over drinks.

It is the very irreverence of such things that tempts a man to this; that revelation of a woman's full range of sexual mood and appetite; not prettified, not neat, not always dressed properly for dinner. Ah, yet then she comes down the stairs in that little black dress of coquetry and romance, and you want her - oh, I know you want her - but if you want her you don't get to choose which parts. So, just how badly do you want her?

This one is all in, and he tears my heartstrings and soaks my panties as nothing else has in a while.

I stop filming, set the phone aside. He's going to come for me, but not like this; not bouncing his balls in this frantic chasing of some maybe future; but here, now, for me; for the woman who came to see just that.

I'm on my feet. He looks up at me, his urgency clearly mounting as I come to stand over him at the side of the recliner. He's going to come; I see it in his eyes and the tightness in his jawline, his chest, that frantic hand still beating towards the future.

"Ah, no.." I say softly, lean down to place my hand on his to still it.

"Ahn! Uhnn!" two shuddered grunts to match the buck of his hips as his body's momentum toward ejaculation stutters to a stall. His disorientation so sweetly disarming; was that not good? Has the audition been canceled?

It has. The part's been cast.

"Not like that." I tell him, dropping to my knees on the tiles beside his chair, leaving my hand still there on his wrapped around his cock, his hips slowly lowering in sympathetic mirroring of my descent to his side.

So close now, the heat of his body radiating, tempting my touch to search out the seethe of it, my other hand reaching to press his chest just upon the sternum, feel the rise and fall of his breath as it calms, his features relaxing into an almost boyish expectancy under my gaze and smile.

"There." I lift my hand away from his penis, place it now on the inside of his open thigh, slight pressure there to affirm my approval of having him spread this way for me.

He feels it, reads it, strains to spread fully, watching my face, searching my expression.

In my peripheral vision, I see his penis flex plaintively up off his stomach and bob in a briefly sustained spasm. Just a little longer; I want this quickly, but not too quickly.

Alexandra has gotten up as well and has circled around to stand at the head of the recliner over him. She starts to speak but i raise my hand quickly from his chest, a finger poised to still her. I do not look away from her husband, nor he from me as I say

"You wanted to see another woman use him, how I would use him. I'll show you."

His eyes narrow, his chin lifts, a sharp inhale heaves his chest, expelled with equal force as my hand comes back to rest there.

"Now," I tell him, "you'll do it for me."

He nods quickly, starts to stroke again but

"The way you were doing it earlier; slow and pretty," I say, "with just that one finger so I can see your whole cock as you prime it to come for me."

Uhn! God, yes." He whispers hoarsely. "God, yes."

I look down away from his eyes to watch what I've asked for. He's so ready, so close, the head of his penis, the whole upper half of the shaft, an ascending sheen of crimson darkening to purple at the tip, slick with pre-come. He props it up to show me as that sweeping finger slips up and down the shaft

One hand on his chest, the other pressed to the inside of his thigh, I feel the tension mounting in his body, the sweet small jerks of his hips when that finger trips that sensitive switch just below the head, punching the air from his lungs in short, sharp, exhales, "uhnh! uhnh! uhnh!" as I speak to him softly of things he'll remember long after the maybe's have had their way with him.

"This is my favorite thing. I've watched so many like you this way; on their backs, on their knees, standing, some bent over the back of a couch, hips raised, legs spread, others impaled on dildos and even one with another man's cock up his ass; so many you'd think I'd tire of the repetition when there are so many other ways to coax, or prod or tease a man to ejaculation; toys and games and contests; I think you'll find the variety as effective as we women find it amusing. Oh, they'll find such clever uses for you. But no, I don't grow tired of this.

"Pause a moment now, yes, good, let me enjoy how it twitches. I love seeing a man's cock in this state, so hyper sensitive even a breath of air makes it spasm. Ah that's pretty, I know you like showing me that.

"Go on now, slow and steady. Turn your hips up a bit so I can enjoy watching your balls as they tighten. Yes like that. This is what I came for, what Alexandra promised me, promised the other woman, the first to get to use you this way. I like being the first to have you this way. Not like your wife does, but purely for sport and entertainment. Here to coax those first lovely spurts of your entertainment career out of those very tight balls of yours."

I talk but I also watch and listen, feel the heat, the mounting agitation, twitching muscle, catch of breath, low rising moan, crawling up the back of his throat as he tips his pelvis up at my direction, further clenching muscle, contracting his torso, tweaking his balls by talking about them, my wanting to see them, wanting to coax those lovely first spurts, knowing naming it will call it forth 'out of those very tight balls' which just as he shudders in that first sweet spasm I take in my hand, reach with the other to brush his away from the shaft, feel the pulse in the root of his cock against the heel of my hand, his head coming forward his chest curling inward like a pump handle to force that first ribbon of pearl from the purple head.

I love seeing a penis dance for me, bob and spurt, bob and spurt, as the man looks down helplessly to watch with me as the phallic genie I've conjured wracks him, drains him. Brian gives me that pleasure as I hold and press his balls protectively, jealously guarding our one small moment of presence here and now; stopping my ears against the Siren song of 'next'.