Jenn, Commanded Ch. 01

"Better," she says. "Not great. But okay."

She reaches behind her back and unclasps, then pulls her t-shirt over her head. There is a lacy black date bra underneath, hanging downwards from her shoulders. She shrugs it the rest of the way off.

And has, to tell the truth, some beautiful tits. A little more fulsome than anybody I'd ever been with, but shaped like perfect teardrops. Her skin naturally olive, her nipples brownish, with concise little areolas.

"Nice," I tell her. "You got nice tits, Jenn."

She reaches across the small space between us, takes my hand and places it in the center of her chest. She is warm, the skin between her breasts is silky. I feel her heartbeat beneath my palm.

"Touch," she says. Brown eyes looking right at me. Into me.

Then, softly, my name.

Then, "Please."

She subsides back onto the floor, drawing my hand down with her. I lean over her, wondering, what the fuck? And begin to trace two-fingered circles around a nipple.

She makes a murmuring sound that is half pleasure, half contentment.

I am drawing finger circles on my roommate's breast.

She has closed her eyes.

The weed is doing its magic.

She is falling, she finally falls asleep.

I let my hand drop down across her breast, savoring her textures with the palm of my hand: flesh, papery areola, the slight unevenness of the two sides of her nipple. Sitting beside her, moving my hand in a slow caress, I listen to her breathe. Then finally release her, only to take her arms and begin the process of pulling her upright. I am aware that there's an erection in, but not tearing open, my jeans.

She is dead weight at first, then stumbles upward, to lean against me. I am conscious of her breast -- the same one I have just been caressing -- against my ribs.

"Where are we going?" Jenn asks murkily.

"To bed, Jenn. You're going to bed."

The pronoun seems to register with her. "Fuck," she says.

"Come on, kiddo," I whisper at her.

Thinking, half amused: Okay, Jen, I'm commanding you now.

I move her through the living room, down our corridor to her bedroom. We cross together and I help her sit on one side of the bed, turn down the covers on the other while, on her side, she curls downward and fetal positions herself on top of the coverlet. I crawl up beside her and move her by her shoulders until she has rolled onto sheets. But before I can cover her, she half wakes, says, "Poop," and sits blearily up.

"I still have my shorts on," she observes.

I stand aside as she unbuttons and pulls them off. Beneath are lacy black panties, somewhat low slung in the front and ass huggers in the back. Perfect undies to be peeled off at the end of the night by the man who had just given her a diamond. She lies back down then and folds herself into a ball. Pulls the covers over her shoulders.

"Tommy," she says as I start to leave. Her eyes are closed. Sleep's coming. God's gift to the righteous and the stoned. "Do you think I'm completely horrible? You don't, do you?"

I stop and turn back to her. And then I do something I've honestly never thought of doing before. I bend down and kiss her on the forehead, aware as I do of the musty sweet redolence of her hair. "No, babe," I tell her. "You're fine. I don't think that at all."

And Jenn, half drunk, stoned to the gills, puts a hand to my face, murmurs,

"And he wouldn't tie me up either. I asked. And he never would."

Then turns chastely away and buries herself in the pillow, and sleeps.

I watch her sleep for a while, listening to the soft regularity of her breathing, then get up and leave, thinking about whether, after all this, it would be awkward for me to go back to my room and do something about my diminishing hard on. And wondering, despite myself, what it might be like to hold this woman down.