Come Up Ch. 06bySNAGuy©
Tonight we're at my place in the shower again and my thumb makes the tiniest movement. I stop and grip his cock hard, a little bit of pain to stop his coming. Holding him hard, I trace the finger of my other hand over the tip of his cock, on the slit, dangerously. A sudden uptake of breath and his hips tuck under protectively. I slide my grip up to the perfect place, let him feel his pleasure, then tease his slit again. Pleasure and danger together. His hips show me his confused, desperate arousal, thrusting, tucking, spasmodic and uncontrollable.
I move to his balls cupping them in my hand, my soft, comforting grip, but now I release them and slide my fingers under and behind, and when my finger passes through his pucker he jumps at the surprising sensation. Slowly I pull my finger forward, this time stopping on his anus. He jumps again. I slide my other hand over his cock, up and down slowly, giving him his pleasure and begin to circle my finger over his anus. It is my finger touching him where it is forbidden to touch, where it is dirty, touching him there boldly without apology. My finger tells him that he can be touched anywhere, that I can touch anything, even there. I look up into his face and he is wincing. My other hand slides up and down on his cock sustaining his arousal. Pleasure and the forbidden, at the same time.
I bend down and now my tongue is probing his slit. All three now, danger, forbidden and pleasure. I speed up my hand on his cock, building the pleasure. He's getting closer, closer and just before he comes I take his cock into my mouth. He starts to come in my mouth and I press on his pucker reminding him that my finger is there. I press my finger on him as he convulses. Gripping his cock I hold on for the wild ride while he comes, sliding my hand, stopping, sliding, stopping, trying to prolong his orgasm.
He is done. I slide my finger forward until I can cup his balls again in my hand. I take him out of my mouth holding his cum and still holding his cock, but near the root where it won't be sensitive. I stand up and look into his eyes, gather his cum in my mouth and then open to show it to him, to let him know that I have all of it. I freeze him with my eyes as I swallow it down, then show him that it is gone.
He falls into my arms and we hold each other under the streams of hot water.
We've dried off and we're in my bed. I'm on my back but he is propped up on a pillow, legs straight out. He stares straight ahead and makes no move. I can tell that he's thinking.
Eventually he turns his head toward me and speaks.
"How can you know..."
"Know what?" I ask.
"How can you know?...How can you?...The hand job...How can you be...into my body like that...in my head?..."
I suppose there are two ways to get good at it. Stroke one guy's cock many times and learn what he likes, or do many, many cocks just once and learn what they all like. I can't go there, not with him, not with anybody. I just shrug and grin, hiding everything, keeping it light.
"I dunno...I guess I just...pay attention," I say, and that is true enough. It's just not the whole story.
In the Vancouver parlour there were six rooms, each with a shower and a massage table. Six girls on a shift, too, so they could pick and choose.
It never was actual fucking. No blowjobs either, but with my hands, all the time, and sometimes between my tits. Hair and makeup perfect, scantily clad, friendly and sexy, a fantasy woman. That I could rationalize, but not actual fucking, not for money. It's just a service, not sex.
I did the rough math once. Three shifts a week, more in the summers. Never at the time of the month. Probably six or seven per shift. Four and a half years, it paid for school and, until I got a real job, everything. Some were regulars so no double counting. It was probably well over a thousand I did.
That's how I could do it pretty well, but nobody else was ever going to know why.
"Yes, but how can you know...just the right moment...just the right place...to make it last like that?" Greg asks.
"I guess I just like your cock a lot," I say. It's true. He has a beautiful cock. When it's hard and in my hands, something happens to me.
"Well you sure seem to," he says and that is the end of that.
"Besides, you're the same with me. How do you?"
"Chemistry," he says and right away it scares me. Not again, I think. I grab his face, kiss him and then guide his face onto my pussy. That should stop him. Besides, it's my turn.
His place again. Tonight it was the slow hand, slow and gentle fucking, a different way to come, coming tenderly, nice. Now we're back down, mellow, and I'm wafting around in the reverie. I'll go soon, but not yet.
"You ever do one night stands?" he asks.
"Hummmph!" It comes out as a snort, but yes!
He chuckles at the sound and says, "You're a delicate flour...a precious snowflake." I have to smile.
"You like 'em?"
I don't know what he's asking. Did I like them or do I like them? Past or present? Beside all that, where's he going with this? Is he saying he wants one-nighters? With other women? Why would he ask me? Permission? That's a laugh. Or is he hoping that I don't like them? What would that mean to him? I'm worried that he's going to start down the 'exclusive' path, but why would he? There's no intimacy, really, not beyond the physical.
With my eyes closed I hope that there's a look of mischief on his face. Then I would know he's just goofing around, that it's nothing serious, but when I open my eyes again, I can see that he's still serious.
Suddenly I feel tired, bone deep exhaustion. But I realize that it's not my body taking me down. It's my soul. I'm so tired. I haven't realized before but I'm so very tired and have been for a long time. And I'm sick of it, having to hold him off like I do. It costs me too dearly, shutting him out all the time. I can't do it any more but then that would be the end of it. I'd have to end the deal and not by letting him in.
It would be no more, no more fucking. And I'd still see him in the elevator, the odd time at press conferences, in the neighbourhood. What then? What then?
I'm so tired that I'm no longer making sense to myself. I'll have to move away, get another job in a different city. But where? It can't be Vancouver. Calgary? English Montreal? Breaking in down in the States would be unlikely.
"Do you?" he asks. I haven't answered him yet.
"You know...when they're good they're great, when they're bad they're awful, huge mistakes."
"Yeah, I guess," he says, but he's not done.
"Good because you're trying something new and, hey, sometimes it's...wow!...And no strings attached either...which can be good...I suppose..."
Is he lecturing me?
"Uh-huh." I'm too tired, tired and too lazy right now to say anything more.
"...but I always had to be in the mood or it was a letdown...if she's thinking just one night and you're not...pretty bad...it's different when there's something there, you know?"
All I can do is arch my eyebrows.
"Me?...best when there's something at least...a bit of affection...then it's better."
He's hit the line in the sand. I sit up in anger. But I make another mistake.
"So what are you saying? Now we're heart to heart? Is that it?" Demanding to know the agenda, his agenda, because it sure as hell isn't mine.
And that starts it. He's not pussyfooting around it anymore, making his own demands, laying out his expectations. And I'm defending the deal we made, trying to stick with that and I'm being an idiot about it, saying things, bad things, but I'm so fucking angry, so fucking tired and I can see it all ending, ending tonight, right now, and I don't want that, I don't. And I'm growling now, like an animal, so fucking frustrated, like I haven't got words anymore, barely containing the rage, but is it rage, I wonder? Is that really it? I'm so confused and now I'm fucking pissed at myself because the things I've said, they're enough to end it just by themselves, like I'm the one taking this away from myself, ending it myself so he can't do it, can't do it to me.
And we're out of the bed both of us. I'm crying, sobbing and I hate myself for it, trying to find my clothes and he's trying to help me, apologizing, gushing, and I hate that he's trying to help me. I can't find my panties so, fuck it, it's commando now. And when I try to get into my jeans I lose my balance but he catches me and holds me tight and for a second I'm sobbing into his chest. I can't do that, sob like this, so I push away, Let me go! Let me fucking go! And I've got my sweater over my head and pulled down, decent at least, my bra and panties in my hands, where are my fucking shoes? There, and I'm out the door, running away and stabbing the button for the elevator. Don't let anybody else be there, nobody else, nobody, please, nobody and there isn't and then I'm in my own hallway digging for my key and my hand shakes so much I can't unlock the fucking door and I feel like I'm going to just scream. But now I'm in and I'm on the couch crying it out, crying it all out.
If first the one, then surely the other will follow.
It has been weeks, and good in some ways, a break from his agenda with me.
But also a break with his cock and that, that is not good. I picture it in my head, the proud curve, and my hands have their memory of it, just long enough that I can almost get both of them on it, one above the other. The taper, like a tree truck strong and thick at the bottom and tapering from there. Is that why he feels so good coming inside me, that taper? Stretching my pussy to that taper, the deeper he is inside? Maybe.
Coming home after work I'm on the elevator on the ground floor waiting for the doors to close. They start to move.
"Hold, please!" I can't see, but I know it's him. I've been dreading this for weeks, even changed my schedule to make it less likely. I reach for the button to hold the doors, stop dead and, finally, press it. He breezes in, trotting.
"Oh...," he says, "...I'll...," and he turns to leave.
"NO!" It's too loud, too vehement. I calm myself down.
"No. It's okay. You don't have to."
The doors close on just the two of us. He looks so fucking good. I catch his aroma. It's like before, when we started. He's leaning back against the wall, head hanging down and his hands in his pockets.
"Listen, Lindy...," he starts. Everything depends on what he says next, if he says anything.
He turns his head to look at me and his eyes are sad. I imagine I look the same to him.
"You okay?" he asks and I nod my head, yes. I'm trying to hold it together until I can get myself inside my front door, or maybe just until he's off the elevator.
We're on the way up now. There's nothing more until the doors rumble open.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" His words pull at me. Just moments before, they might have pushed.
"Yeah. Thanks. You too." And there's no agenda in what I've said, nothing hidden. This little moment of being myself, allowing myself to just be authentic for a second, feels good. He nods his head and slowly gets off the elevator.
He's picked up his phone but I can't speak, not yet.
"Come up, okay?"
He doesn't answer.
"Come up," and I can't cover the emotion in my voice.
"I want to but...," he says. The last time, the fight, the awful things I said.
"I want you to. Please. Come up."
He hangs up the phone.