Page 19 of Service Included

“I am touching you.” He knew perfectly well that I wanted more than his hands resting on my thighs.

“Please…” I parted my lips. Ran my tongue over them because they were dry. The only part of me that was dry. I whispered, “Please, touch my breasts.” I’m not sure I’d ever said that word out loud, never mind to a man, but when he moved his fingers like thick scissors around my nipples and closed them tightly and stretched them just so, I knew I had done well.

He tugged harder, a spot between tension and tightness that was exactly perfect. I wanted to cry and I wanted to scream and I didn’t know what I wanted, only that I wanted. Between his parted lips, I saw the edge of his top teeth, and then I knew.

I wanted his mouth to replace his fingers. His lips, wrapped around my nipples. His teeth scraping the spots he was rolling with his fingers. His tongue, the pink tip, licking me. I promised myself he would put that mouth on my body, but instead of leaning toward my breasts, he levered to his feet. I feared he was leaving me, a boneless heap on his couch, doomed to never touch him.

“Shh.” He bent to stroke the side of my body, running his knuckles along the outer curves of my breasts until I shivered. He brought one of his knees to a spot on the couch between my thighs, braced a hand on the wall above my head, and angled his upper body toward me. “Touch me.”

The way he loomed over me meant that I could part my lips and stretch until my tongue flicked the treasure of his nipple nestled in the dark curls so close to my mouth. I’d thought it would taste like he smelled, but I couldn’t have known how the small bump and press of a firm shape on the center of my tongue would contrast so deliciously with my expectations, that I would want to slurp him all over.

“That’s good, Mary.” Because he was still playing with one of my nipples, I think my brain was a minute behind my ears. “Quite good.”

Of course it was, but modesty is a virtue, so instead of taking credit, I scrape-squeezed lightly with my teeth. And imagined that he would soon do the same to me.

“At this stage, it would be appropriate to unzip my trousers,” he said, sounding more like a man at a conference table than a man tenting his pants.

I yearned to break his control. Those pinstripes slid and bunched as I glided my palm along the concealed log. I went back to the tip and tried to circle it with my fingers, but he was too confined.

While I pulled his belt’s supple leather out of the securing loop and then used a finger and thumb to pick the prong from its hole, he bent to watch. That made me nervous, and maneuvering while his thumb and fingers kept twirling, kept plucking, that was a challenge. I had to stop and roll my head and close my eyes, until he said my name and pulled my nipple hard enough to make me open them again, and so, in consequence, I took aninordinately long time to uncouple that leather from the metal buckle.

By the time I loosened his waistband, his breathing sounded as harsh and irregular as mine. When I slipped my hand between the fabric and his bare skin, I could feel hair curling on the backs of my fingers.

“You are playing.” His stomach, as flat and hard as I could have imagined, vibrated when he spoke. His voice reminded me of the type of chocolates I’m almost scared to eat because I know how intense they’ll be on my tongue. “Finish the job properly, Mary.”

Mine was a plain name, but he enchanted the two syllables, like I was a Jacqueline or a Farrah, not a Mary. I lowered his zipper. The tiny grinding sound made me want to wrap my leg around the back of his thigh and crash him down on top of me, but then that fabric parted and gave me a window to a new world. I saw a reddish-pinkish-purplish round tip caught in the opening of his briefs. The color defied one-word descriptions, brighter and redder than my nipples, but similarly flushed, showing me that our bodies wanted to match. I needed to take him in my hand, but I also needed to lean forward and bring my breasts next to that round plum, to find out how it would feel against my skin. And my mouth needed to kiss it and my face needed to press next to where it rose from his body.

“Enough.” He took the decision from me, hastily stripping shoes, pants, briefs, and socks until he stood before me, gloriously proud. He reached for my hand and pulled my palm under the shaft of his organ, urging me to curl my fingers around the prize. It fit like my hand was meant to encircle a penis, which is an odd thing to discover. Can anyone ever forget the first time seeing the length of a real live male flagpole? How your own fingers look slim and feminine when fisted around the thickness of a man?

There are many words for that male part, but I was taught to be the type of girl who would never say a word like “cock” because it’s unladylike. So, I will refer to Mr. G’s member as either a penis oritor some other such thing, but I will not call it a cock. Anything but cock. Cock is such a bad word, and Mr. G’s penis was so friendly in my hand, I wouldn’t want readers to think it was bad.

He bent toward me, closing the distance until his lips pressed mine, the connection immediately so intense that I opened to sigh into his mouth. Each stroke of our tongues seemed to echo through my hand down there, and through his fingers at my nipple. I wanted more of those strokes. More of his tongue, everywhere. And I wanted to have four hands so I could continue to handle him, and put an arm around his shoulders, and trail my hand across his firm flanks, and stroke his chest. I couldn’t keep up with what I wanted, but I tried. I tried.

“Do you like to be touched there?” I asked, raising my empty hand to that blushing tip.

“I do.”

“Like this?” I petted the roundness sticking out of my fist like it was a bunny, but a penis is not a bunny. Not at all.

“That’s nice, Mary.” And he dropped a hand between my legs and gave me similar light finger taps over the fabric of my panties. “Nice like this.”

Even though my buttocks tensed and rose toward him in an imitation of posting to a trot, I knew immediately that these insipid taps weren’t what I wanted. My breasts liked the firm pinches, the twists, the commanding handling driven by his confidence. Clearly, all of me wanted the same, and he expected the same in return. Per his suggestion, I immediately tightened my grip. His organ (note how careful I am to not call it a cock) grew even bigger. I bent my head to see the tip as it emerged from my fist and noticed an opening like the eye of a needle, alarge upholstery needle. I stuck my pinkie finger from my free hand in my mouth, got it good and wet like the end of a thread, and then put my little finger right there on the hole.

He seemed to appreciate that, because he said a bit loudly, each syllable distinctly enunciated, “Thank you, Mary.”

My finger became wetter. Something had leaked from him, which wasn’t so different from a stallion preparing for its own coitus.

“You might also slide your hand.” What he did then—he must have rubbed his knuckles where my softest parts opened—seemed to crack open a door inside my deepest longings. “Up and down, Mary. Up. And down.” Then he moved his hips forward and back, which made his penis move in my hand, which had the effect of making my own little kitty want to meow.

The part of his body under consideration had become quite swollen by this point. A standard piece of paper is eight and a half inches by eleven inches, so I feel confident in saying I was holding a penis in the nine-inch range. I’d heard tell of men who were supposedly hung like a horse, which hadn’t made sense because a horse penis when fully extended from its sheath can be eighteen inches long, and then there are draft horses, and there’s no way all that’s inside a boy’s gut. But witnessing the change that came over Mr. G’s shaft—isn’t that another wicked word? But it’s not forbidden, like cock—enlightened me. I had, after all, taken advanced English classes and understood metaphor.

As it became easier for my hand to glide, I felt wrapped in the pine mix of his aftershave and the scent of hot skin. Not sweat. I knew the smell of sweat. This was the aroma of heat, of sun through a window or the white glare of metal in July, somehow turned to scent.

I wanted to feel that liquid he was giving me, so I tugged him closer until the tip of his penis brushed one of my nipples and left a thick smudge. His thumb took that liquid and spreadit in circles around the peachy edges where my skin changed, and then he slipped the head right between my cupped breasts. When I pulled my nipples inward toward his shaft, rolling them on his hard flesh, I almost couldn’t hold myself together. Could barely keep my eyes open, because now he was in me. Not inside me down there, where his knee thrust at my center, but still, I’d wrapped that part of him with my flesh.

He pulled away a fraction, dragging backward through the breasts I plumped around him, and then he thrust hard at my tits until his penis poked out and air hissed between his teeth. He did it again and again, while I pinched and rubbed my tight nubs the way he’d shown me, pushing my tips down onto his hardened rod.

It wasn’t enough. I wanted more, something to fill me, that was all I knew. I’d never been filled by a man. I’d never wanted to be, before this, but now I needed something I didn’t have words for. And I needed him to tell me.

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