“Come here.” He is sprawled lazily in the armchair. His fly’s undone, splayed apart. His fingers, coiled like little cobras, stroke the thickening column of his cock.
And I do.
Because I must when he’s like this: shameless, with just a stain of a smile on his lips. It’s impossible not to fawn over the erotic creature he becomes.
I hike up my skirt enough to straddle his knees. His jeans feel rough against my bare thighs, his knees a little bony on my ass, but I like it.
I stare as he strokes and, in the silence of the room, I can actually hear his skin move – fingers over the velvety smoothness of his shaft, the soft licking sound as his moist cockhead is hidden, then revealed, then hidden again.
And I want him with a need so acute it sets my teeth on edge and floods my mouth with saliva. Between my lips, in my cunt, in my ass… I want him so ferociously, I can’t decide where. But the question is moot because that’s not what we’re doing here.
He stops, reaches for my hand, and curls it around the raging erection between us, and covers it with his own. As if I’d never touched a man before, never touched him.
I feel suddenly virginal and twitchy. Like I’m sixteen and my heart is racing at this first encounter with the unknown geography of desire. There’s a subtle flight or fight reaction building up inside me as he guides my fist up and down with his.
I watch him – every nuance on his face. Almost faster than the eye can register he wets his top lip with his tongue, and the smudge of a smile grows a little wider. The pace doesn’t change, but his cock does. It’s grown and the veins on it send thready signals up my palm.
He doesn’t make a sound, but I do. An involuntary moan flutters up my throat like a trapped bird escaping, eager to perch on my shoulder and watch as his pupils dilate.
He nods once. His thighs tense beneath me, and he goes temporarily blind. Eyes still fixed on mine but unseeing, a hot rivulet of cum erupts over our fingers, then another, and another. In that moment, I could swear it’s burning my skin.
Spent, he releases my hand. But the fawning isn’t over. I draw his hand to my face and smear him over my skin. Rich and raw the scent. Sharp and wicked the taste, I lick and suck each digit clean and attend to the back of his hand as well.
After all, there is a fine art to fawning.