You decide you’re going to go for smart, but casual. You also learned a long time ago that I really don’t see the point in expensive cosmetics and that, perhaps more significantly, I really like you as you are. The long dress will cover you without being too revealing. Later on you might think about wandering around without much on for my benefit, but you’re not going to wander round looking like a tart in public.
You hesitate, considering whether to leave your knickers off, and then go for a pair you bought specially, out of town, when you were pretty sure nobody you knew was around, then add the matching bra, tucking firm breasts, nipples already sensitive with anticipation, into their cups, the fabric leaving little to the imagination.
You check in the mirror, running your hands over what are almost half spheres. You can see the tips. It must be possible to see your pussy, even sexual folds, through your knickers. You smile to yourself, feeling sexy. I mentioned something about black lace weeks ago, and it stuck in your mind. The flowing dress goes on, and you struggle briefly with the zip behind your back. You go for smart but laceless shoes. You don’t own high heels, and boots don’t feel quite right.
I’ve invited you round for dinner. You know, from experience, that I enjoy a nice restaurant, which never means the pizza option that you have got used to at university, and is more often than not something spicy and exotic, but also that I’m more than competent in the kitchen.
You’ve also experienced me coming and picking you up. You’re not sure what to make of this. In some ways it feels quite old-fashioned, a quaint attitude in a man who’s only a few years older than you. In some ways it feels quite good. You’ve decided it’s not about me not wanting you wandering around on your own. You’re more than capable of looking after yourself, and I know it. Still, you’re going to make your own way.
The air around my place smells, not atypically, like an Indian restaurant, and you know I’ve been plundering recipes from the cookery books I sent home to myself from Dehradun, books that need a basic grasp of transliterated Hindi to follow. You’ve seen my bookshelves, and know there are others from cuisines originating all over the world, some from countries I’ve been, others from places I’ve yet to visit and that, perhaps, if things go well, you might explore with me.
You’ve come to appreciate my culinary world tours, and know I can equal, if not beat, most of Edinburgh’s takeaways, and not a few restaurants, although we’ve visited a couple where I admit their trained chef trumps my practice. I can do better than the usual Indian food modified for Europeans found in most takeaways, but I still can’t make a decent dosa. You’re about on time. You couldn’t have made it much earlier, and if I say dinner at 7, I mean be there before 7:15 or risk food not being at its best.
You let yourself in, knowing you’re the only person in my life permitted to do this, leaving your shoes by the door. Six weeks after our first kiss, you know I’m interested in you as a person. You know I find you hot and sexy, and I’m not the only man around who feels that way, but I’m still around long after most men would have quit when you didn’t jump straight into bed with them. It isn’t, you are clear in yourself, some sort of test: it’s about finding the right guy.
One bloke, who you had high hopes for — for less than a week — gave up amid some nasty commentary about your sex drive. As far as you know, that is healthy, but there’s a healthy libido and there’s letting the wrong guy into your knickers. I’ve made no secret of wanting more than kisses and fondling on the sofa, and you’ve felt, sometimes by accident, sometimes not, my arousal from the closeness of your body. On the other hand, you’re shy, which you admit quite happily, and want intimacy as well as sex.
The kitchen is hot. All four rings on the stove are on, and I’m making roti, a wooden spatula in one hand, a damp teacloth on the chopping board. The tava is hot, and you guess the other three pans will contain dhal, probably heavy on the garlic and chillies, and one sabji or another, which might include vegetables you can get in any supermarket, or might not. I’m not afraid of odd green things with no common English name, and will happily wander into any of half a dozen greengrocers and transact business in my elementary Hindi or Urdu. I’ve been asked a few times if I’ve known what to do with an odd vegetable. My preferred response is to ask if I look like a gora. The correct answer to this is that yes, I do, but they don’t know I learned most of my Indian cookery skills in domestic kitchens and watching practised experts across the subcontinent.
Maybe I’m just as adventurous in bed.
An almost perfectly circular thin round of dough goes on the tava, and I claim my first kiss of the evening, one hand going round your back to stroke gently. A warm shiver goes down your spine, and you relax into me, giving me a full embrace. I’m trying not to get flour on your dress. You ask if you can help, knowing the answer. You’re welcome in my house, but I’m territorial about the kitchen. You’ve helped me cook on more than one occasion, and you know where to find coffee but, if I’ve started, I’ll finish. .
I break, and flip the roti. I leave it a few seconds, then begin to press it gently around the edges with the damp cloth. It puffs like a poori in hot oil and I remove it carefully with my fingers, tossing it onto a plate in a slightly warmed oven. I learned this from watching guys who do this all day every day on the streets of every town in India. I’ve tried to teach you how it’s done, and you’re getting there. You perch on a stool near the stove, wanting to keep me company, feeling warm and cosy just in my presence.
It doesn’t take long before dinner is ready. Four more roti take under two minutes each, and I whip up a tarka for the dhal in under five more It looks like I’m going to be eating leftovers for a couple of days, but dhal improves with age, and you know I’m happy enough going through last night’s dinner for lunch. Finally, I fry two papad each, served with spiced onions and sweet chutney.
I wash my hands carefully. I’ve made you giggle a few times when I’ve told you about forgetting to wash my hands after chopping chillies.
I learned Indian cookery skills from people with a lifetime of practice serving food on the streets of India and in ordinary kitchens belonging to the mothers, and grandmothers, of friends from Pune to Kolkata, but I serve you like a Mughal princess, from warmed copper dishes. Indian pickle is an acquired taste, but one you’ve come to appreciate, and you serve yourself from little metal bowls on the table. I’ve made a jug of proper mango lassi, which is just as well, as I meant it when I put chillies in the dhal. The pickle bites as well.
We eat Indian-style, one handed, without cutlery. This isn’t Indian food as most Europeans know it, from a supermarket or the similar bland approximations that come from most Indian (or, more usually, Bangladeshi or Pakistani) restaurants in most towns across the UK.. This is Indian food as northern Indians know it, and the intimate connection with food that comes from eating with your right hand brings your mind to the intimate connection you’re increasingly considering with me. A warmth in your belly and a dampening in your groin grow as you consider that tonight might be it.
Our previous attentions to each other, usually on a sofa, once on your bed, have left you aroused, even wet and, once alone, you’ve brought yourself to a climax on many occasions. You suspect I might have done the same, thinking about you as you’ve been thinking about me. You again wonder what that shaft that you’ve sometimes brushed, sometimes enjoyed pressing against you through several layers of fabric, will actually feel like as it penetrates your body.
You bring yourself back to the present. I asked you something, and you try to cover it, but guessing, rightly, that I know that the flush to your skin didn’t come from my cooking. It’s hot, but hot is fine. Hot is what you feel between your legs. Hot and damp.
I clear the table, then bring two bowls of warm water and two small hand towels. You wash your right hand, then dry it, and I withdraw again, returning with a small bowl of sweets. It’s not halwa, but you guess there are pistachios and sugar involved somewhere. It comes in flaky layers, and clears your palate. We finish with an orange each.
We adjourn to my lounge settee, and I turn some music on. My musical tastes are as eclectic as my library, world collections plundered, classic rock going back to the golden ages of Floyd, Zep, and Deep Purple, and true Classical music, preferably with a full orchestra. I wouldn’t listen to modern pop any more than I’d eat out of a burger joint or read a tabloid paper. I’m not rich, and you know I rent this place, but you don’t have to be rich to be refined. Rich doesn’t particularly interest you, but you know I have personal standards. You’re still not sure if you meet those standards, or even if that is part of my thinking. You know that my judgements of people, and I do make them, tend to be complicated.
We have, in short, some things in common. You learned on scouring my bookshelves that we have a lot more than that to share. I also know how to make decent conversation.
I settle next to you, and you snuggle, inviting my arm around you. I oblige, and you press close. You lean in for a kiss, and thank me for dinner. Your place as soon as your flatmates are gone for the weekend. You look at me hesitantly, then decide to let the rest of the evening go where it takes you. You reach to take my spectacles off, and put them carefully on the coffee table. I’m very short sighted, and have been since childhood, but you don’t plan for me to be looking very far away for the rest of the night. You stop, consider, and take charge. You rise. A side light is turned on. The main light is turned off. You close the curtains, and return to my arms. Your heart is pounding, and your belly is getting warmer and warmer. Those lacy knickers are getting wet.
For a long while we stroke and touch. I untie your hair. I know I can go as far as fondling your breasts and stroking your thighs. Both of us enjoy this but, until tonight, there has been a limit. This limit involves keeping most of our clothes on. You know that I’m sexually much more experienced than you are and suspect I find this frustrating. I’ve also respected your boundaries and this, ultimately, is what made you sure that, even if I’m not Mr Right, it’s time for you to explore more of what it means to be a woman, and I’m the man to help you do that. If it leads to more, well, you’ll take that as it comes.
Every thought seems to lead you back to sex.
Tonight I gently run my fingers through your hair. It stimulates your scalp, and my gentle touching relaxes you. My fingertips trace the contours of your face. It doesn’t quite tickle, and you attempt to playfully kiss a fingertip as it runs the length of your lips. I move to kiss you instead, my tongue replacing my finger, circling your lips, then slipping inside. You hold me close, feeling the solidity of my body, your hands sensing the strength behind shoulders accustomed to a rucksack that most people think is heavy.
It is solid muscle. There is real power there, power that will swing a hiking pack or fifteen litres of juice, plus the rest of my shopping, onto my back, after first checking for granny standing behind me but, tonight, I seem to be keeping that in check without thinking about it. Tonight is about open hands, fingers, their tips, my lips, my tongue. It feels good in your mouth, and you wonder what it will feel like kissing the parts of your body you have, so far, not allowed me to touch. The wetness between your thighs grows further. It really is time you let me do that.
Sensing your willingness, my roaming hands slip lower, stroking your neck. You have made it perfectly clear in the past that you enjoy this, and know that your hands rubbing my neck can turn me into a pile of jelly. You like having this power over me, and gain confidence from the fact that I will let you do it. You purr like a contented cat. I move on, over your shoulders, and I run my hands over your back just as you are exploring mine. You are sure your body is more delicate than mine, and hope I am enjoying it. With growing confidence you find me moving to the front of your body, my hands stroking the outer edge of your breasts. Even through fabric, this feels very good indeed. I follow the curves, stroking, rather than fondling, although I am welcome to do that.
We break our kissing, and you smile at me. Each of my hands is now holding a breast. I must be able to feel the hardened nipples, as I use a fingertip to circle each areole.
Right now, you are not sure who is seducing whom.
My hands drop lower. I explore your lower abdomen, and you want my hands lower still, but I take them away, returning to your face, and following the contours of your smile. We kiss again, and you lean into me, offering yourself, clasping me against you. You feel my breathing, deep, excited, but controlled.
You want to touch me. One hand moves to my upper thigh. You are not touching my cock, but know you are not too far from it. I smile at you, encouraging you. You lick your lips nervously, and feel the line of my thigh towards my groin. My hands drop again. One moves to stroke a breast. The other traces a flank and follows a thigh to your knee. I look at you, showing some uncertainty. Tonight you are pushing things further than we’ve usually gone. You want me to touch. You want me to feel. My hand strokes an inner thigh, heading for the wet warmth where it joins the rest of your body, then over, learning more about your body’s contours.
Closing the curtains was meant to be a hint but, with one of my hands caressing a breast and the other stroking a thigh, you decide that it’s time to move things forward. You break our latest kiss, and deliberately rub one hand briefly over the swelling in my trousers, gaining a moan of approval. For you, this is bold. Both hands then move to my top shirt button. You look at me for permission then, at my encouraging nod, begin to work your way down. Eventually you pull my shirt tails out of my trousers and push the shirt backwards off my shoulders. I halt you, and you pause, wondering what you did wrong, but I just undo the buttons at the cuffs and let you get on with it.
My male body is firmer than yours, and with a bit more hair on the chest, but you’ve seen much more in photos. I allow you to explore. I get a fair amount of exercise, but don’t work out, so my pectoral and abdominal muscles are firm, but not hard. You run your hands over my upper body and I accept your touch.
Your confidence grows at this and you move lower. You want to know what the rest of me feels like, so you undo the button and clip holding up my trousers, the usual semi-formals I wear everywhere but a muddy footpath or the garden, then unzip me, your hand within millimetres of my hardened cock. As you move to pull off my trousers it strains at my dark blue boxer shorts, and you can see a little skin where it is trying to push aside the fabric above the button. You decide to ignore it for a little while, and pull off my socks. At last you have a better idea of what I look like.
My legs are hairy and made of defined muscle. You know I spend a lot of time walking, much of it with a rucksack, and imagine I could kick like an angry mule. My body, however, is heading for being all yours, and you’re confident that you won’t be on the wrong end of any violence from it. You explore gently, kneeling in front of me, almost worshipfully. I certainly won’t discourage that, at least provided it doesn’t go too far. Finally, you reach the last bit of clothing I have on. You take a lack of discouragement as encouraging, and pull at the waistband, stretching it taught to get at the contents, and allowing my hardened shaft to fall free.
You gasp. It looks like it’s well over fifteen centimetres long, maybe closer to twenty, and it’s thick, and rigid, and engorged with blood you can see in the veins. You swallow, nervously. You’re not quite so sure, now, that you want that inside you. Surely it’s got to hurt. Then you remember your reading. It might hurt, a bit, the first time, but the female body is designed to handle it. You reach for it with both hands. The foreskin that you learned about in your curious reading is missing, showing a tip a similar colour to your own nipples, and there is a tube that seems to run just under the skin on the underside.
You explore it with your fingers. It feels almost spongy against the rigidity of the shaft. That, at least, matches your knowledge of human male anatomy. You stroke it, and my moans tell you that I’m enjoying it, so you lean forward to rub it against your cheek and kiss it. It bobs as you play with it, and you decide it’s not so scary after all. You breathe in my musky scent, which reminds you that I am, basically another mammal, communicating my arousal through my sweat. It makes you more excited. You wonder if you’re doing the same for me.
I lean forward, and tell you that fair’s fair, and it’s my turn, if it’s OK with you. You stand, looking shy again, and I stand in front of you, take you in my arms, and kiss you gently. You are nervous. You have guarded your virginity against several men who have wanted it, until much later than your classmates at school, and have chosen to give it to me, What if I find you unattractive, or too inexperienced? What if I hurt you?
You hold my firm male body, and feel my erection pressing against your groin. I find the zip fastening your dress and run the tag slowly down the length of your spine. I pull fabric from your shoulders and the dress falls to the floor. I step away to look at you, a wow of appreciation escaping my lips. You don’t know if it’s your near-naked body, the bra that shows hardened pink nipples under black lace, the equally translucent knickers that show the fur of your pussy, or a combination of all three that is doing it for me. You know men are very visual creatures, and I seem to like your body. You hear my breathing quicken to match yours.
My hands reach to cup your breasts. I stroke them through the lacy fabric, and bend slightly to kiss the bare flesh of your cleavage. You have the impression I really want to touch them, feel them, fondle them. I leave them alone, and kneel in front of you. My arms encircle you, and I begin to kiss your flat tummy, licking it gently with my tongue and blowing air over the damp skin, stimulating you. Surely I have to realise just how wet you are getting? I glance up, and smile at you, making sure you have no objection. You smile back, and the tip of your tongue traces your top lip.
My head drops lower and my hands move from your back to your bum. I begin kissing you just above the line of your knickers while I stroke your buttocks, partly on thin fabric, partly on bare skin, which is getting more and more sensitive every minute. You hold my head, and stroke my hair. You want to be naked for me, to give yourself to me.
I rise, and you almost feel disappointed. You want me to kiss you where you are most sensitive. Instead I kiss you gently on the lips. My hands caress your breasts, nails stimulating the skin. You want the bra off. You want my hands on bare skin, and wish I would get on with it. I find your nipples through the lace, and rub gently with a fingertip, like you stroke yourself in bed alone at night. I realise the bra fastens from the front, and I unclip it, allowing them to fall free. I kiss you again, and slide the bra off your shoulders, allowing it to fall. I break, and look at you.
This is the first time any man has seen you topless, but you go from nervousness to confidence as you realise that I haven’t noticed, or couldn’t care less, that one breast is slightly smaller than the other. They’re not large, but they are firm and healthy. I bend, and begin to kiss them. I cover each breast with gentle kisses, again licking softly, breathing on your exposed skin, then move to suckle one, then the other, fondling both. It feels great, and you moan with desire. The tips go from firm to hard, and I circle puffy areolae with my tongue. The warmth in your belly grows ever stronger, and your knickers feel like they must be sopping wet.
One of my hands reaches lower, and finds the line of your knickers. You wonder if I’m now going to strip you. The other hand is still on a breast: I am touching rather than groping, and your skin is sensitised from attention, giving you pleasure. The other breast is being worshipped by my lips and tongue. Finally, I touch you where your thighs touch fur, and your breathing deepens. You hold my head, liking it where it is, and enjoying what it’s doing. I begin rubbing, palm to pussy, wet lacy knickers in the way, fingers between your legs. I take my lips from your wet nipple and remind you of the rules. You can always tell me to stop, and I won’t be annoyed. You don’t want me to stop. You want me to keep going. Doing this for yourself feels good. Having me do it for you feels fantastic. You try to bury my head in your cleavage. I surrender, and kiss, and suckle.
You press your crotch against my hand. I finger you through the lace. You know I have found how wet you are. You want the knickers off.
Instead, I release your breasts, take my hand away and kneel in front of you. I hold you up by one smooth thigh, pressing my face against it, my eyes centimetres from your soaking knickers, as I remove your ankle socks. You get the impression I like your legs from the way I begin to stroke and kiss them. It feels nice, almost like I am worshipping your nearly naked body. My head moves to the level of the tops of your thighs, and I kiss you close to the edge of your remaining underwear, my hands on your bottom.
Finally, I hook fingers into the waistband and peel off the flimsy fabric. You get the impression I’m close to just ripping the knickers off, but I prefer to be gentle with you. You stand there naked, with me paying due reverence on my knees. You can feel you are soaking. I tease the fur between your legs with my lips, and you feel my warm breath on your skin near that most sacred of places.
I turn you again so your back is to the sofa and gently push you back onto it. Your preferred position is curled up with your legs tucked half under you. Lying on your back, naked, legs parted, is a position you only get into on your own, in bed, at night. I look at you lustfully, and you squash your nervousness. It’s perfectly clear I want to take you all the way.
I move closer and pull your hips to the edge of the cushions. Your femininity is completely exposed and it would take one move on my part to penetrate you. It’s a move you are partly frightened of, partly wanting. You are, mostly, ready.
Instead, I tell you that I want to give you an orgasm. You’ve heard that the chances of having an orgasm with your first experience with a partner are not high, but it’s not my hips that move to cover yours, but my head. I begin by kissing your damp inner thighs, each hand gently pressing a leg apart, legs that you have carefully shaved to complete smoothness, in anticipation of what is happening now. You reach down to hold my head as my arms reach up to again fondle your firm breasts, topped by hard nipples.
I use my lips and tongue to part the folds guarding your entrance, then move away to kiss the moisture-sensitised skin around them again. You can feel my warm breath on your skin, and this excites you still further. I return to those lips, taking them between mine, softness against softness, enjoying the silky smoothness of that most sensitive of areas, then lap gently at your entrance, almost drinking from a spring. Your remain slightly nervous, mostly excited, and enjoying the sensations of what I am doing for you, but you know where your clitoris is, and you want me to touch it, but you’re beginning to wonder if I know where to find it.
It seems I’m kissing every part of the area between your legs except the bit you really, really want kissed. You’re enjoying the stimulation, and the anticipation, but you want to know what it’s like to have my tongue on your clit. You wrap slender thighs around my back, holding me where I am. Suddenly, without warning, my tongue flicks across your hardened nub and you gasp in pleasure. Heat pulses through you. That wasn’t like your fingertip. That was much nicer.
I go back to my teasing, enjoying wet smoothness, tasting you. Then my tongue circles your clit again, stimulating it, making you even hotter, and I begin quick flicking motions over it. You nnmoan in pleasure, hands and legs holding me in place, not wanting me to stop. You had nothing to worry about on my knowledge of female anatomy.
I don’t stop. I pucker my lips and suck it part way into my mouth. More sensations course through you as my tongue keeps going. My hands continue to gently knead your breasts. You are getting the idea I really like these, and they add to the warm sensations in your body.
These sensations grow stronger, and I feel you begin to tense so I ease off slightly, releasing your nub from the sucking I am giving it, and allowing my tongue to move away, licking between entrance and a clit that feels like it’s soaking wet and on fire at the same time. You realise I am deliberately teasing you, and are torn between wanting to enjoy it and wanting to come to the climax that you’ve realised I’m perfectly capable of giving you.
Some time later I go back to your clit, and begin to bring you higher again. My tongue makes quick flicking motions over the surface, and fire builds beneath it. Moans turn to gasps as heat grows on your belly. Sensation surges through your entire body and you arch your back, shudder, and let out a long loud high-pitched moan of pure pleasure. My hands move quickly to your hips to hold you in place. I’m not about to stop, and it’s about to get too much. On the edge between pleasure and overload you let out something like a scream and pull free, thrashing your legs around me.
I accept your surrender, and move to kiss you. You are panting and dizzy, but pull me close, our tongues clashing. My mouth and chin are wet, and you realise this all comes from you. You’ve never felt anything like that before. You catch your breath enough to remind me you’re using an oral contraceptive. As far as your GP is concerned, you want control over your cycles at exam time. Half the women at the university are doing the same thing for the same reasons. In fact, you have been considering this for weeks, and don’t want any sort of barrier between my body and yours when you let me inside you.
I need no further encouragement, and you feel my tip at your entrance. I take hold of my shaft, and rub it in your juices. Silky wet skin glides over silky wet skin, my tip sliding over your inner lips. There is fire in your belly, part nerves, part excitement. Your tension grows as I position myself at the very rim of your well. You squirm slightly. That’s where you want it. Desire has overcome any nerves. My hands again take hold of your hips. I look you in the eye. You want to know how it feels to have me inside you. I push, gently. You feel a brief pressure and a sharp pain. You wince, slightly. You know what that was, and wonder if you’re technically still a virgin. Where did that thought come from? I’m inside you: not far inside you, but we are physically joined. I push again, a little deeper.
It hurts, but you decide you can ignore the pain. I begin to thrust, further and further inside, until you can feel my hair against yours. Now you know what it feels like: it feels very, very good. The smoothness of my cock presses against the slippery smoothness of your inner walls. You have no idea if I’m bigger or smaller than average, but I’m quite big enough for you. It’s sore around your entrance where your maidenhead has torn. Deeper in I feel thick and warm. You concentrate on that. You wrap both legs and arms around me and pull me closer as I begin to thrust in and out.
Each time I push inside you gasp, enjoying the sensation of the walls of your cunny being stretched by my shaft. My head dips to yours, and I slide my tongue inside your mouth. It feels incredibly sexy to have this sliding around your own tongue while my shaft slides in and out of you. My chin tastes of something strange, slightly salty, and you realise it’s you. You sense I’m being slow and careful, trying not to hurt you, but you also sense I’m beginning to lose control.
Your hips move to meet mine with every thrust, encouraging me as my strokes become quicker. This is pleasurable for you, but you are also enjoying the fact that you can give this to me. Your surrender is total. I will not hurt you, and you give yourself to me completely. Your body relaxes, drawing me in. I throw my head back and you feel me pulse inside you, thick juices flooding you and mingling with yours. You thought they’d be hot, but they’re just warm, like thick cream squirted into your well. The heat comes from you. It feels even more intimate to have those juices in your body.
I relax on top of you. You decide you like the weight of my naked body. It makes you feel somehow safe, and you keep your arms and legs where they are. I am still up inside you, but you are feeling me soften, leaving my fluids behind, mixed with your feminine juices and the blood of your virginity.
You now have a better idea what it is to be a woman.
You are not too sure what happens next. You lie there with a post-coital smile on your face, feeling my hardness soften and eventually ease out of its own accord, covered in our mingled fluids. I rouse slightly, kiss you gently, and actually thank you, almost like it was some sort of favour, but you realise I took pleasure from what we have just done much as you did.
Eventually you begin to feel uncomfortable in this position, and you shift your weight slightly. I take the hint and move myself off. I grab my spectacles from the coffee table. You hope I’m not about to ask you to leave. I take your hands and encourage you to your feet. You stand in front of me, looking coy, a false coyness, considering your complete nudity and what we have just done together. I am making no secret of my appreciation of your naked body. You have a slight instinct to cover your sexual parts but, after what we just did, you keep your hands by your sides, head up, shoulders back, increasingly confident. I stare appreciatively, looking your nude body up and down. You gaze back at me, a firm, healthy naked male in front of you. Your male.
I move to switch off the side light, then the stereo and, in the dimness of the orange street lighting making its way through the curtains, I lead you by both hands from the room, leaving our clothing scattered on the floor. I’m not asking you to leave. I’m taking you to bed. The warmth inside you begins to grow again. We make it up the stairs, into the bathroom. You’ve crashed on my sofa, the sofa we just made love on, a few times, and already have a toothbrush here. In the past you’ve made yourself clean alone, behind a closed door. This time we stand in front of the sink together, naked. My spare hand reaches for your bare skin, and I run fingertips over you, just touching. You hesitate, then do the same for me.
Finished with your teeth you hesitate again. You feel sticky between your thighs. Having my juices inside you makes you feel warm — warm and womanly - but you’re not so sure you want to feel sticky all night. You consider running some water and wiping yourself down, but decide on the more confident option. You reach for the shower switch behind its curtain. You wait a few moments for the water to warm, realising I’m watching you with anticipation. I’ve made you feel sexy, and you look at me, licking your lips invitingly.
You step into the shower, throwing your shoulders back. I look on, then join you, pressing my body against your back. My hands stroke down you, removing sweat, then returning to fondle your chest. You lean back, and I nuzzle your neck. It feels good, with your skin made more sensitive with the water. You like the way I appreciate your body. I’ve been making it clear I appreciate your mind for weeks, and now you realise it’s more than just that. I wash you down, rinsing sweat and stickiness from between your thighs, and taking a free feel around the dark fur between them.
You wonder if I’m going to take you from behind, in the shower, and you feel me stirring again against your smooth bum. You part your legs slightly, inviting me. Having had me once, and experienced the pleasure I can bring you, you want to experiment, to do it again. I restrain myself, and kneel behind you, finishing the job of rinsing you clean, paying careful attention to your buttocks and thighs, actually kissing your bare bottom. You are guessing I find this touching sexy, and you stand there and enjoy it.
I stand, and snuggle in to you. You press your body to mine, then decide to reciprocate. You shuffle round me in the shower, not wanting to sleep with wet hair, then begin to rinse me down, running your hands across my body. It’s an excuse to touch. You spot shower gel and reach for the bottle. You spread much of the contents liberally over my body. You’ve never explored a man’s body before, and you want to make the most of this.
I have a partial erection again, and you touch it, curious, making it slippery. Moans and my expression tell you that you are doing something right. I tell you that you’re doing it exactly right. You feel it throb slightly in response, and it grows a little more. I’m sweaty between my legs as well, and you carefully wash this away, not sure yet just how sensitive my balls actually are, then make it slick with heat and soap. You know that to really hurt a guy, you kick him there, but you don’t want to do that to me. I am watching you, appreciating your nude body.
You stand, and press yourself to me, rubbing your naked skin on mine. The shower gel makes both of us slippery, and you feel me hardening properly. You rub your whole body against me. We are both slick with water and soap and our bodies glide on each other. My cock against your pussy and belly excites you. You make the shaft even more slippery with gel, and stroke it with both hands. I look like I’m on the verge of falling over backwards. Your groin throbs. You want me up inside you, hard. Having given me your maidenhead, you have decided to give of yourself freely, increasingly sure I will welcome that.
I take you in my arms, and you relax against me. I kiss you gently, deeply. You again wonder if I want you again, now, under the running water. You like the way your skin feels against mine when we’re wet like this. If not now, you want to try it later, presumably standing up, or from behind, or pressed against the shower wall, my hands supporting your bum, my cock up inside you.
Instead I rinse us both down, enjoying the contact, reach for the shower switch and step away and out. I hold out a towel from the rail for you, and you step into it. I dry you off, carefully and gently, as if you might break, paying special attention to your breasts and thighs. I take another dry towel and you watch me dry myself off. Then I lead you from the bathroom to bed.
You are feeling increasingly confident of your sexuality around me, and hope I appreciate it. You hop onto the bed, showing me your bum, then turn and sit back against the padded headboard, one leg straight, the other bent at the knee, your arms by your sides, casually exposing yourself. I look on, then join you for a kiss. We wrap our arms around each other and you again press yourself into me. My hands begin to explore you again, starting at your back, then moving lower. You have no issue with this, and decide you want to get to know me better — a lot better. This seems to coincide with exploring your own womanhood.
You shift your weight to look at me properly, and like what you see. I’m not a big man, but I walk enough to be fit and healthy. There is a lot of muscle there. I am, and this is important, gentle. You could have been hurt over the past hour or so, and you find that the experience was very much a pleasurable one. You are not sure if it could get better, or if it will be all downhill from here, but you’re keen to find out. I can’t resist. I reach for your breasts again.
You wonder if I like these so much because I don’t have any, or because they feel nice to touch, or because I know that me feeling them makes you feel warm and sexy. They are nice and sensitive, especially still slightly damp and with nipples hardened with excitement. You lean forward again, making my contact as easy as possible.
I also have something that you don’t. It felt good inside you, and you want it there again, but you want to know more about how it feels. You reach for it, and I smile. It’s getting firm, but isn’t really hard, having lost a bit since you played with it in the shower. You know if you play with it properly it will probably get back to the way you want it. I am still trying to fondle you, but our arms are getting in the way, so I fall back on what skin of yours I can reach. My gentle stroking feels pleasurable, and makes you shiver slightly.
You run your fingertips up and down my hardening shaft, then round the top. For some reason I’ve been circumcised, although you know neither of my parents were Jewish. You assume some medical reason in childhood. It doesn’t matter to you. You explore with gentle fingertips, realising that I’m enjoying the attention enough that it’s getting properly hard again. It pleases you that you can make me excited like this. You hope you can get lots of practice. You begin to stroke the whole shaft, trying to imitate the sensations I would feel inside you, eliciting a moan from me, and I tell you how good it feels.
You realise you can have it inside you again. This appeals, and you feel yourself getting wetter at the thought. You realise that a man’s testicles can’t be all that sensitive, or they’d hurt constantly. You try cupping them in one hand, testing their weight. I don’t object, so you try feeling what’s inside, little ovoids.
Your curiosity satisfied, at least for the moment, you return to the shaft. You are feeling daring, so you you straddle it. You feel slightly uncertain. You’re not too confident about getting this right, but you remember some advice that you read somewhere that if it feels good to you, and nobody is getting hurt, it’s probably OK. This feels good to you, and you don’t see how anyone could get hurt. You lower yourself so my tip is against the folds between your legs. You reach down to part them. My hands roam your hips and thighs, my eyes on you the whole time.
So far so good. You take my shaft in both hands, and rub the tip in the juices around your entrance. It feels good, and the expression on my face tells you I think so too. You try rubbing your clit with it. It feels nice, but you can’t get a good rhythm with it. You can feel it wouldn’t take much for you to have another orgasm, however, and you are determined we will both have at least one more each tonight.
Emboldened, you move my tip closer and closer to your entrance, easing it very slightly inside. I smile my lustful encouragement. You ease yourself downwards with a rocking motion, until you feel the ridge around the head pop into place embraced by the rim of the entrance to your well. We are joined together again. My own hips start to move, and you take this as a hint that I want to be deeper inside you. Carefully, you ease yourself down on to me, until there is no more to take, and I fill you.
You remember the motions I used when you allowed me inside you the first time, and begin to mimic them. There is some stimulation of your most sensitive parts, but not enough. I apparently know this. One hand stays on your hip, the other moves to cover your pussy, and I begin to rub you off. It feels fantastic, but you realise I’m bending my arm in a way that can’t be too comfortable. You take my finger away and replace it with your own. I smile broadly, and you realise I am going to enjoy watching you pleasure yourself on my body.
You rock yourself up and down on my solid shaft, feeling your softness against my hardness. You lean back for a little while while I stroke your legs and you stroke your clit. It’s easier for you to get at than usual with my cock deep up inside you, parting you in two. Near the top of your upstroke, just as you push yourself down on it, it feels especially good, and you realise it is stimulating your g-spot. It’s hard to get a fast enough rhythm to really do the job properly.
Then you try leaning forward, breasts dangling slightly. You are not surprised when I take this as an invitation and reach for them. This feels good as well, in a different way, but you lose the sensations on your pelvic sponge. You are really going to have to find out if I know how to give you pleasure with that, perhaps with my fingers. If I don’t, you’re really going to have to teach me. I obviously like your breasts, and you want to encourage me to play with more of your body.
One of your hands is still between my arms, rubbing your clit. It feels particularly good with me inside you, much more so than when you do it for yourself without. You squirm against my cock, then realise from my expression that this felt good for me, so you take me as deeply as I can go and do it again. I let out a low growl, sounding almost like a pleased tiger. You get the idea that you’re getting the hang of this. You raise yourself up, so only my head is inside you, then reach back to feel my cock between your legs.
It’s hard, and slippery from the mix of fluids inside you. Your curiosity is growing, and you wonder what it tastes like. You lick your finger. It’s slightly salty, but not actually unpleasant: my fluids mixed with yours are a little different to how you tasted on my chin. You can’t say it turns you on, but I apparently enjoyed it. At some point, you’ll have to find out exactly how I taste. This is something else to experiment with. You slide back down on my shaft, enjoying the sensation of it filling you. You squeeze it, and are rewarded with a moan of pleasure.
This is obviously something to keep trying. You clench your muscles around me, and resume bobbing up and down. Your finger returns to your clit. My hands return to fondling your breasts. You can see that I’m enjoying this, and it feels really good to you as well. You feel yourself approaching climax, partly from the physical stimulation, partly from watching me taking pleasure from your body.
Sensations again begin to flow through you more and more strongly, and you can see me starting to flush and sweat more than I have been. You can see I’m breathing more and more deeply, and your exertions on my cock are making you do the same. You feel your climax approaching and arch your back, quivering. You keep your finger flickering over your clit, wanting an orgasm with me inside you. You push down, hard, several times, stimulating yourself further. The main shock of your climax comes suddenly and you scream and spasm around me. At my own limit you feel my cock kick repeatedly inside you as I again flood your with creamy fluids. You take your finger from your clitoris, which is on the verge of being sore, and relax slightly to see my mouth still open in pleasure, a smile on my face. You lean forward to rest on top of me, your legs still parted to keep me inside you for as long as possible. My hands gently stroke your back. I murmur my appreciation.
Eventually you move off me, raising your head for a deep, long, gently kiss. You have enjoyed me, and think I have equally enjoyed you. You snuggle close, using my chest as a pillow, one arm draped over me, one leg over mine, your damp pussy pressing against me. You are feeling slightly dizzy from your orgasms, but otherwise content. For the first time in your life, you are going to sleep with a man.