'Do I feel like coming now?'
He's used his hands on me, put his cock inside me, put his
mouth on my mouth and on my body. I've come with him
more than a few times. But not every time.
more than a few times. But not every time.
'Wil you?' he asks. 'While I watch?'
I don't know what answer to give. I only know I want to
give him everything he asks for and some things he hasn't. I
nod.
He sits back against the couch's opposite arm. I'm not sure
he'l even be able to see me, painted in shafts of white and
dark from the TV's glow. I'm not sure I want him to see
me do this without a shield of shadows.
I've never done this in front of anyone, and at first I'm not
sure how to start. In the privacy of my bedroom I'd have
the door locked and soft music playing in the dark. I'd be
naked, or wearing only panties and a T-shirt. Now I have
to navigate the barriers of my jeans and sweater,
underpants and bra. So I start by touching my breasts
through the wool, not because I usualy feel my boobs
when I'm masturbating but because I think that's what he
expects me to do, and doing it wil buy me time to find the
nerve to folow through with the rest of it.
The smal noise that eeps out of his throat convinces me I
made the right choice. My hands feel smal on my breasts,
which are fuler in my palms than in his. I can't remember
which are fuler in my palms than in his. I can't remember
the last time I touched them this way, cupping and rubbing,
trying to tweak my nipples to points. The sweater is too
thick for this, so I shift until I can pul it off over my head.
Another smal noise from him, and I bite my lower lip. My
fingers tiptoe over the slopes of my now-naked chest, over
the lace and satin of my best bra. The one I bought from
Victoria's Secret with my babysitting cash. The one I wear
on every date. Beneath its expensive material and breast-
lifting bands of metal, my nipples have gone tight and
aching.
My palms slide on the smooth fabric. When my thumbs
pass over those hard points, I bite harder. Soft flesh dents
under my teeth. It doesn't hurt yet, but if I don't ease up I
wil soon taste blood.
I close my eyes because it's easier to be what I think he
wants me to be when I'm not watching him watch me. And
it gives me darkness, which I'm used to and prefer for this
sort of thing. I feel my skin, softer than the bra that has
been through lots of washings and, despite its cost, wasn't
made to last.
I go away.
I go away.
From this basement, which always smels a little of wet
