I buried my face in his chest, and scissored our legs. Our arms thrown over each others' hips, my fingers running lightly along his spine.
I traced up and down, swirling fingertips in lazy circles. I'm tactile, I touch--sometimes without even realizing it. His breathing changed and became deeper as my fingers stroked absentmindedly. That's when my breath caught in my throat and I felt the heat rush to my cunt.
I shifted, letting him roll onto his back and slid my hand down to his dick which was, as I surmised by his involuntary grunts, already hard.
"Nice," I said, running my fingers from behind his balls to the tip of his cock. I rolled over to the night stand, flipped the lid on the massage oil and poured a bit into my palm, grinning as I returned to my place. He hadn't moved and he had a goofy smile on his face.
Last night I had come to bed, crawling toward him in my bra and boyshorts. "What's all this?" he smiled.
"This is me, and this is what I've been wearing under my game day shirt all afternoon."
"Goddamn, baby. You look gorgeous," he was staring at me, looking me up and down. "This is all for me?"
"Of course, it's for you. But these panties aren't coming off."
I was sitting above him, his hands were on my hips and he sat up halfway, tracing the top of my black demi cups with the crocheted lace. I put my hand behind his neck and kissed him.
"Girl thing," I whispered. I kissed his mouth, sliding my thigh between his legs.
We don't have sex, Joe and I. I mean, we have sex, but there's no penetration. Okay, his hands and tongue penetrate my cunt, but his penis has ever only been inside my mouth. We have dates, we go out, we stay in, cook and watch movies, I always sleep over, sandwiched between him and his cat. We like each other a lot.
But for whatever reason, we don't ride the wild pony.
It's cool. It's great, actually. So many people think that fucking is essential. I happen to find it very hot that we don't. Fucking can get boring, and my standards are very high. It's rare to find a person who's good at it all. And Joe's good at making me come without his dick.
He lifted each of my tits out of their cups--"like dessert cups," I'd laughed--licked and sucked and bit them in turn. I moaned loudly, that direct connection between my nipples and my clit brutal and excellent.
He threw me onto my back and kneeled above my chest. I raised my head and sucked while his hips thrust into my face and he came on my belly.
He washed me. I let him. I smiled at how much fun I was having, but it was 4 AM and I needed to sleep.
"That was awesome," I said.
"You are an amazing woman," he sighed.
The next morning as I massaged his hardening cock I thought about that comment. Am I "amazing" because I enjoy blowing him? Because I don't expect anything from him emotionally? Because I come like a flood? Because I like smoking his cigars? Last night my focus was him. The last thing I'd wanted was to be concerned about myself or how I could get off. I'd had an insanely busy day, been awake for 24 hours by the time we went to sleep and all I really wanted was to do something nice. To me, that's hot.
I was grinding my panty-covered pussy against his thigh, hot and swollen as I jerked him. The harder he got, the wetter I got. He would come soon, and I wanted his dick in my mouth before he did, wanted to close my lips around it and pull on its hard smoothness with the spongy strength of my tongue.
He came, silently this time.
I showered. He made coffee.
We watched SportsCenter. I drove home.
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