“Have you ever unbuckled a man’s belt before?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
She shakes her head slowly. “No.”
“Unbuckle my belt, Zenny. Leave it in the loops when you’ve finished.”
If I thought she looked schoolgirl before, it’s nothing compared to now, when her eyebrows pull together and her forehead wrinkles the tiniest bit in concentration. She reaches for me with the focus of a surgeon, visibly trying to steady her hands as she works at my buckle with precise, careful movements. And then she looks back up at me as she finally manages the glossy leather, as it slides through the metal with a distinct hiss.
It’s the only sound in the room, followed by the muted clack of the buckle piece falling free to the side. It’s such a familiar sound that my dick gives a Pavlovian lurch.
“Now you unzip me,” I instruct. “And you take care with me as you do.”
She does take care, my little honors student, her slender fingers parting the placket of my zipper, the worn gold polish on her nails adding little flashes of color to the show as she finally manages to angle the slider down and tug it over the teeth of the zipper. The noise of it affects us both—it’s a noise of promise, a sound so unmistakably sexual that even a nun recognizes it for what it is.
Then the zipper is down, and the placket parts under the weight of my heavy cock, still clad in the soft jersey of my boxer briefs. Her eyes flicker between my face and the Very Obviously a Penis outlined in my underwear. It throbs visibly under her attention, and her tongue darts out to lick at her lower lip.
I groan.
“Sweetheart, you can’t look at me like that or I won’t make it.”
“Really?” she says, all curiosity and a little flattered smile. “Just from me looking?”
“With you, looking is as dangerous as fucking.” I pause. “Well, nearly. Hands in your lap now.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and her breathless readiness nearly makes me breathless myself as I pull off my shirt in preparation to show her my cock. I toss the shirt onto a nearby chair, and I nearly have a heart attack when I turn back to her.
Little Miss I’m Too Embarrassed to Talk About Masturbating is now slanting sideways on her knees, searching for the right angle to grind her pussy against her heel, her eyes like hunger itself as they trace over the lines of my stomach and chest, over my bare arms and shoulders.
I run a slow hand down the ridges and furrows of my belly, and she whispers, “You’re preening again,” but there’s no heat in it, no judgment, no injunction for me to stop.
“Hell yes, I’m preening,” I tease. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you looking at me like that.” And I mean it; as a young man, I worked for this body because I craved the pride that came with it, I craved the admiration and the petting I earned from women delighted by my shape. But over the years, as with any kind of dopamine hit, the pleasure of being admired faded, and so I kept in shape for duller reasons. I was used to being in shape; staying in shape had become indelibly tangled with my daily routine; it seemed like at this point it would take an effort of its own to stop.
But my God. The way Zenny’s looking at me now, stunned and rapacious, I remember how it felt the first time a girl ever looked at me. The first time I’d ever felt the bolt of lust that came from being wanted. I’m feeling it now like I did then, all this electricity and awareness skittering over my skin, which suddenly feels too tight to contain all the things I’m feeling. Too tight to contain my wanting her, which right now is as big as a prairie storm. Big as the prairie. Big as anything, certainly bigger than what my body can hold.
She reaches up tentatively, and I nod my head, yes, she can, she should, I’ll make her if she doesn’t, because now that she’s reached for me, the thought of not having those curious fingers on me is close to pain.
“Touch me,” I say. “Touch me. Touch me.”
She touches me.
The moment her fingers—slightly cool and delicately shaped—whisper across my stomach, I nearly buckle. The touch zings through me, reverberates like music, up and down every nerve pathway I have.
All from her touching my stomach. God help me when she touches my cock.
“You’re so hard,” she says, a bit wonderingly, her hands sliding up to my chest. She has to lift her ass off her feet to reach my chest, and I can see the wet spot she left on her heel. Jesus.
In fact, I’m so distracted by her distraction over me that I forget to make a joke about the word hard, I forget to do anything but stare down at her while she probes and pets at every plane on my stomach, every line and band of muscle on my back. When she touches my back, she does it by sliding her arms around me, and despite my insistent erection, despite my simmering blood, the feeling of being held and embraced by her is almost more potent than anything else. I want her to hold me forever; I already hate the thought of not having her arms around me.
Her curious hands finally find the band of my boxer briefs, shy at first with little strokes along the edge, then braver and braver as she starts sliding her fingers underneath the fabric. I let her find her own way, summon her own courage. Not out of laziness on my part, or even indulgent amusement (though I can’t deny how heady that feeling is on its own, indulgence, the state of wanting this girl to have whatever she wants, of letting her take it; I’m dangerously close to wanting her to take everything). But honestly I’m doing it because I am suddenly just as nervous as she is, as excited, and also as scared of what lies over the horizon of my own nakedness.
Moving is impossible, coaxing her to any other pace is unthinkable. Any faster and my heart will beat itself right out of my chest in terrified lust; any slower and my blood will overheat with desperation and I’ll die.
There’s only going as she moves us, at this uneven virgin’s pace, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Finally, either courage or impatience (so often they are the same thing) takes hold of her, and I’m treated to the sight of her face as she peels down the front of my boxers. She’s rapt, greedy—and then confused.
My erection has sprung free, bobbing down and then bobbing back up, throbbing, urgent, an angry red. I’ve been so hard for so long that the flared tip shines with pre-cum, and I’ve left a sizable smear of slick near my hip. The fresh influx of cool air across it nearly makes me shiver, and then I do shiver at the sight of her hands wrapped around the waistband of my underwear. But I have to laugh at her expression.
“Not what you expected?”
A glance up at me that I can’t interpret, although if I had to, I might say it was somewhere between saucy and rueful—a look only Zenobia Iverson could pull off. “I don’t know what I expected,” she admits. “But it’s so bumpy.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is big.”
She rolls her eyes. I’ve got the prettiest sort-of virgin in the world on her knees in front of me, my dick in her face, and she’s rolling her eyes. My ego wilts a little.
My cock doesn’t mind though.
“No,” she says slowly, “bumpy. Like here.” She runs a gentle finger up the line of one vein on my shaft and I let out a wounded hiss.
She looks alarmed. “Did that hurt?”