“No,” I manage. “Keep going.”
The finger returns and starts tracing a maddening path around all the places I’m ridged and swollen. She draws a map of my veins, she navigates the sensitive shoals of my frenulum. She meanders around the crown and over the leaking slit at the top. Her fingers drop down to my root, circling the base to measure me, and I register a nice swell of masculine pride when I see the tips of her fingers and thumb can’t meet around me—although the pride is still largely secondary to the feeling of her touching my cock because holy fuck, she’s touching my cock.
“I want to see all of you,” she says, oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. Her eyes are on my body, on my abs and my cock and the places where my open pants strain around the muscles of my hips and my ass, and I have to say, her seeing all of me sounds amazing, the best idea anyone’s ever had.
“That can be arranged,” I say, pulling her to her feet and leading her out of the living room and into my bedroom. I don’t bother with lights out of habit, but Zenny flips them on and then gives me a shy smile when I glance back at her. “I need to be able to see,” she says with a little shrug.
“Anything you like, darling.” I wouldn’t miss her exploring my body for the world. For seventy times seven worlds. And I am almost unbearably unworried about how infatuated I am with this girl—I’ve never felt like this about anyone else…but then again, I’ve never met someone like her before, so perhaps it’s not shocking. Perhaps I’d been programmed at birth only to want this one person, and there’s this tiny thing in my mind—not a thought, not even the seed of a thought, but like the frozen root of some dormant plant that might one day years from now drop a seed that can become a full-blown thought—that I can almost remember feeling this way about God once upon a time. That years ago, there used to be a Sean Bell that loved without restraint and reluctance and fear.
She reminds me.
I make to ease myself out of my pants, and Zenny helps me. I allow it, because there’s no sweeter feeling than having an eager woman tearing at your clothes, and also the sweet clumsiness of it is both endearing and so fucking hot.
“Okay,” she says matter-of-factly once we’ve finished and I’m naked. “On your back.”
I comply, lacing my hands behind my head after I arrange myself, watching her move around the foot of the bed and take off her bra, which she drapes carefully over the footboard. She looks good here, naked in my room, the city lights moving in gleams and glitters across her skin as she walks past the windows and her hair trailing cascades of corkscrewed shadows across the floor and over my bed.
Then she crawls onto the bed and I forget everything else. There’s only her, only her utter lack of artifice and complete ignorance of seduction as she moves to my side and then sits crisscross like a kid. Just her curious fingers and nervous sucking on the corner of her mouth and her avid gaze roving over me.
She pets my arms and caresses my stomach. She runs her hands along the swells of my thighs and chest. She asks me the names of the muscles hugging my ribs (serratus) and if I’m ticklish (yes, but only on the soles of my feet). She strokes down to the hyper-aware skin near my cock and she fondles my sac—not to stir me, but to weigh and to measure. And then when she sees how my body responds to being touched, she seems to make an experiment of it all. Silently measuring how much I twitch when she brushes up along my underside, how much I moan when she circles me, how much I gasp and seize when she slides that circle up the length of me.
I groan when she moves her attention elsewhere, but I’m grateful—beyond stamina and pride reasons, it feels just as good to have her exploring the rest of me. It’s hot to see how new everything is to her—my feet and hands, for example, so much bigger than hers. Or the hair along my thighs and calves, rough and distinct against her silky legs. She spends what feels like hours running her fingers along my happy trail and I have to fist my hands in the covers to keep my back from arching off the bed; she rakes those chipped gold fingernails over the flat discs of my nipples and I have to grit my teeth and close my eyes to keep from grabbing her.
“Turn over,” she whispers, and I do.
Hands roam up my thighs, over the tight muscles of my calves and down to my feet, where she discovers for herself that I didn’t lie and am indeed ticklish. She finds the furrow of my spine, the broad spread of my shoulders, and the place at my nape where my hair threatens to curl when it’s left too long without a trim.
Then I feel her straddle my thighs, bracing her hands on my hips as she does, and I make a noise into the bed. The extra weight pressing my cock between my body and the mattress is amazing, in the worst way.
Or it’s terrible in the best way. I can’t tell.
She runs both her hands up my back and then back down to the tops of my glutes, plumping them with those measuring, probing touches that seem calculated to drive me mad with lust. She squeezes my ass cheeks, scoots farther back on my thighs, and then does something that makes my toes curl.
She spreads my ass apart and sends a curious finger down the seam.
I make another noise into the bed.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Should I not…?”
“No, no, you definitely should.”
“Do you like having this part of you touched?” She’s touching me again, this time swirling the pad of her finger along my rim. Sensation flares everywhere, and I feel fucking dirty, so fucking dirty.
“I don’t know,” I manage, my voice muffled by the blankets. I’m so hard I might die, and I’m consumed with the need to fuck. To come. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”
Zenny makes a studious kind of hmm, like she’s my own personal anthropologist, the first person to discover and survey Sean Bell, and I can feel the strain of staying still everywhere in my body. I want to flip over and yank her to my chest, I want to crush my mouth to hers, I want to wrap her legs around my waist and push deep into that wet, sweet well between her legs.
“I can’t believe no one’s touched you here before,” she says, a finger pushing against my entrance while her thumb strokes pensive strokes along my perineum. “You’ve had so much sex—how is that even possible?”
There’s no way to describe to her how it comes to be that way. How the same three or four acts simply get put on a tired merry-go-round, made different only by the person you’re with, and how the journey becomes tainted by the destination. I’m a generous lover by most accounts, but it’s only because pussy gets me hot. It’s a selfish thing, really, and all my sex is selfish. I’ve just justified it to myself by having sex with equally selfish people.
Anyway, I can’t describe it because all my words are gone, they’ve been driven out by waves of painful need, and even if I could describe it, I wouldn’t want to. I don’t want Zenny to know how banal sex can be, I only want her to know sex as a revelation. As the kind of epiphany that rivals all religion.
But still I need to answer her, so I say in a joking voice—or as close to joking as I can get with my body on fire, “Oh, you know. People get bored and they just want it to be easy. Get it over with.”
She doesn’t joke back, her fingers trailing down my ass cheeks to rest on my thighs. “How could anyone ever get bored with this?” She’s quietly incredulous. Faintly accusatory.