Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(38)
His hips twitched and swiveled as I pistoned my fist. His lower jaw hung slack, his groans punctuated by the occasional cry of encouragement, such as “That’s it! Don’t stop. Oh Goddd, don’t stop, Mahalia. Keep doing it.”
As if I was about to stop.
My labia swelled and bloomed with a dewy thrill. My outer lips clenched and clutched as if at an invisible penis as I masturbated his enormous tool. I added just a drop or two of the natural liquid soap for lubrication, and his deepening groans told me I was on the right track. I liked swiping my thumb over the shiny, taut glans on the upswing, and sweeping my fingertips over his hard balls on the downswing. I didn’t care if he liked it, I liked it, but now he was huffing and puffing, set to burst, from what I could remember of the procedure.
“Don’t…stop…” His words became less intelligible, just guttural groans as his scrotum pulled tighter against his body and his hips shimmied almost uncontrollably.
Right when he seemed about to choke—or pop his stitches—I was rewarded with a sudden forceful spurt of jism.
It was so sudden, it almost scared me. It spurted so high, it hit Gideon smack in the shoulder, but I kept on pumping. If I recalled correctly from beating off Field, the jets of semen would keep coming for another ten seconds or more.
Boy, was I wrong. Gideon must’ve been backed up horribly, because the gushers pooled up in the pit of his chest and started running down between his abdominal muscles. Whenever I swished my thumb up and down that channel under his cock, he’d gasp and jump, make a sexy little thrust with his hips.
But I knew when to slow down, too. Once his muscles relaxed and he eased his haunches back into the water, I gave his penis a few last regretful squeezes and let him go. Only to find out I was panting as much as he was.
Our shared gaze was so fiery it could’ve made the water boil. My heartbeat was so rapid it shuddered the pendant in the pit of my throat.
“Come here,” he said, low and full of meaning.
I didn’t know how to “come here” when he was submersed in a tub of warm water. He soon showed me, though. He launched his torso out of the water, grabbed me around the ribs, and hauled me half into the tub with him!
My bottom was setting on his lap, so about two, three inches of water seeped instantly into my cotton dress. I could feel his half-mast pole against my very labia.
He said, “I’ve known you haven’t been wearing the long johns they require. I can tell when the sun shines behind you. You’ve been naughty, haven’t you?”
I giggled, because I thought he was playing Santa with me on his lap. “If I say yes, will I get any presents?”
He seemed perplexed. Aggression took over, it seems, when he was confused. “I’ll give you some presents,” he growled, and bam, his hand slid up my skirts.
“Oh!” I gasped and cried out. Certainly Allred had never bothered touching my inner thigh, and I doubt he ever touched my labia either. Why would he? That sort of man never cares if a woman is prepared for his entrance. They just slam it in and go to town.
But his hot hand feathered my inner thigh, and my inner vagina near about exploded from shock and lust. He pinched some of the mortifying fat there between his fingers, growling with pleasure as though he liked it.
“How long have you not worn the long underwear? Don’t they require it?”
I mussed his silken hair beneath my palm, thumbing the unruly locks away from his forehead. I heaved and twisted on his watery lap, unsure if I was trying to escape his hand or shove my vulva down more firmly toward it. “They require it,” I gasped. I was panting so heavily tiny bubbles swam before my eyes, and I became afraid I’d hyperventilate.
His fingers brushed my mons now, sneaking under the elastic of my panties. Lately I’d even forsaken the granny panties we all wore without thinking twice about it. I don’t know—maybe I was planning on, or hoping for, an event just like this. But I’d snuck to Target and purchased smaller bikini panties, and now it was a snap for Gideon to graze a couple of his fingertips about an inch from my very clitoris. Even underwater, I was sure he could tell how syrupy I was.
His grin told me that, too. “It turned you on, didn’t it?”
I played dumb, eyes wide. “What?” But I gasped when his fingertips tickled the prepuce of my jutting clitoris. I angled my hips so I bore down on his hand. “What turned me on?”
“Jacking my dick.” His dirty language turned me on, too. “Stroking me off made you wet.” With that, he diddled my clitoris so directly I jumped, and had to hold onto his poor injured shoulders to avoid taking a spill completely into the tub.
“Maybe it did,” I admitted breathlessly. “Why shouldn’t it? Who wouldn’t be aroused with your giant phallus in her hand? She’d have to be brain-dead not to be.”
I loved the way he quirked his grin. Like, he knew how sexy he was, but he just liked hearing me say it. His fingers sped up their ministrations to my clitoris, and it was difficult to maintain eye contact with him. My eyes kept sliding shut. It was that completely quiet, inner concentration that always overcame me while building up to an explosive, earth-shattering orgasm. But he wanted to talk, to stroke his ego. “You liked watching me come. Come on, admit it. You liked watching me spew all over myself.”
“Well,” I said, noncommittedly. I was too busy concentrating on the rising floodwaters of lust that filled my pelvis. This was a different sort of arousal than the stimulation of my vibrator. It was hotter, more immediate, and way more explosive, I could already tell. Already my fingernails were digging into his poor shoulders, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. “Yes, it was a provocative sight.” Trying to laugh, I managed to detach one of my claws long enough to cup a handful of water and half-assedly wash the jizz off his shoulder. I lingered on the viscous feeling of it beneath my thumb.