A shy reference librarian, and a college student who was disowned when she refused to submit to conversion therapy, meet in a bookstore. He's been waiting his whole life for her. Meanwhile, she's starting her whole life over. What ensues between the...
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Naked, I sit on my knees on the living room floor, in my student posture. The air-conditioned chill in here is making me shiver, and I am starting to get a stiff neck from looking up at him. He isn't cold at all; he's wearing one of his nice silk shirts and a pair of charcoal grey pressed trousers, which is what he was wearing when he got off work. I'm severely jealous. The goose pimples on my arms won't go away. Other parts of me are sticking out from the chilled air, as well, and I have a sinking suspicion that this means I won't be able to cover up. There is too much aesthetic appeal in my being kept cold. I hope he warms me up soon, anyway, one way or another.
"I have a somewhat unusual request this time," he tells me. "Well. Perhaps not that unusual."
I indicate that I'm listening. I have learned how to be very eloquent with my eyes.
"I would like you to pleasure yourself in front of me."
He wants me to do it now, on the spot, with no foreplay or any kind of lead-in or mood-setting? I give him what I hope is an extremely quizzical look.
"It's not so much that I'm curious to see if you embarrass easily, although there is certainly a small element of that. Mostly it's that I want to see what the best way is to bring you to a climax. You know your body better than I do. I can't think of a more efficient way of finding how to pleasure you than watching you do it to yourself. I want to see if you do things differently from me when you touch yourself, from the way that I do it when I touch you, and if so, how; I might learn something new. I'm sorry it didn't occur to me to ask this of you earlier. I should have brought it up months ago when we first started seeing each other. Please forgive my thoughtlessness." He looks at me apologetically. "I want to make you happy."
I don't think he has anything to worry about on that count; he's always been able to give me so much pleasure that "happy" seems a paltry way to describe the afterglow.
Hmm.
Ordinarily, by myself, I don't bother with foreplay; I just wet my finger and start playing with my clitoris. It occurs to me, however, that he might appreciate a bit more of a show; and really, why not? Perhaps getting to business with no prelude, and getting it over with so that I can move on to more important things, is a less satisfying way to achieve an orgasm than something that involves teasing other parts.
I lie down on the couch, on my back, and trail my left hand up to cup my breast, taking the nipple between my fingertips and rolling it gently as I slowly work my other hand downward, caressing my skin as I go. I'm not very wet. My fingertips are cold, however, and the sensation is interesting.
Much more interesting, though, is the thought of Magister pleasuring me with his tongue, and that has me soaked in no time. I've always gotten off more on using my fantasies and memories to augment what I do with my fingers than I have on sensation alone. Pure sensation doesn't really do it for me. Imagining Magister's mouth, and the feel of his skin, I slide my finger down to wet it in my vaginal juices before going back to rubbing my clitoris. It's a different sort of feeling from the sensation of using just my saliva as lubricant, and if I'm extremely aroused and using a finger to get off, it feels better. There's less friction. More of my sensitive areas get touched that way, as well.
