Into Her Touch

Erin jogged up the steps of the farm-style house in good spirits. She let herself in using her key and called out, "Mr. Morris! It's Erin."

Call me Blake

, he always asked, but for some reason she resisted. She wasn't usually a stickler for propriety but with him it seemed like a good idea. Maybe his military roots made the formality seem more natural to her. More likely it was the too-easy domesticity of cleaning his home while he loitered near her.

She pulled a book from her bag and went upstairs in search of her boss to return it to him. She could probably just put it in his bookcase, organized so she'd know where to put it. In fact, his whole house was clean and organized -- not the least because she did a full deep clean twice a week. It was just one of the neuroses that made her reclusive employer so strange, and also endearing.

So she could just replace the book, but she wanted an excuse to talk to him. They'd had a lively debate on the merits of the U.N. in her political science class yesterday and she knew he'd appreciate it.

She poked her head in his bedroom and found him there. In the next heartbeat, she noticed that he was spread out on the bed, still damp from a bath, a towel in disarray around his waist. And he was masturbating. She ought to leave. This was clearly a private moment and she was the intruder. She really should leave and not watch. Instead she stood there, her eyes riveted to his exposed cock standing up thick from his fisted hand.

"God, baby," he moaned, his eyes closed, "Suck it, please. Yes.

Yesss

. So beautiful. God." Then, shockingly, he moaned her name -- "

Erin

..." - as he came, spurting into his cupped hand. Her wide eyes flew to his face, mesmerized by the interplay of shiny, scarred skin and ruddy, healthy skin twisted in a grimace of pleasure. His burns and naturally coarse features might make him repulsive to some, but when she looked at him she saw only Blake, with his brilliant ideas and gruff kindness.

More than a little turned on, she let out an involuntary sound -- a whimper, almost. His eyes opened and he turned to look at her, eyes widening into a look of almost comic shock. Mortified, she turned and ran down the stairs. She heard him calling her name, not in passion this time, but she was unable to return.

Pacing agitatedly in the kitchen, she battled her embarrassment at being caught as a peeping Tom. She knew that she would have to face him and apologize but she would not go look for him in his bedroom. Not right then and maybe not ever.

Blake bounded down the stairs soon after, wearing his customary sweats. She'd admired him before, the way the loose, comfortable clothing hung on his well-built shoulders and abs, but now all she could see was his naked body, wet. As if she hadn't already proven herself enough of a coward, she turned away as if to flee.

"Erin," he said, "Wait, please."

She paused and turned halfway back to him, willing the images to subside.

"I'm ... I'm sorry you had to see that. Don't ... quit. It won't happen again. Please," he said.

She'd never expected to see him like this -- practically begging -- not for anything, and certainly not for his maid to continue cleaning for him. Did she really vacuum so well? But no, if nothing else, today had shown that he at least

thought

about her in another way. Is

that

why he kept her around, why he increasing her cleaning schedule and chatted with her about his work? Should she be offended? But she wasn't. She was flattered.

She stammered, "I... I don't understand. Were you... Was I ...?"

He closed his eyes and lowered his head. "There is no excuse," he said, swallowing. "But I will not -- " - he broke off and looked away. The part of his face facing her was the more scarred half, which illustrated his distress since he usually took pains to hide it when possible. "What can I do so that you will not leave?" he asked.

"I -- Honestly, I hadn't even thought of that. Actually, I wanted to apologize. For intruding on your ... privacy. I'm not going to quit."

"Thank you." he said stiffly, either in acknowledgement of her apology or her agreement she didn't know. He paused, "I -- I'm sorry," gave a curt nod, and then disappeared into his study.

She thought maybe she should have told him that he didn't have anything to be sorry for her -- that he hadn't really done anything wrong, after all. But it would be too strange to correct him in his assumption. What could she say --

Please, go ahead and use me in your fantasies -- I don't mind.

That would hardly make this situation less awkward.

Besides, she needed time to think, to process what she had seen him do and her feelings. But apparently she'd just committed not to quit, whatever came of her thoughts.

She cleaned his house as usual and he made himself scarce the rest of the time. She left his bedroom for last and resolutely ignored the way her panties grew damp as she made his bed.

***

Thank God she hadn't quit

, he thought, as he fled to the study. He'd known she was coming soon and had been unable to deflate his erection with a cold shower. He'd had to care of it before she arrived, so that she wouldn't see his inappropriate desire for her. But he'd miscalculated, and badly.

Of all the ways to lose her, that would have been the stupidest. Not that he

had

her, exactly, but seeing her twice a week and getting to talk with her was more than he deserved, and he was damned grateful for it. He chose not to analyze the pathetic factor of that.

He knew it was sleazy of him to use her work to keep her around him -- he'd never had such a clean house in his life -- but he could think of no other way to keep her around him. Someone so beautiful and good had no business being around a grumpy, cowardly person like himself, but damned if he wasn't selfish enough to force her hand anyways. Lord knew he had no good looks, no charm, and, as evidenced by earlier, no intelligence with which to lure her instead.

The great intellectual, he thought in disgust, thinking with his dick. Not that he didn't excuse himself to a certain extent -- Lord, but she was beautiful. Seeing her while coming had only inflamed his lust for her, but best not to think on that lest he require a repeat performance. It was bad enough to be scarred and ugly, broken in body and spirit, wasn't it? He really didn't need to add creepy old exhibitionist.

***

One hour into her next cleaning visit, Erin was getting worried. She'd hoped everything could go back to normal, but he seemed to be avoiding her still. He'd made a brief appearance to say hello and that's it, not telling her about what book he was writing, what article he was writing, not asking her about her classes - nothing of the usual.

Also, he was wearing a jeans and button-up shirt. He always went around his house in sweats, the super comfy kind, thin from frequent wearing and washing. He worked from home and almost never ventured outside, plus he eschewed such society-imposed discomforts as regular clothes. She could only assume this new formality was in reaction to 'the incident' from last time. Perhaps he felt violated or unsafe with her, and although she didn't blame him, she felt horribly guilty.

It didn't help that she'd had explicit dreams about him and his cock two nights in a row. Dreams where he said those same words, but she was there, naked beside him, and she did what he asked. Apparently, masturbating to thoughts of each other was a contagious condition, one she'd now caught, she thought dryly.

She saw him ducking out of the kitchen with a glass of water as she came in, and, exasperated and concerned, decided to confront him.

"Mr. Morris," she called. When he paused, she softened her voice, "Blake, I ... I wanted to apologize again for what happened last time. I should have left right away when I saw what you ... I was just surprised," she explained awkwardly.

He looked surprised now, too. "I -- " he cleared his throat, "Apology accepted." He gave her what was she supposed was a conciliatory smile but looked more like a grimace. And

that

made her think of what he looked like when he was coming.

Dammit

.

She really should shut up now. "I was wondering if you, that is, if you

were

thinking of me... weren't you?" she asked. "And if... if it was just a passing thought or if it was ... more ... " she finished lamely.

He looked distinctly alarmed now and she cursed herself silently. "Erin," he said, his voice strangled. "You don't feel that I was ... asking you to do anything ... inappropriate, do you? That I would try to make you do ... anything?"

"No!" she exclaimed in dismay. "Of course not. I just meant that ... Well, if you

were

interested in me that way, well, I ... " She took a deep breath and rushed out, "I wouldn't necessarily be opposed to it."

"You -- " he broke off. She noticed detachedly that his hand was gripping the counter so tight his knuckles were white. He swayed forward as if to approach her but then leaned back. "Are you sure you don't feel ... pressured? I would never

ever

want you to feel that you had to -- "

"No, no. It's not that, I swear. And ... the same goes for you, too. If you don't want to,

please

don't feel that you must --"

"If I don't want to," he repeated, sounding dazed. His eyes unfocused for a minute, and then pinned her. He came forward and then walked around her, standing behind her. She heard and felt him breathe deeply from her hair.

He trailed a finger lightly from the crown of her head, down her hair, along her shoulder and down her arm. It wasn't an overtly sexual touch but she found it highly erotic. The past two days of heightened arousal boiled over in her and she felt strung out with need.

"Please," she whimpered, shocked at herself even as she said it. She considered herself a proud woman, probably to her detriment. Her circumstances, cleaning houses while her classmates drove their Mercedes to class, tried to bring her down but she would not be cowed. She never begged -- not for anything, money, favor and certainly not sex. Yet here she was wanting, no

needing

him, a feeling foreign but very real.

Thankfully, he acquiesced. "God, yes," he breathed into her hair. "Come. Come upstairs where you can be more comfortable." He led her upstairs. She noticed dust gathered in a corner on the way and reality intruded briefly --

that's what I'm here to do, to clean his house, not have sex

-- but she forced it away. It had been a long time for her and she needed this badly. She would take it without apology to herself or anyone else.

In the bedroom he shut the door. No one else was there but it added to the intimacy of the moment. This wasn't a chance encounter; it was an illicit meeting. She stood in front of the bed, nervous, and he came up behind her, again burying his face in her hair. Amused, she made a mental note to stock up on this shampoo.

His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, then slid down the front of her to her breasts. He cupped them through her clothing and her breath caught. His hands dipped down to her waist and then up under her shirt and bra to touch her bare skin. She wore her yoga clothes when cleaning, comfortable for her to maneuver in but stretchy enough to allow him access.

He fondled her breasts and her nipples until they were hard and aching. He paused to draw her shirt and bra up over her head and then returned his hands to her breasts. He remained behind her, her back to his front. She felt his breath, hot and increasingly labored, against her shoulder and neck as he watched his hands on her breasts.

"So lovely," he whispered, as if to himself.

When he pinched lightly, she moaned and her hips thrust forward in search of friction, rubbing uselessly against nothing. He answered her involuntary plea, slipping his hand into the waistband of her yoga pants and roaming down her mound until he found her folds. As he touched her intimately his mouth found the skin of her neck in light kisses and licks. He drew the moisture up to her clit, circling and pinching lightly. Her head fell back to his chest and her eyes closed as she abandoned herself to the pleasure. His hands dipped back down into her folds and slipped inside her, thrusting his fingers in as the heel of his hand pushed into her clit. Her hips bucked as she mindlessly sought release. When she came, she lost control of her mind and body in the whirl of pleasure.

By the time she came back down to earth she was spread eagle on the bed, her pants and panties off now, with him kneeling between her legs. She only had a glimpse of his face, taut and carnal with arousal, before he lowered his head and brought her to ecstasy again.

He was a generous lover, bringing her to climax four, five times -- she lost count. He made her come again and again with his mouth on her clit and his fingers thrusting inside her.

"Yes, yes, that's it," he would moan when she came. She was reminded of how they would discuss topics related to his work or her college classes. He always argued fiercely and often won their debates, but when she would win, he wouldn't look disappointed or angry -- he looked almost proud. Triumphant, even. Like her victory was his, and now her ecstasy was his, too. He was relentless in his pursuit of her pleasure, taking unmistakable pleasure in her sounds and responsiveness.

"You're beautiful," he murmured to her throughout. "So damn beautiful. You look like a goddess. Like a warrior. Like you could slay me and you

do

. Just looking at you ruins me. I love to look at you. I could look at you lying spread like this forever. Open to me, wet and flushed - forever and never grow tired." She knew his words. She had read his articles and treatises and interviews. He had plain-spoken words and clinical words and words of dry humor -- but she had never heard these words before. These almost-poetry sex/love words melted her everywhere.

Her body was exhausted from her climaxes but her heart was bursting from his generosity. She wanted to do something for him. She reached down for his cock and grasped it, drawing a gasp from him. His cock jerked in her hand but he pulled away. From her position lying down she couldn't reach him again. He touched her again and she jumped, oversensitive.

"Just let me please you," he said. "Let me give you pleasure." His touch lightened and she moaned, her legs relaxing open again. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, that's right. Good girl."

"I'll make you feel so much pleasure. So much you won't care that it's me."

Wait, what?

she thought. She tried to push through the haze of her arousal his touch created.

"So good you'll forget it's me," he whispered, staring down at her spread legs, entranced. "You won't regret this. I won't let you regret this," he promised.

"Stop," she gasped out and he immediately withdrew his hand. "What -- what are you saying?"

He shook his head slightly and some of the sensual haze cleared from his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said hesitantly -- warily. "Did you ... did you want to stop?"

"No, I don't want to stop," she said. "I want to keep doing this with you. With

you!

" She sighed in exasperation. "Lie down," she commanded.

He blinked in surprise, but obeyed. Without giving him a chance to reject her, she reached down and grasped his cock again. She sucked him into her mouth.

"Oh god,

yesss

," he cried, reminding her of the time she had watched him masturbate.

She savored the salty, tangy flavor of his semen has it hit her tongue, and breathed in deep the musky, male smell of his groin. His thighs trembled. All this power and virility literally trembled under her mouth. It was intoxicating.

She took him in deep and then pulled back to the tip. In and out. In and out.

The rhythmic motions of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth became like a meditation. This man was so good and so kind and yet, was it possible that he questions his worth just because of his scars? It was ludicrous when his scars, received in battle as a soldier, just proved his bravery and honor. It was just another example of him protecting others, the way he advocated for unheard groups and important causes in his writing.

How dare anyone -- how dare

he

-- question his value? He was everyone she could ever want in a man. She loved him.

What the hell?

Where had that thought come from? Her eyes snapped open in surprise only to find him staring at her intently, as if he could devour her with sight alone. Her eyes widened slightly at the hunger in his eyes.

Through his arousal, he managed a small smile and touched her cheek tenderly. "It's okay," he said softly, "you don't have to look."

She grew angry. Angry at him for doubting himself, and her in the process. Angry at the faceless people who had wounded him, outside and in. She retaliated by tightening her lips and sucking hard.

He bucked his hips and groaned, eyes sliding closed helplessly.

She continued her onslaught on his cock using strong suction and steady thrusts. She was taking him in deep, too deep, stabbing her throat but she didn't care. She just sucked and fucked him that way as hard as she could, as if his cock was her lifeline and maybe it was.

When he came he thrust his hips up, unconsciously trying to get as much of his cock into her mouth. She tried to oblige him, jamming her head down onto him, her lips grazing the hair at the base. His cock was choking her but it seemed insignificant compared to

this.

When it was over he lay in a post-orgasmic stupor, blindly his hand down for her, seeking connection. She felt a similar sated haze seep into her. She climbed up his body languorously and curled herself up at the crook of his arm.

"Erin," he mumbled into her hair, "Don't leave. Don't ever leave... Love you."

She felt him freeze beneath her. She could almost hear him thinking -- first replaying what he'd just said and then searching for something to say.

She looked up and cupped his cheek in her hand. It was just the one that fit her free hand, but it happened to be the damaged one, the scarred one, and she gently stroked her thumb over the too-smooth, discolored skin.

"Love you, too," she whispered.

He groaned and shut his eyes, turning his face into her touch.