It's funny. Less and less time passes during these meetings between the initial salutations and the pants removal (or what I like to think of as "opening ceremonies"). I sat, putting a foot or two between us, giving the initial impression of some awkwardness, but knowing from experience about how much distance is needed between our bodies. We said our hellos and before I was fully seated or the words fully out of our mouths, his hands creeped toward his waist, my eyes following, a grin forming.
Occasionally, I kiss him, if it's the soft yield of his lips I want. Sometimes, it will be the feel of the roped muscle in his thighs, velvety under my fingers. Every once in a while, I cannot resist the warm pulse that runs from collarbone to just behind the ear, to scent and savor. Whether it had been too long or it was just in the air, that night, there wasn't anything but his cock. I wasn't in a hurry—simply focused.
My hair was back in a ponytail, out of the way already. The last time I'd seen him, I'd forgotten to put it up, and he'd been forced to hold it—though a happy felicity that little morsel became, my locks in his fist as I'd bobbed on his cock—this time I'd thought ahead. As I leaned over him, I felt his hands rest on me, one on my back, one on my tits, idly toying. He was instantly completely rigid in my mouth, fuller than I'd ever felt him before.
I know he likes it slow.
He got it slow.
I wrapped my lips around his cock, delightfully thick enough to present a challenge in these affairs, concentrating on just the head, licking the tip, searching out with my tongue the drops of precum I know must be on the way already, exhilarated when find them just moments into touching him. Sinking onto him, I drew him into the depths of my mouth, the first full stroke going as deep as I could, filling myself.
Withdrawing, I let my hands trail my lips, my tongue curled around his shaft, hands on his balls, pulling the skin tight. Every movement, every gesture deliberate, paced, building. I sucked and swallowed, gagged and gloried; never accelerating, simply accommodating, luxuriating in the firm and flex that filled me.
Feeling his hand increase on my head, I looked up from underneath my lashes, not wanting to tear my eyes from the stiff gift at hand but always happy to take direction from him. "Lick me. I want to see that pretty mouth work," he rumbled. I rarely notice even a trace of an accent, despite how long we've known each other. I even tend to forget that he spoke Italian before English, as a child. Moments like this, though, I remember. I hear it creep in underneath the order, a roll in the r in both "pretty" and "work," I sense it in the pull of muscle under my hands, I see it in the burnished glow the moon lends his skin through the window, and an illusion of civility has been dropped.
I realized as I complied that he hadn't really pulled me off his dick to make his request, not the way he had in the past. This time, it was something more subtle. He wasn't so much so much pulling me off him as nudging in the preferred direction, the way the rider of a well-trained horse can steer with the mere weight of the reins on the animal's neck. I let my head fall to one side, my ear to my shoulder, tips of my ponytail tickling the skin there, the first time I've been aware of any sensation of my own since sitting next to him and beginning.
Licking. From a pretty mouth. I did my best to fulfill his request—dipping my chin to look up at him, I played coy—we both know that I am not natually meek, but I am occasionally able to fake it charmingly enough. Opening only a bit at first, the way a sweet, shy girl would, I brushed the base of him with just the tip of my tongue, just a little peck on the pecker, a feather flutter.
