Nick and I had been seeing each other for six months at the same club. He was gorgeous, always wore tight trousers which showed off his slim thighs and round bottom, with some kind of casual top which went with his light complexion, lovely brown eyes and dark wavy hair. He was a lawyer, and didn't know how beautiful he was, with wonderfully dishevelled hairstyle and that thrown together look which was devastatingly sexy. He had full pink lips which he pouted beautifully when he played the sax, and when he played the clarinet he moved his strong fingers deftly over the instrument, with a faraway look in his beautiful eyes. I started thinking he could purse those soft lips around mine, and could move his strong fingers around any part of me he chose.
And Nick didn't do relationships. He hinted at things in his past which would stop him doing the usual things, hanging out with girls, dating, kissing, feeling, touching. And now, a mature man, had he ever been kissed? Had he ever felt the touch of a woman on his body, had he ever reached beautiful mutual completion of the most intimate kind? He wanted to be good friends, he said, and that I seemed to want more. Too right I did. I wanted to kiss him passionately, to run my tongue around inside his soft mouth. I wanted to run my hands around his lovely muscular body. I wanted to run my hands against his dark body hair, some of which I had managed to glimpse at unguarded moments. I wanted his strong hands to play me like the instruments, to feel for my nipples and press them, squeeze them, stroke them, watch them go hard in the night air. Most importantly, I wanted him inside me, I wanted to feel his hardness rubbing against my inner surfaces, tingling and caressing, rubbing and sliding. I wanted him to take me in a wild place, right there on the ground, in the primitive way that generations had in the historic times which he held so dear. I wanted him to pleasure me until I screamed in ecstasy.
I spent so long frustrated, as he obviously loved me, cared about me, smiled at me, chatted, shared food, told me his thoughts. But I loved this guy, and I decided I wanted to be around him, on his terms if that was how it had to be. Some nights I nearly cried with frustration when I left him, ripe for him, longing for him, wanting him, but still untouched, still unsatisfied. When I got home I often found I was still so aroused by the thought of him that I found myself reaching for the secret place, feeling its readiness, feeling the rigid parts, feeling the soft parts, feeling the wet parts, stroking and soothing them to a climax, thinking all the time of him, wondering what his member would look like, hard, standing upright, soft, dangling so temptingly. I imagined it when he slid it into me, and my finger became the wonderful shaft which was going to pleasure me into oblivion. I imagined us coupled together, joined, united, feeling mutual pleasure, groaning, crying, speaking sweet words of love as we moved together to our mutual climax. But still this gorgeous creature did not want to take the delights I offered him in my mind.
But at one point I was due not to see him for a while due to circumstances, and slightly erotic thoughts started to appear in his e-mails. So he did have that side to him, he was unbending to me. I tried to respond in like manner, push him a little further, and he seemed to like it. My lovely, funny, innocent Nick was a real man after all. This had a wonderful effect on me, as privately I explored myself all day long, pretending it was his organ that was rubbing against me, parting the lips, entering into the damp sweetness, filling me, satisfying me, one minute right inside me, moving around, pressing on lovely places, the next minute on the outside, the lovely ridge of his glans flicking my clitoris, both of us groaning at the pent up pleasure now being released. I had decided he had a long, pink, slim penis, with a pronounced glans, which went red when he was aroused, and which was shrouded with layers of skin when resting. I hoped it wasn't too big, as I liked the idea of it being skilfully applied to me and being a pleasure, rather than an overwhelming thing.
It then came time to see him again. At the club we somehow concentrated on the show, looking, smiling. Would it be tonight? At the interval I went to the toilet, feeling how my parts were ready, swollen and dripping. I gave them a little rub, feeling the wetness. Not long now, I told them. Near the end of the show I made an excuse to go out again, and removed my lower underwear. I hoped I would not stain my clothes as I sat down and tried to concentrate.
The show ended, we all filed out, and we went to stand by our cars and say goodnight. Others came by, we let them go, until there were only the two of us in the street. "Can I give you a hug?" he asked shyly. I smiled and nodded assent, and somehow managed to just stand there, let him be in control, let it be lovely and relaxed. He stepped near to me, put one arm round my shoulders, the other round the small of my back. He looked long into my face, moved one hand behind the back of my neck, gently pulled my face towards him, and planted a reverential kiss on one cheek. I felt my parts go to jelly, my nerves tingle, but I stood still and smiled at him. He moved again, put his lips on mine, kissed me so gently I nearly fainted. That was a lingering kiss this time, and as he gently inserted his tongue between my lips, I felt my juices begin to run down my thighs.
I couldn't help moving my body closer to his, and to my delight he pushed nearer to me, pressing his lower body on to mine, telling me, asking me. I moved one arm behind his bottom – oh it felt so good, so firm, so gorgeous - and squeezed gently, and pulled him towards me. We both groaned as we were lost in another exploring kiss, moistnesses mingled, tongues encircling. I loosed one arm, and moved away a bit, to allow him to touch me.
