An Attachment Is Made

Part 3 — Please

Sally walked down the road to the station in the morning. She sighed. It hadn't been that bad. She could cope; it was only for a month after all, or so the guard had said, but how was she going to juggle this -- this what? How should she de­scribe it -- juggle this new obligation with being with Jerry? Jerry would sus­pect she was seeing someone else... and she was—actually. Well that was one way to dump him, if she did want to, especially now.

She thought about the guard and his cool confidence. He hadn't even asked her name -- probably knew it anyway.

Despite her initial resolution she hadn't been able to go through with it—stripping off for the guard. He had sat down and looked at her all expectantly but she'd stopped halfway through un-buttoning her blouse.

"I can't."

No sooner had she said it than she found the blouse in her hand with her standing there in trousers and her white bra but with the guard still seated as if he hadn't moved an inch.

"Nice. What next?" He had nodded encouragingly.

"I can't believe you just did that," she'd stammered.

The guard had just smiled. "Do you need any further help?"

Sally did not want help but the inevitability gave her courage and she had unhooked her bra and let it fall forward into her hands. She had frozen; really not wanting to go any further and unsure how to go on.

The guard had stood up and very gently taken the bra from her and she'd let him. "Nice," he'd said again and touched her, touched her breasts.

She'd pulled away.

"I can't do this."

"Of course you can. Let me help you" and his hand had moved to the waistband of her trousers and before she could stop him, the trousers were around her ankles. He had done 'it' again.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"None of your business."

She was almost naked.

"I don't want to do this."

He'd nodded as if understanding her difficulty and smiled and comple­mented her on her body. "You should be a model."

"Page 3," she'd said with a snort.

"Well yes, but I was meaning fashion not Men's Mags."

He began slowly rolling her panties down her legs. Trembling, she let him. He took her hand and she stepped out of her panties and he led her around the room, both completely naked.

"So here we are. Two nudists at home."

It did feel a little like that to Sally.

"Do you sunbathe naked? Do you and your boyfriend like to be naked to­gether outside?"

Sally thought of Greece, "Yes, on holiday."

"So there is a boyfriend."

Sally grimaced. His simple trick had worked.

"Please tell me about it."

And, what was surprising, she had told him about the holiday. About the little whitewashed villa and how she had dropped her clothes on the ground and she and Jerry had stepped naked into the pool. She found herself telling him about the sex and her worry; whether she and Jerry were suited; whether she should end the relationship or give it a few more weeks. And all the while he had listened, as they sat side by side naked on the sofa with her hand in his, him nodding but saying very little, just listening as she tried to make sense of her feelings.

"What do you think?" she had said—asking him his opinion about her re­lationship. She was surprised at herself. Not only had she told this man, this man who had forced himself upon her—well not today so far, but he had cer­tainly forced her here and to become naked—told this man some of her most private thoughts but was actually asking him his opinion. It was like coun­selling—nude counselling — forced nude counselling.

"Jerry sounds a good bloke, he does all the right things, that is what you are saying but you are also suggesting something is lacking. You don't want to be precipitate. Perhaps you should set a time limit and if your feelings haven't settled then call it a day."

"I'll give it a month," she'd said. Not quite counselling — he had ventured an opinion but it was what she had been close to thinking anyway.

"The same for us," he'd replied bringing her back to the present. Her pre­sent situation naked with this man, indeed about to have sex with this man she did not know, a man she was not romantically involved with—it wasn't even a one night stand with a man she had met having drunk too much. Not that she had actually ever done that, but plenty of her friends had had casual sex—sex for the sake of it, for the shear animal pleasure. No, she had not been like that. It had been with boyfriends; of which there had been quite a few lead­ing up to Jerry.

"I don't want to do this. I don't want sex." She was surprised he had not al­ready touched her, not already tried to get her to open her legs. Instead he had listened, gently holding her hand, as she had told him far more than she would have expected to—about her feelings for her boyfriend. Why had she done this? He seemed to be, or was trying to be, so friendly yet he had virtually taken her clothes off.

"Perhaps if you relax a bit, it will be easier. I'm not going to force you, you know, it's not something friends do, is it? But I would like to have sex with you, proper sex and not just for my own pleasure but I want you to come too, to or­gasm, I want to see your pretty face with that especial look of ecstasy."

"I don't know you, I'm not in love with you, and I'm not excited at all. That is not going to happen."

"You think not? Well I wonder. Perhaps you are a little frightened; hardly the right state of mind for sex. Would it make you relax if I promise not to have sex with you unless you ask for it, as a friend?"

"Not very likely, is it!"

"Do you like being stroked? My cat does."

"Well, depends by whom, doesn't it?"

The guard's hand touched her naked arm and he began to stroke.

"You're not going to get me excited and wet just by stroking me even if you were to massage my breasts."

"Well we shall see, now just settle back and relax. I'm not forcing you just stroking, now is that nice?"

"It's all right."

He kept stroking her, first her arms, then her head, then her shoulders. It was actually quite pleasant and, yes, relaxing. It was not too bad. His hand moved to her chest, between the valley of her breasts. Obviously they were going to be touched next.

"It's not working you know, I'm relaxed but not excited any more than you are." She had glanced at his cock; it was just lying limply across his thigh pos­ing no danger to her.

His fingers were stroking the undersides of her breasts now, just gently, an easy stroking movement, then they moved back to the valley, climbing up ei­ther side before moving around the breasts but keeping away from the peaks. Sally closed her eyes; this really was quite relaxing but not stimulating. Stimu­lating was different. The guard's fingers were now slowly circling the mounds of her breasts. She smiled as the fingers began circling closer. The Guard did not hurry like Jerry.

"Shall I touch your nipples now?"

"Please." Oh, what had she said, she hadn't meant it as an invitation. It had just been she'd wanted to be stroked there. She opened her eyes. Oh relief, for a moment she'd thought her nipples were standing. She watched as the fin­gers came round and round almost touching her areolae. Then he stopped.

"Do you think, perhaps, a little massage oil?"

He didn't wait for an answer but picked up a little bottle from a side table, Sally didn't remember seeing it there, and, unscrewing the lid, he let drops of oil splash onto her nipples. She shuddered, that was really good, oh no, her nip­ples were both rising, forming themselves into little hard buds without his fin­gers touching her at all—just by the feel of the oil dropping cool and slippery onto them. His fingers strayed into the brown of her areolae. Sally bit her lip, his fingers felt good—but they shouldn't.

"Three little erections now, I see, but when will we get a fourth?"

What? What was he talking about? Three or four erections, surely there would just be his, oh, unless he meant her nipples, that would make three—and the fourth must be her clit. She'd never really thought of herself as having erections! But he said little?

Sally looked and, yes the guard was erect, but it wasn't much to write home about. It was not at all like Jerry's impressive shaft.

"Embarrassing isn't it," he said as his fingers closed on her now oily nip­ples, fingers just touching the sides as they went round and round, "not some­thing to impress the girls with. Some men like big breasts, some men like little breasts but I've never heard of a woman with a fetish for small cocks."

"It's not size that matters—but what you do with it," said Sally tritely. She had at first meant to say something derogatory but his candid comments had unsettled her, she did not like to be nasty. It was not friendly.

"They can be too big," she said, perhaps a little unconvincingly.

His fingers were on her nipples now. It felt really good, good like it shouldn't. The guard had made her nipples hard, he was making her excited, and her body should not be reacting like this. She did not want that. Even so, she was not dismayed when he dropped yet more oil on her nipples and began gently drawing the areolae and nipples up in his fingertips, pulling them away from her body until they slipped back through his oily fingers. It was a lovely feeling and Sally was conscious it was being transmitted to lower down; she could feel herself becoming a little wet. How was he doing this, making her sex­ually excited? He was tricking her, using his whispered suggestion out of time, but how was she to fight it? The guard dropped a little oil in her tummy button where it pooled; he dipped a finger in and began a circular movement across her tummy. How was she to fight it? Did she want to?

"You'll get oil on the sofa," she said practically.

"Stand up then."

Sally stood in front of him; naked between his knees as his fingers drew oily patterns across her tummy; she could feel a little oil, just a droplet, run­ning downwards and, in her mind, she could imagine it running down through her forest of golden hair to reach the little valley and fall into it, to run on down and down into the deeper valley and to pool around her clit, an oily warm pool around the island of her clit; only, given she was standing, the pool would have to obey gravity and slowly the oil would creep down, or was it up, that little round hill to form a drop once more right on its summit, elongate, pulling at her clit, only then to fall from her to the carpet. She could almost feel it, as if the adventurous drop of oil had really made the journey. Sally's thighs pushed tightly together, the image had been intensely erotic.

The guard's fingers were on her thighs now, spreading the oil, fingers slip­ping upwards, stroking upwards towards the vee of fair curls. Sally desperate­ly wanted to open her thighs, even if only just enough, and let those fingers in. She mustn't let him though, if he did that she would be lost, he would have her, she would let him, no ask him: she knew she would. But he wasn't trying to force his way between her thighs, he was just stroking, stroking her thighs with oily fingertips, creeping into her curls, running his fingers down the join of her legs to her pubis and, yes, running an oily finger down her crack. She was leaking now; she knew her wetness was seeping onto her thighs.

It was no use, standing there before him, standing between his knees, his hands on her; she was going to have to open her legs, stand legs apart as his fingers made their way up her inner thighs to touch her sex. She didn't want to ask him, there was no surrender in just letting him—was there?

It was a relief just to spread her legs a little, move her feet apart, open her­self to the fingers she knew would soon touch her. The guard's hands stroked inwards to the soft skin above her knees before moving upwards but so frus­tratingly slowly. She mustn't ask him to hurry, mustn't plead but she could feel a trickle of her own lubrication running down her right thigh towards his fingers. She felt beaten — he'd soon feel that, feel her excitement, know he had won. He was so much gentler than Jerry, prolonging her pleasure, his touch so designed to stimulate, bring out her reaction. Surely he must be feeling her wet­ness now; he was so close to her sex. Sally shook as the guard's fingertips brushed the curly hair at the join of her legs to her labia. He held his fingers completely still and leant his head forward to kiss her gently just above her pubic hair before settling back on the sofa, his fingers unmoving.

The waiting, the lack of movement, the lack of stimulation was too much for Sally. "Please," she said, "please fuck me."

The light touch of his fingers ceased as the guard lent back on the sofa and with a small hand gesture indicated his standing penis. Sally realised it was not going to be him fucking her but the reverse: it was for her to fuck him. "Fuck it," she thought, "I need that inside me." She straddled his thighs; her knees pressing into the sofa either side of them, the guard made no move to help her. She settled herself down feeling for the tip of his cock. She felt it all right not slipping into her vagina but bang on her clit, she jumped, "fuck," she said, and moved and settled down again slightly closer to him.

Sally looked at the guard's face expecting a look of triumph but instead she received an encouraging nod and he said, with a completely straight face, the familiar words, "Ladies and gentlemen an attachment is about to be made. Please stand well clear." It was funny.

She was right on target. With her wetness, entry was easy and she began to ride, feeling his knob rubbing against her as it slid up and down, up and down.

"My breasts," said Sally, "please play with them."

The guard obliged.

Sally was close to coming now and she moved faster, bouncing up and down on the sofa, hearing the springs creak. The guard was pulling her nip­ples and then it happened, Sally's eyes closed, her breathing came in short pants and she screwed up her face; lips parting as she came in waves -- real waves of pleasure.

"Oh that was good, that was good," she said as if she had been in bed with Jerry. She opened her eyes, "I mean..."

He was staring at her face, "What a picture of ecstasy on your face, really something to capture in a photograph, such a pretty image."

She was still on his cock; the penis of this man she did not know was still inside her, she could feel its hardness; she looked down, their curly hair was to­gether shiny wet with the exertions of sex.

"Have you come?" she asked.

"Not yet. May I?"

It was an odd question to ask given the position of his cock, the mere act of her pulling upwards to separate them might set it off; given his power over her he could really choose what to do — if he asked her to go on all fours and stick her bottom in the air there was not much she could do but comply and, anyway, wasn't it her who had asked to fuck? Maybe he had tricked her, or used his influence, but she had desperately wanted to fuck—there was no get­ting away from that — and if she had come and he hadn't it was only fair that...

"Yes," she said and slowly started the fucking movement again drawing herself up his cock and down again, ensuring her wet sheath caressed it and stimulated it towards ejaculation. It was she who did the moving, she who stimulated it, she who encouraged the spurting of the man.

The guard's hands returned to her breasts and she watched him as she moved bringing on his climax, watched him as his own face showed the half surprised, half ecstatic look of orgasm, as he came inside her, releasing his seed in what should only be Jerry's place.

Sally had indeed stayed the night. She had just assumed that was what was expected and the guard had cooked for her and cooked really well. He had obviously gone to trouble; trouble to make sure she had an excellent dinner and a good bottle of wine.

"Jerry doesn't cook."

"Jerry?"

"My boyfriend."

"Ah."

And of course she had had to sleep with the guard. She had hardly expect­ed her own room and of course there had been sex. He hadn't asked nor had he forced himself on her: she had just accepted it as part of the deal. Indeed, as she recalled the next day on the way to work—a shorter journey than usual—it was she who had instigated it, touching him under the bedclothes when he had joined her fresh from his shower. Waking the next morning she had been momentarily lost, wondering if Jerry had turned over a new leaf for someone was actually asking if she wanted an early morning cup of tea. It was, unfortu­nately, the guard not Jerry. Yet, looking back, you could not fault him... as a host. Forcing his attentions on her, forcing her to be his plaything for a month was quite another matter but he had looked after her well.