Slow Burn Part 1
If I had to pinpoint when the change happened, I'd have to say it was when Emma broke up with Josh. Josh was a dick, so I was neither surprised nor upset.
Emma has always been a beautiful girl. Such a sweet face, her brown eyes would sparkle when she was feeling particularly mischievous. I had met her our first year of college. She was lost on campus, and stopped me for directions. Her bottom lip had stuck out, a sign I came to know meant she was nervous. I had walked her to class, and as we walked we hit it off, conversing the whole way across the sprawling grounds to her building for her philosophy class. We made plans to meet after class, and sat in a coffee shop until the small hours of the morning, talking about nothing in particular.
We had gone through college together after that, best friends. Her affection toward me had grown over the years. I remember the first night she was really affectionate toward me, toward the end of our senior year in college. We had decided to stay in because she wasn't feeling particularly social that evening, and it had been a while since we had seen each other. We lay with our heads on opposite ends of the couch of the main room of her dorm, our feet sprawled like spaghetti in the middle. She had just gone for a run earlier that day, and was having a hard time getting comfortable. She would grab a blanket and curl up in it, only to move a few minutes later in a frustrated huff. The wit of Bob's Burgers wouldn't reach her until she was comfortable.
Suddenly, she sat up and grabbed my leg, shoving it between hers. "Ahhh," she had said, settling down deeply into the couch. "That's better." I had frozen, noticing her foot very close to my crotch. I didn't dare move. And I didn't know what was appropriate in this situation. I had never been this close with a woman. My religion forbade it... growing up Catholic in the south had a strict set of rules to follow. And that included not being sexual with anyone except your wife. I wasn't even supposed to think about it. But how could I not? Her foot would bounce up and down every time music came on, wiggling her toes oh so close between my legs.
She had stroked my foot, and eventually took off my socks and played with my toes. It tickled, and I squirmed, laughing. She would pull me back when I would try to get away, tickling me more. It happened again, and my reflex caused me to kick out involuntarily, my foot landing square against the warm place between her legs where her pants hugged the curve of her lady parts. I can't even say the word!
I recoiled, embarrassed, turning a bright red. She looked at me quizzically for a moment, still giggling, then forcefully pulled me back into position. I spent the rest of the evening with one leg trapped between hers, the other resting behind her, my foot curling along her bottom, breathing heavily and trying not to think about it. Instead, frustratingly, it was all I could think about. I was grateful she didn't say anything about my overwhelming embarrassment. At least that time.
Movie nights after that became a regular time for cuddling, and her amusement. She had definitely noticed how uncomfortable I was every time I touched her in a sensitive place. Once I was talking passionately about my vitriol for a particular professor, and my waving arms in my largely gesticulating display of hatred smacked her left breast in its pursuit to make its point. It bounced in response, stopping against my frozen hand. I stopped mid-sentence, gaping at my hand before pulling it back into my side, feeling the shame rise in me, my cheeks flushing red once again. This seemed to entertain her.
"Oh, did that surprise you?" she said, her mouth curling up in a smirk. She jiggled her breast with her hand, watching my reaction. When I looked away, she grabbed me and pulled me to her side, wrapping her leg over my lap. Laying my head in the crook of her arm, she petted my head and teased me. "Aww, poor baby. You just don't know what to do, do you?" All I could think about was how close my face was to the breast I had offended, the slight smell of coconut wafting from her deodorant, and the feel of her leg pressing in to my lap as she squeezed me. Why did I love it when she baby-talked me? I had no idea. I lay there, submitting to the affection, and she turned on a movie. Our scene had no impact on her, and I was left to my own inexplicable feelings.
Months later, after graduation and finding gainful employment, our hangouts became weekly. With Josh gone, she seemed more free, more flirty. Sometimes we would go out for a drink, and I'd watch her bat her eyes at the guys at the bar. They, of course, responded enthusiastically, every last one of them. She'd come over and ask me if she should take one of them home. Sometimes she did, especially if I told her which one I thought she should pursue. I had definitely become the wing man for her adventures. She loved to regale me with stories of her pursuits on our movie nights. It was a comfortable friendship, at least for her.
Movie night had become a way for her to get her cuddling energy out, taking out her need for physical affection on me, since all she was pursuing was hookups. Josh had left her with no taste for a relationship, but I guess a girl still has needs. We would lay intertwined, talking about work, or philosophy, or how to fix our broken world, all night. Sometimes we would fall asleep, and I'd wake up on her stomach, sprawled across her, her hands buried in my hair. When that would happen, the embarrassment would come again, because as soon as I'd wake I'd be hard as a rock, and the curve of her hips underneath me was something I couldn't ignore. I'd look up toward her face, angelic and a little hard to see over her breasts. Once, I dared to slide my hand, which had been casually strewn over her, down over her stomach. I couldn't understand the feelings overwhelming me, except to say that in that moment I desired nothing more but to be able to touch her. My cock throbbed, pressing against my shorts. It was dangerously close to her leg, and I battled the urge to push it against her.
She stirred, waking slightly, and her body pressed back against mine. I sat up fast, embarrassed yet again, and grabbed a pillow to cover myself, adrenaline coursing hard through my body. Did she notice my groping? Had she felt my hard on? I would die if she did. It wasn't allowed! I didn't want to ruin everything!
She stretched, her breasts rising and falling with her silly, half groaning morning sounds. Her eyes fluttered open and she noticed me there, sitting up awkwardly with a pillow over my lap. "Good morning?" she asked groggily, her eyebrow raised again. She stared at me for a long moment, the longest most painfully awkward moment I've ever experienced. I watched her mischievous smile grow on her face as she ran her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair. It was a ploy! She grabbed the pillow, yanking it from my hands as I clawed to hang on to it. I furiously tried to cover myself, so it was a shock when the pillow smacked me square in the face. I froze, startled, and she burst out laughing. She coyly tapped me with the pillow again as I crossed my legs in a desperate effort to hide my erection. She giggled, then finally gave up. "Fine, take it," she said, laughing more and shoving the pillow back on my lap as she got up and flounced to the bathroom.
And so it went for months more, our weekly movie nights becoming the highlight of my week. About two months after the pillow incident, we were settling in to binge watch a new TV series. It was some kind of historical fiction. I don't even remember anything about it. What I do remember was that she was wearing one of those tank tops that had the buttons at the top, and hers was unbuttoned. All of them. I stared straight ahead, but I could still see the curve out of the corner of my eye, the sweet white lace of her bra poking out from underneath. I sat rigid, her leg slung over mine, bouncing up and down as she tapped her foot as she always did. The wiggle from it rolled up her body, causing a major distraction for me. I could feel an erection forming, and panicked at the thought of her leg being so close. She ignored me for the most part, other than reaching over to twist one of the curls hanging near my face in her fingers. I was left to control my panic with the best acting skills I could muster. Thank God for high school theatre.
A ridiculous, unnecessary moment of graphic violence flashed across the screen, and Emma jumped. Her leg slammed into my crotch as she squealed, right against my erection.
"Oh my god, Trey, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed. "I totally just railed you right in the dick! Ommagod." Removing her leg and leaning over my lap, she rubbed the top of my pants and cooed. "I'm so sorry little bitty Trey!" she baby-talked at my penis. I comically recoiled as far back into the couch as I could, trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go. She stopped for a moment as she petted, and looked up at me under her lashes. She batted her lashes at me flirtatiously and playfully poked at my penis. "Are you hard?"
I stopped breathing.
Pressing into the top of my pants, curious and amused, she felt around my erection. "You ARE hard."
I let my breath out in a shudder and stared at her, my mouth hanging open. I was so shocked I couldn't seem to move. I just watched as she felt around my dick, moving it this way and that as if she was inspecting it, her bottom lip out in a pout, making little cooing noises and talking to it like it was a cute puppy. "Yes, you are hard, aren't you, whittle Tway? Oh you're sooooo hard. What a good whittle Tway you awe."
She pressed in one last time, giggled, and then flounced back against the couch, slinging her leg over mine again. She caught me looking at her, still in shock and still unable to breathe, frozen on the couch in embarrassment. I hadn't dare move. "Don't make it weird," she said, picking up the popcorn bowl and casually beginning to toss the kernels in her mouth.
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I didn't know why I was so embarrassed. She seemed innocent and curious, not like she was... what? Going to rape me or something? I couldn't get it out of my head how her hand felt over my dick... her light poking and baby talk, the way her bottom lip jutted out. The feel of her fingers sliding across the top length of it, leaving little trails of electricity behind every light stroke. Every time I thought about it, though, the heat rose up my neck and creeped up to my face. I knew I would turn red with shame, and I couldn't hide it. It would sneak up on me at the strangest times. I'd be working, and think of her, and there it was. And I was suddenly beet red in the middle of the office for no damn reason, with an erection.
I'm a good Catholic boy. I was raised to respect women, I was raised to believe that I would go to hell if I lusted after one. I had never looked at pornography, I had never lain hands on a woman at all. I mean, there's that one girl that one time who snuck a kiss, but I repented! I didn't want to soil my soul with distasteful imagery of women when they deserved so much better. My mother taught me to hold them in high regard. I didn't even masturbate!
I mean...
Okay, maybe I did sometimes. But I always felt guilty afterward, and recommitted every time to cleanliness like I had been taught. Sexuality was a sin, saved for making babies in the safety and bond of a holy union.
And I wanted to be good! I wanted to do things the right way. I didn't want to hurt anyone.
