Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Her first touch is tentative—a feather-stroke along my thigh, as if testing for a reaction. I keep my face blank, breathing slow, but the nerve endings there are already humming. She moves to my balls, cupping them gently, fingers careful not to squeeze. The oil is warm, almost hot, and my cock jerks in response, a reflex I can’t control.
Mary Kate pauses, glances at my face. I keep my eyes closed, but I can feel her gaze on me, the heat of it. I force myself to speak, voice low. “That’s good. You can go harder. Roll them, don’t just—”
She adjusts her grip, cradling my balls in both hands, thumbs pressing into the cord above the testicles, fingers rolling in slow, methodical circles. The sensation is exquisite—slow-moving pleasure, perfectly balanced. I let out a sound, something between a moan and a sigh, and my hips lift slightly off the table.
She continues, gaining confidence, her touch firmer but never overly hard. Every movement is precise, controlled, and I realize she’s been listening to me all along, cataloguing my advice and turning it into action. I want to tell her how good she is at this, how perfect, but the words catch in my throat.
After a minute, she speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “Is this okay?”
I nod, eyes still closed, but then I open them and meet her gaze. The look on her face is pure concentration, an innocence mixed with something darker, a thrill at the power she holds in her small hands.
“Perfect,” I say. “Just like that.”
She smiles, and it’s real, for the first time since she walked in. Her hands move faster, working the oil into my skin, sliding over the sensitive ridges and hollows. She grazes the base of my cock once, then again, and this time she lingers a split second longer, as if daring herself to go further.
I inhale, sharp and audible, and she laughs again—a genuine laugh, nervous but pleased. “Sorry,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t stop. She works the testicles with both hands, fingers deft and strong, then lets her knuckle brush the shaft, more deliberate this time.
My cock twitches, desperate for attention, but I stay silent, letting her decide what happens next. She switches hands, then oils her right palm and wraps it around the base, squeezing gently, thumb pressing into the spot just below the head. The sensation is overwhelming. I groan, hips lifting again, and this time she looks me in the eye as she does it.
For a few seconds, the world contracts to just her hand and my body and the flicker of lamplight against the ceiling.
Then she stops, steps back, hands dripping with oil, and reaches for the towel. I half-sit, propped on one elbow, my cock bobbing between us like a metronome. She wipes her hands, then glances up, color high in her cheeks.
“Did I do it right?” she asks, almost shy.
I swallow, voice thick. “You did everything right.”
There’s a pause, and I sense she wants to say something, but instead she turns away, busying herself with the bottle and the towel, making sure everything is neat and ordered. I watch her, the slope of her back, the flex of her shoulder blades under the t-shirt, and feel a hunger that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the need for connection.
After a minute, she looks back, eyes softer now. “Is there anything else?”
I shake my head, but the truth is I want everything else, every possible thing, but I say nothing.
She hesitates at the door, hand on the knob. “I can come back tomorrow, if you want.”
I nod. “Same time?”
She smiles, small and sly. “Same time.”
She slips out, closing the door behind her, and I hear her bare feet patter down the hallway. I lie back on the table, stare at the ceiling, and let the oil cool on my skin.
It’s only after the room goes silent again that I realize I’m still hard, my cock leaking against my stomach, and the ache is so intense I have to close my eyes and breathe.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow she’ll do it again.
And the day after that, and the day after that, until one of us breaks.
I hope it’s me.
I hear Mary Kate’s footsteps padding down the hallway, then silence—she’s gone. I’m alone again, except for the pounding in my chest and the raw, electric memory of her. I picture her: the way her jeans hugged her hips, the shadow of her breasts under that thin t-shirt, the look in her eyes when she realized how hard she could make me, how much control she had. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to breathe, to relax, but the ache doesn’t leave. It won’t. Not now.
Fuck, what the hell have I gotten myself into? I stare at the ceiling, contemplating my life choices, the taste of her still in the air, heavy as sandalwood, as heat. My cock is still hard, glistening against the oil and the shine of my own need. The aftershocks of her touch radiate from my balls up through my ribs, as if every nerve ending in my body has been mapped by her hands.