And that was bad. That was
magnanimously, frickin,
bad
.
"I need to go." The words were hardly out of
my mouth when I was up, the metal chair falling behind me. Dorian
grabbed my wrist. The action was quick. I hadn't noticed it until
it had been done. He held onto it. Not hard enough to hurt me, but
solidly enough to ground me.
Damn it. Not again...
He pulled me toward him so
my back touched his chest. In my mind I was screaming
No
,
No!
Not because I didn't want him. I
did. I wanted him badly. I wanted someone to hold me, or be inside
me. I wanted his warmth against mine, sweat from our chests rubbing
against each other. I wanted to be steaming from a night under the
covers so that we'd have to open the windows in this godforsaken
wintry night to get some fresh air.
I wanted him so much. And for all the wrong
reasons. Because he wasn't really who I wanted. And he needed to
know that.
By now he'd turned me, just like a rag-doll,
a puppet in his hands. My head faced his worldly chest, his rough
hands cupped my cheeks.
I looked down. His cream shoes were very
clean. Very clean...
Lips touched my left temple. Soft, gentle
lips. Moist and kind and friendly. A chill fired down my left
side.
No!
No!
"No, Dorian, I — "
I felt the pressure of his hands ease up.
The "No" I'd said had come out wrong, accusatory. "No, I mean, not
'no' — Damn it!" I shook my head, stepped back from his
grasp...
It was like stepping off a cliff...
I turned my back to him. I was reeling. I
put my palms to my face and shook my head, losing it again, as I'd
lost it at Starbucks earlier when Dani and Kayla had practically
carried me out for some air.
A solid hand steadied me, placed on my right
shoulder. A big, firm, worker's hand. And another on my left.
Dorian pulled me back, put his sturdy arms
around me, and held me.
This was
not
good. I couldn't do
this to him. Couldn't.
"Dorian," I said, knowing that my next
statement would knock down a piece of that wall between us
neighbors. I knew the words I was about to speak would bring us
into each other's yards a little more and that I was scared of
that, terrified of it. But they had to be said:
"Dorian, I don't know why... You're the
exact opposite of what I fell in love with once before..." One
picket of that fence came off. "But, I'd like to get to know you,
I'm sure. Actually, I like you, somehow... Only, I have to finish
something first. I have to end something. For me. For closure. It
wouldn't be fair to you otherwise."
I put my hand on his forearm which was under
my chin.
Dorian said nothing, but I felt his lips on
my ear. Moist, and warm, then cold as he moved them away.
"This...Conall guy," he whispered.
I swallowed. Hearing it spoken in that
baritone, the rumbling voice of another man, a big man, felt like
rocks falling down a mountain.
"Yes. The Conall guy."
"Well, you hurry up and close things off
with this Conall boy. Because I won't wait forever..."
Dorian's words were sharp, clear. What was
it about him? One moment seeming like a child, completely uncertain
of himself, the other, confident as a cobra.
He pulled me tighter toward
him, rested his chin on my head. He was hard, erect, turned on. I
felt it as my butt touched his pelvis. My breath caught for a bit.
This man...boy...
guy
had too much of an effect on me.
He kept holding me, and he inched his pelvis
left and right just minutely behind me so that his hard-on rubbed
against the inner cheeks of my butt, through my denims.
Dorian wasn't only big in his chest.
I needed someone to hold me. I needed
someone next to me. I needed to hear someone's breaths other than
my own as I dozed off to sleep...
"Can I spend the night?" I asked.
I really had meant for it to only have been
us lying together on his bed, doing nothing. I still didn't want to
let him go. I was a wreck. I needed an anchor, a rock, just someone
to keep me warm on a cold night...
But with a hetero guy and a girl it never is
like that, is it?
We lay on his bed — a small thing from which
his feet dangled off the bottom. There was hardly enough space for
both of us.
Dorian had clearly sensed I wasn't ready for
anything serious, so he'd held me next to him while he looked up at
the ceiling, one arm under me, his other behind his head.
He fell asleep quickly.
I couldn't sleep.
I looked at his clock and
it was two A.M. I turned to my side and rested my head on my palm,
looking at Dorian, still fully clothed. His hefty chest moved up
and down rhythmically with each massive breath. His body heat moved
over to mine, warming me. It warmed me enough that I wondered if
the heat had been turned up in the room. But, knowing English
houses, I knew that wasn't the case. Somehow, in the coldest of
cold nights, they always turn it
down
at night...
My mind hummed, wandered, travelled. I
thought of things and I thought of nothing at the same time.
And my fingernail travelled his
chest-bone.
With every random thought — work, then
Kayla, Dani, London, the train-ride tomorrow, The Ritz — with every
thought, my finger turned its course. Soon, idly, absently, I was
drawing circles and runes around his nipples, once, even, directly
over the left one, down to his stomach, up again.
I heard him groan in his sleep.
And then I understood the
heat on my skin. It wasn't radiation from
his
skin, not entirely. It was my own
heat...
One night. Just one night. That's why I'd
come over hadn't it been? And here I was, acting, acting like a
little frickin girl, being all woe-is-me and shit...
Two consenting adults. He knew that, and I
knew it.
Fuck it.
I'd waited long enough...
I eased my palm over his buckle, down his
crotch. I was surprised at its hardness. Wasn't he asleep?
What I remember of Dorian the most are his
eyes, and his size, down there. He really was big.
I pressed against his jeans and rubbed him
up and down. I could do this. He was a good guy. He'd been kind to
me, hadn't pushed anything with me.
My palm got warmer from the friction. He
groaned some more and I saw his eyes flutter. My own chest was
fluttering as well and a sheen of sweat broke out under my cotton
shirt.
I rubbed him, slowly, hard, pressing. I felt
strong doing it. This big man, this strong, able, burly
longshoreman, was under my hand — all of him. And the moans and
groans and little movements he was making as I touched him, were
all being caused by me. Little ol' me.
I wondered — just briefly — if Conall had
sought that thrill with me as well. That sense of control... Roles
reversed.
The next groan from Dorian was louder, more
throaty. It was time to go deeper. I sat up. He was still partly
asleep. My hair covered my eyes and I pushed it behind my ears. I
undid his buckle, then went for the button of his jeans. It
wouldn't open so I fought with it.
Dorian made a sound that made it seem like
he was waking. I knew he would wake eventually, I wanted him to,
but not just yet.
The button snapped open, hurting the tips of
my fingers. I licked one of them, saw the red mark on it from
pressed skin against metal. I lifted the band of his jeans and
unzipped his pants. He had boxers on. My mouth watered briefly as I
saw his size underneath them. The boxers had two buttons down the
center. I undid them.
As I got the slit of the boxers open I saw
his skin, and a vein, throbbing and large. I looked up at him, bit
my bottom lip, tried to ease my breathing (how had Conall remained
so calm when I'd been on that Marriott table the first time with
him?) and pushed my hand into his boxers, through the slit, into
his warmness.
My palm felt suddenly very cold as I felt my
way in and wrapped it around his shaft, squeezing, lifting. I
pulled it out, then squeezed up, down, slowly. A sheen of
pre-coital goo escaped him. I touched it with my index finger,
rubbed it around the tip of his head, then covered my palm with it.
It moistened his shaft so that my hand, as it moved up and down,
slid in some sections of it. I did it slowly, I wanted it to last.
I wanted him to wake up and see me holding him, rubbing him. Dorian
hadn't expected anything from me. Hadn't pushed me. And he'd
treated me like an adult. I could respect that. And that's what we
were now. Two adults, in a room.
The next throaty, guttural groan from him
ended with him opening his eyes, then his mouth in momentary shock
as he watched my hand caress him. My eyes burned heat into him and
swallowed up his manliness into me.
He fired his head back onto the pillow, and
intoned, "Oh, baby, you are too fucking good at this..."
I smiled. It felt good to
be "good at this."
Not a little girl
anymore, am I, Mr. Other Guy...?
I started to lie down next to him, my right
hand still holding him, still pleasuring him. He fired his hand
behind my neck and pulled me into him. His teeth pushed against
mine and it almost cut my lip. He didn't notice, and I didn't care.
But that's not what I wanted.
I squeezed him,
hard
, and told him, "No,
lie back." It's amazing how much you control a man when you have
his cock in your hand (or between your teeth for that matter). I
imagined that many wars and battles had been decided in moments
just like these: When the wife asked the husband "for a little
favor, honey" while she went down on him...
"Close your eyes," I said. I could see he
was enjoying this. All the while I kept moving my hand up and down,
ever so slowly, feeling his skin underneath mine.
I learned something there, that night. I
learned about closeness, maybe even something about love. Because,
to me, as I'm sure it was to Dorian, this was purely physical. And,
as much as I enjoyed holding him, squeezing him, pressing him and
feeling his hardness under my palm, his moisture, the veins which
were now more pronounced, I couldn't — and the idea even repulsed
me a bit — bring myself to tasting him, to putting him inside my
mouth or inside any other part of me.
Not even the early stuff, the pre-come. None
of it. This was strictly a hand-job.
"This is good," he whispered.
It was good. It was very good. And the
center of my legs was now wet as hell, sticky. I lifted my right
leg so that my knee faced the ceiling. Dorian's eyes were closed
but soon his hand was between my legs.
"Uh-uh," I said gently. He frowned. "Don't
take it personally. We can do it my way or we can do nothing at
all, OK?"
He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
All the while...up, down, squeeze.
I smiled as I rubbed him. I
was
so
in control.
I leaned into his ear and whispered, "I want to make this last." He
smiled. An involuntary smile, and he blushed.
"Good," he said.
There was only one problem... As experienced
as I was making myself out to be, I really wasn't that experienced
at all, and there was no way for me to broach the subject other
than to just say it. "Um, Dorian..." I kept my voice at a whisper,
not wanting to ruin the mood. "Um, I haven't really done this very
often so...you'll have to tell me when..." I was hoping he'd fill
in the pieces.
He didn't. So I stopped rubbing.
"No! Continue!" he said, his hand firing to
mine on his shaft and getting it going again.
"You'll have to tell me when you're, um,
about to come, so that..."
"So that you can stop?"
"Exactly."
"I'll do that."
He'd opened his eyes as he'd said "I'll do
that." Grassy green eyes in the middle of the Amazon... Lush and
rich and moist...
I looked away from them. I
had to keep that fence up. Just
had
to...
The problem with sex — and I include what
Dorian and I were doing in that statement — is that, the more you
foreplay, the more you want it. The more it clouds your thinking
until all you can think of, all you can feel — like steel in your
limbs, taut and ready to snap — is the desire for completion.
I twisted and turned
Dorian's cock, slowly and firmly, each time waiting for him to say
— no, to
quiver
—
the words, "OK, wait, wait..." Then he'd lick his lips. They were
dry, so dry from the length of time he'd been breathing with his
mouth open, trying to get enough air. His eyes were closed more
often than not.
I kept him going for thirty
minutes.
Thirty
.
It was two-thirty A.M. now. He'd gotten harder — so much harder it
felt like a pole in my hands — and bigger. His shaft was red from
all the friction, screaming to explode. But every time he got
close, and he gave me the word, I stopped. He taught me that if I
held it, tightly, and didn't move even a
hair
of an inch, then he'd settle
down. "Don't move!" he said a few times, his right hand digging
into my leg, his left into the blanket next to him.
I didn't. I held him. Then he told me: "If
you squeeze it just at the bottom here" — he showed me — "that also
stops me coming." So I did that as well, but not often, because we
stopped early enough each time.