I Gave In on the Sofa and She Did the Rest

There are encounters that stay floating around in your head for days. The last one with Cristina had been one of those: I couldn't stop thinking about her, the way she moved, the heat of her skin, every detail that had left me wanting more. I tried to get it out of my system by pouring it into words, writing to close the circle. But as I wrote, I realized the effect was exactly the opposite. By the time I finished the last paragraph, I had a hard-on pressing against my fly, and the desire was so physical and so concrete that I had no choice but to call her.

I told her what I needed. No beating around the bush, because between us there had been no need for that for a long time.

—I need you to suck me dry —I told her—. Nothing else. Just that.

—I can be ready in an hour —she replied, and there was something in her voice that I recognized immediately: the same desire—. Come with your cock already thinking about my mouth.

We agreed that afternoon would be different. None of the games we'd left unfinished, the ones that required more time and calm. Cristina made it clear before I arrived: she wanted to take her time, to go slowly, to enjoy herself without rushing toward any particular destination.

—I want to get you rock-hard —she told me—, keep your cock in my hand for an hour if necessary, and then watch you come. Nothing else.

That sounded good to me. More than good, actually.

***

When I arrived at her apartment, she opened the door wearing a short terry-cloth robe. Underneath, she had on a cream-colored set I knew well: a bra with delicate lace that lifted her tits and outlined her dark nipples beneath the fabric, matching panties, everything balanced precisely between intimate and deliberately provocative. She showed it to me without any drama, simply opening the robe for a moment before closing it again, as if it were nothing important.

It wasn't nothing important. For me, it never was. I got hard just looking at her.

We kissed right there, standing in the hallway, with the door still ajar behind us. Her hands moved up my nape and mine found her waist through the soft fabric. I kissed her slowly, without urgency, savoring the moment, pushing my tongue deep into her mouth until I heard her moan very softly. Then I kissed her neck, bit her earlobe, and she threw her head back with her eyes closed. I pulled down one cup of her bra with two fingers and caught her nipple between my lips, sucking it until it grew hard as a stone. Cristina let out a gasp and pressed my head against her breast.

I turned her against the wall. I slipped my hand inside the robe, beneath her panties, and found exactly what I expected: her pussy soaked before I'd even really done anything. I caressed her very slowly with my fingers, tracing circles over her clitoris, feeling her breathing change, feeling her hips seek more contact without her saying it aloud. I pushed two fingers deep inside her and she opened a little farther, resting her forehead against the wall. She was so wet that my fingers slid in and out with a wet sound that filled the hallway. I found the spot up front, the one that drove her crazy, and pressed with my fingertip while my thumb kept working her clitoris.

I stopped before she reached where she wanted to go. I pulled out my fingers, glistening, and ran them over her lips.

—Not yet —I whispered in her ear—. Taste yourself first.

She opened her mouth and licked my fingers one by one, never taking her eyes off mine. She made a sound halfway between protest and agreement. I liked hearing that. I liked knowing that desire was building inside her the same way it was building inside me, that the longer I left her at that point of tension without release, the more intense everything that came afterward would be.

She slipped her hand inside my pants before I had taken them off completely. She gripped my cock through my briefs, very slowly, gauging the hard bulge already pressing against the fabric. Then she gave the head a small slap with her palm, gentle but deliberate, and laughed when I made a show of complaining.

—Stop —I told her, even though I didn't want her to stop.

—You're going to have to put up with a lot more than this —she replied, squeezing my entire cock with her open hand—. I'm going to do whatever I want with you.

***

We went into the living room. I took off my pants and briefs, and my cock sprang up hard, pointing at the ceiling, the head already shiny with pre-cum. I lay down on the sofa with my arms spread and my legs apart, completely at her mercy. It took her a moment to understand the position, and then she smiled in that way of hers that needed no explanation.

—Starfish —she said.

—Starfish —I confirmed.

And that's how I stayed. Still, my cock stiff and pointing into the air, not interfering, letting her make every decision.

She started with her hands. She went to get a small bottle of body oil from the bathroom and came back unhurriedly, still wearing her bra and panties. She applied it to my thighs first, with slow, deliberate movements that weren't exactly a massage but weren't exactly something else either. Her thumbs traveled up the insides of my legs and stopped an inch from my balls, never touching them, leaving my cock throbbing by itself against my stomach. She repeated the path again and again, varying the pressure, changing the angle, until I stopped trying to anticipate what she would do next and simply sank into the sensation, my cock dripping pre-cum onto my navel.

Cristina has hands that know what they're doing. That's not something you can fake or learn just any old way.

When she finally moved upward, she did so with a gentleness that contrasted with everything I had already built up inside me. She took my cock between both palms, the oil still warm, one hand on each side, and began rolling it between them as if she were warming it. The first contact was so precise and measured that I had to grit my teeth to keep from coming too soon. Then she closed one hand around the shaft, squeezed it hard, and with the thumb of the other began making circles around the corona of the glans, spreading the fluid already leaking from me. She watched me as she did it. That had always been one of the details I liked most about her: she watched, she enjoyed watching, and in that moment her pleasure was real, not performed. You could see it in the way her lips parted, in how she squeezed her crossed thighs against her own pussy.

—Slowly —I told her.

—Yes —she replied, and went even more slowly, sliding her fist down to the base with excruciating slowness while squeezing my balls with her other hand at the same time.

Her fingers moved in a rhythm that bordered on desperation without crossing over. They rose to the glans, turned gently, then moved down firmly to the base. Again and again, with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world and no hurry to get anywhere. I stayed still, my arms still spread, my cock throbbing in her hands, and let the sensation fill me without thrusting against her. At one point she leaned over and spit on the glans, a thread of saliva sliding down the shaft, which she spread with her palm, mixing saliva and oil.

That's what being the starfish means: receiving without directing, existing in pleasure without managing it. It isn't as easy as it seems for someone used to setting the pace.

***

When she lowered her head, she did it without warning. Her tongue found the glans with the precision of someone who knew the route well, and the first contact was almost a question: like this? The answer that came out of me wasn't one you plan.

—Like that —I said—. Suck it exactly like that.

She smiled with her lips still touching me. I felt it. Then she stuck out her tongue and licked me from my balls to the tip, one long, flat, deliberate lick. She repeated the journey three times, stopping each time at the corona to make a full circle with the tip of her tongue. Then she took the entire glans into her mouth and held it there, still, working it only with her tongue against the frenulum. I felt her cheeks hollow as she sucked, felt the steady suction travel up my spine.

What followed wasn't fast. Cristina applied the same logic to it as she had to the massage: explore before concluding, build tension before resolving it. She lowered herself slowly, taking me halfway, then continued downward little by little until I felt her throat open around my cock. She stayed there for a few seconds without coughing, her nose almost touching my stomach, and when she came back up she did so with theatrical slowness, dragging her tight lips along the entire shaft and leaving a thread of saliva hanging from her chin.

Her tongue traced paths I could never have predicted, returning to the same spot and then abandoning it, alternating pressure, changing the rhythm precisely when I thought I'd found the pattern. Sometimes she pulled my entire cock from her mouth just to spit on it and take it back in all the way. Sometimes she left it out and licked my balls one by one, carefully taking them into her mouth and tugging very gently.

With one hand she kept moving slowly, two fingers tight around the base like a ring while her lips worked above. With the other she caressed the inside of my thigh without hurrying, or slipped down to play with her own tits beneath her bra, pinching her nipples while she sucked me, as if time were a minor detail.

At some point I stopped thinking about technique and simply stayed there, mouth open and eyes half-closed, watching my cock disappear and reappear between her lips.

—Stop —I told her when I felt the edge getting too close, when my balls were already tightening—. Not yet.

She raised her head and looked at me. Her lips were swollen, wet with saliva and with me, and her expression was difficult to categorize. Concentration, perhaps. Or the pleasure of someone in control. Probably both at once. A thread of saliva still connected her mouth to the tip of my cock.

—How much longer? —she asked, running her tongue over the corner of her mouth—. Because it's getting to be a long time for me too. My pussy is soaked from watching you.

—A little longer —I replied.

And she accepted it without question. She slipped one hand inside her panties without taking her eyes off me and began caressing herself while she waited. I liked that too: that she understood the game, that she found her own pleasure in building mine in that slow, deliberate way.

***

She came back with her hand. Her thumb on the glans, very gentle, oily circular movements, as if she were drawing something only she could see. The sensation was different from before: more concentrated, more intense at a single point. I raised my eyes toward the ceiling and felt something loosen in my shoulders, my jaw, everywhere I held tension without realizing it. My cock throbbed on its own beneath her thumb, giving little jumps that she watched with a satisfied smile.

—How do you feel? —she asked without stopping, slowly squeezing her fist at the base and relaxing it in time with my pulses.

—Very good —I said, and it was the most inadequate answer I'd given in a long time.

—I want you to come in my mouth —she added, very calmly—. Everything. Don't hold anything back.

She laughed softly and leaned over again. This time she went straight to it: she took me fully into her mouth and lowered herself with calculated slowness to the base, swallowing me until her nose pressed against my stomach, then rose with the same deliberation. Up and down, finding a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, sucking hard on the way up and loosening her mouth on the way down. Her fingers kept working at the same time, synchronized with her mouth, while her other hand cradled my balls, squeezing them very gently. The whole combination was so complete and exact that I lost any ability to think about anything else.

—Don't stop —I told her, grabbing her hair for the first time all afternoon—. I'm going to come. Don't stop.

She didn't stop. She sped up just slightly, enough, and slipped a finger between my buttocks, pressing there, at that exact spot behind my balls, making me lift my hips off the sofa.

The end came with a clarity I rarely feel: not suddenly, not unexpectedly, but as something built over a long time and arriving exactly when it was meant to. I felt it rising from somewhere deep while she kept moving, without changing rhythm, without hurrying, and when it came it was long and physical and completely real. I came in her mouth in spurts, one spasm after another, and felt her swallow every release without pulling my cock out, felt her throat move around the glans each time a pulse of semen pumped out of me. Four, five times. I don't know how many. I only know she didn't pull away, that she swallowed it all, that she kept sucking very slowly even when nothing else came out, milking me for the last drop.

She waited. She continued stroking the shaft very gently, prolonging the moment, her mouth still closed around the hypersensitive glans until the last tremor faded. She didn't stop too soon. She did that right too. Better than right.

When she finally let me go, she did it with a small, wet kiss on the tip. She was wiping her lips with the back of her hand while my eyes were still closed. I heard her move away, leave for a moment, then return. Then I felt a damp cloth on my skin, carefully wiping my still-sensitive cock, my balls, and my groin.

***

When I opened my eyes, Cristina was sitting beside me with her legs crossed and the calm expression of someone who had just done something well and knew it. She was still wearing her panties, with a dark wet stain in the center that gave away the fact that she'd been enjoying herself too. She cleaned me without saying anything, with the same calm she'd brought to everything else. Then she kissed me on the mouth, briefly and unhurriedly, and I could still taste myself on her lips.

—Good? —she asked.

—Very good —I said again. This time the answer was less inadequate.

I lay there for a while without moving, my arms still spread, staring at the living-room ceiling. Outside, the afternoon continued just as before. Inside, everything had that satisfied weight of things turning out exactly as you needed them to.

I thought about how I hadn't done anything all afternoon except lie still and receive, and that this had been precisely the hardest part. Stopping myself from managing. Stopping myself from anticipating. Trusting that whatever she wanted to do would be enough, more than enough, better than anything I would have planned.

I don't really know who learned more that afternoon. But I do know that Cristina, sitting beside me with her arms resting on her knees and that smile that never quite faded, had enjoyed herself as much as I had. In her own way, at her own pace, finding pleasure in every small decision she'd made by herself. At one point she slipped her hand inside her panties, almost absentmindedly, and pulled it out glistening. She held it under my nose without saying a word.

—Next time —I told her, after licking her fingers one by one— you're the starfish. And I'm going to eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.

She bit her lip. She didn't say anything, but her silence contained a complete answer.

I'll tell you about it when the time comes. I promise it'll be worth it.