I roll slightly and kiss her. She freezes at first, as she always does when I kiss her, but she softens into it quickly, opens her mouth to mine, and nudges closer, gives in to the kiss. Her hand slips back onto my ribs, drifts around to my back, and explores it as we kiss, break for breath, and kiss again.
When we stop, she touches my chest again, drifting back down to my open fly. She glances at me, and the look is the request. I lift my hips and wiggle out of my pants, taking the underwear with them, and then I’m naked beneath blanket. I feel oddly nervous, even though I’m usually comfortable with my nudity.
She pushes the blanket past my hips slowly. Her breathing is shallow as she gazes at me. I’m hardening under her gaze. The scrutiny is almost embarrassing, nerve-wracking. I’m perfectly still, except for my chest rising and falling with my breath, and my slowly unfurling cock.
Her hand rests on my stomach, over my belly button. Again, some bizarre instinct causes me to suck in my belly when she begins to slowly, so slowly move her hand downward. I’m fully erect now, thickening, hardening. She glances up at me, then back down.
She extends a single finger and traces my length from the tip to the base, just the pad of her finger sliding along the bumps and ridges of the skin. Now her palm, down the length and back up. It’s been a long time, and I’m full of raging desire, burning, aching with need, but I have to contain it. Keep it in, keep it back. Let her touch, and that’s it. Let her explore.
I focus on her hair, toying with the cool strands between my fingers.
I heave in a deep breath when she takes me in her hand, lifts me away from my body, from side to side. God, her hands on my c**k feel so good. So goddamned amazing. Her tiny little hands, long fingers, slim and strong and warm, grasping me, sliding along me. I’m clenched with all my muscles.
She has no idea what she’s doing to me.
I’m so close.
What the f**k do I do?
I wrestle with myself, trembling, trying so hard to hold back as she fondles me, examines me. She traces my length, grips me, lets go, cups my balls in one hand, touches them and explores them, then returns to my cock.
I’m leaking. I’m about to come, and I have to hold it in. Have to. She’s just exploring. This isn’t sex.
I can’t wait much longer.
RANIA
His whole body is shaking, as if he is flexing every muscle. His back is stiff, his eyes closed, his fingers tangled in my hair.
His manhood is a thing of contradictions, so soft yet so hard. It is long and straight and thick, lying flat against his belly. It seems so big, and I am a little frightened of when we will have sex, even though I know it will be okay. I push those thoughts away. That is not for now.
I let myself touch him. It is okay to touch him. I like touching him. I like the way it feels in my hand, filling my fist. He is making little noises in his throat, although I do not think he is aware of it. His other hand is clenching into a fist in the sheet of the bed. I glance down at his feet, peeking out from beneath the blanket, and his toes are curled. His arms are flexed, his stomach muscles are flexed.
He is tensed, and every time I touch his manhood, he flinches, moves his hips slightly into the touch.
“Why are you making muscles?” I ask. I have been trying to use only English with him, and he tries to answer in only Arabic.
This time, he answers in English. I do not think he is capable of Arabic right now. “I’m…holding back.”
I do not understand at first, but then awareness dawns on me. He is about to release, but is holding back.
“Why hold back?” I ask, gripping him more firmly now and sliding my hand on him.
He laughs once. “Because this isn’t…about…me.” He is moving his hips to the rhythm of my hand on his manhood. “It’s about you. Doing what you want. Learning to want. Also, because it’ll be messy.”
I know what I should do. I am not quite ready, but it is the best way. I start unbuttoning my pants. Hunter stops me.
“No, not like this. I want it to be special. Just…stop touching me for a minute and I’ll…I’ll be okay.”
“You do not want to have sex with me?”
“No,” he says, and my heart shrivels, hurt. But he continues, “I want to make love to you. It’s different.”
My hand is still on him, but not moving.
“Oh,” I say. “But not now?”
He shakes his head and takes my wrist in his hand, tries to pull me away. “No, not now. When we have all the time in the world. When we have a big bed and privacy.”
I do not want to stop touching him. I want to see him release. I do not care about a mess, or privacy. I like touching him. I understand a little now what he said about enjoying making me feel good.
“Do you like how I am touching you? Does it feel good?” I ask.
He gasps and releases my hand. I move my fist around his manhood, and I feel more confident in it now. His face gives me my answer, but he nods anyway.
“Yes,” he says. “God, yes. It feels so good. I love it. I don’t want you to stop. But…I can’t hold back much longer.”
I continue to move my hand on him, and now his hips are starting to jerk. Leaning close to his ear, I whisper to him, “I want you to feel good. I am enjoying this. I do not want to stop. I do not want you to hold back. You can release.”
I know something I could do. Before I have a chance to think about it, I move my head down toward his manhood. He stops me.
“No, Rania. Not that.” Something in his voice tells me he is serious, so I return to leaning on his arm.
I can hear beneath his voice what he may be thinking of, and I think of it, too, but push it away. I am glad he did not let me. It would have given me memories of other things, bad things.
I kiss his jaw and taste his sweat, his stubble, his skin. I had slowed my hand on him when I began to move down, so now I speed up. My fist is loose around him, skin barely brushing skin. Now I hold him more tightly, move slowly, from the top of him to the bottom. He is jerking, shifting up and falling down. He gasps, tilts his head back.
“Oh…oh, god…I’m about to…” He grates the words past his teeth, and then falls silent and arches his back.
Now.
He goes still at the apex of his arch, and his manhood jerks in my hand. A thick stream of viscous white seed spurts from him, shooting hard across his torso, in his belly button. I keep moving my hand on him, and his hips swivel his manhood into my fist. Another stream overlays the first, not as much now, nor does it shoot quite as far, and then a third jet, even less, and his body flops down against the bed. He is gasping, writhing his hips.