I can’t remember the last time I stayed in on a Friday night. Maybe… never? Friday is payday, poet’s day*, the launching pad for the weekend, with two full days to rehearse your je ne regrette rien speech before Monday morning.
So why my fuckbuddy Stephen has booked us into a motel in the ass-end of nowhere on a Friday night is beyond me. Granted, we are traveling to see friends in a fairly remote area, but I can’t imagine how he has managed to find a place with no town nearby, no internet (hence, no Netflix), no phone signal (ditto), no pub, nada. There is a 24-hour garage from which we’ve bought snacks and really bad wine, and I have some club tunes playing on my tablet, which is just reminding me how much fun I’d be having if we were still in London right now.
Stephen is feeling guilty that he’s booked us into such a dump. I’m really not a high maintenance girly, but a decent shower and high-speed broadband are minimum requirements, surely?
“I guess we’ll have to make our own fun,” he says, and starts dancing to the music, doing a little stripper dance to make me laugh. He doesn’t really have the moves (unlike my gay boyfriend Rafael’s stripper fucktoy the Viking, but that’s another story!) but it’s a turn on watching him take his shirt off anyway.
“Don’t stop now, you have my full attention,” I say. I’m no stranger to putting on a little striptease of my own, and being on the receiving end is pretty hot. “Take your pants off. I want to see you shake that ass.”
Stephen kicks his shoes off and struggles out of his pants. He’s clumsy but cute, and I like looking at him in just his shorts, rocking his body to the music, a little self-conscious but having fun too.
“Mmmm, is that for me?” I ask, watching the front of his shorts start to tent out. “You like dancing for me like a little slut, don’t you? Dirty boy. Show me.”
He pulls his shorts down, letting his erection spring out, then twirls them around his foot, and kicks them away with a flourish. His cock is jutting out, rigid, flexing and bouncing as he rocks his hips to the beat.
“Shameless! Showing off for me… you want me to look at your cock, don’t you? Want me to see it all hard and throbbing, dirty boy…”
I was just kidding around, but I can see it’s really turning Stephen on when I talk to him like this. Interesting. It’s always a thrill to discover someone’s secret kink.
“Stroke it for me,” I tell him. “Slowly.”
He wraps his hand around the base of his shaft and slides it up, then down again. The sight of it is making my mouth water.
“Spit on your hand and lube it up,” I say. He spreads saliva over his shaft, making it glisten. “Rub it over the tip.” He lets out a groan as he wipes his wet palm over the shiny head of his dick.
“Grip it tight in your fist, and pump it for me. Slower. Dirty boys don’t get to cum fast.”
He’s breathing heavily as he thrusts his erection forward into the O of his fingers; it’s turgid, growing flushed and engorged with blood, and I imagine it’s pulsing in his hand with every heartbeat.
“Move your hand down, touch your balls,” I say. Reluctantly, he lets go of his dick and slides his hand further south, stroking his testicles, which are nestled up firm and tight. “I’ll bet they’re so full, aren’t they? Just aching to burst. Squeeze them, go on…” He lets out a strangled moan as he fondles his balls gingerly, as if he’s afraid it will be too much to handle.
“Is your cock throbbing?” I ask. He nods. “Is it leaking?” I ask, although I can clearly see that it is. He nods again. “Wipe it up with your fingers and lick it off,” I order him. “Dirty boys need to clean up their dirty cock juice.”
He swipes his thumb over the seeping head of his dick, scooping up the pre-cum that’s collecting at the slit, and feeds it into his mouth. Fuck, that’s hot! I want to be the one tasting it, but I can’t abandon my role now I’ve got him at my mercy.
“Pinch your nipples,” I instruct him. I know he likes that, and as he tweaks the stiff buds, his cock flicks upward like an electric current has passed through him. “Again!” I demand. “Harder!”
I can see a tremor passing through his thigh muscle, like he’s fighting to stay still. “Wrap your hand around your cock,” I tell him. “Don’t move it! Just hold it.” I leave him like that for several beats. “Spit on it… no, not on your hand! Spit on your cock.” He looks down — I know just looking at it like this, throbbing in his fist, will be driving him crazy — and then spits on the tip. A little moan escapes his lips as the saliva splatters onto the sensitive head.
Again, I make him wait. Then: “Jerk off for me, dirty boy. Hard and slow.”
I give him a little visual encouragement by taking off my dress, so I’m sitting on the bed in just my panties. I notice how stiff my own nipples are, but I ignore the urge to touch them, staying focused on Stephen’s twitching cock.
He starts to stroke his dick, teeth gritted with the effort of holding back from speeding up. But every time he hits a steady rhythm, I break it, telling him, “Faster!” then “Slower!” then “Faster!” so he can never get comfortable. After several minutes of me making him stop and start, he’s frustrated, sweating, face and chest flushed red, cock bigger and stiffer than I’ve ever seen it.
“Does the dirty boy need to cum?” I ask him. He nods, eagerly.
“Then ask for permission.”
“Please, Rose, please let me cum!” he begs.
“If I let you cum, you’ll have to clean it up, dirty boy. Every drop — with your tongue. Do you understand?”
He nods, avidly, desperate for me to say the word.
“Come here.”
He moves closer to the bed and I sit on the edge, thighs open. I pull my skimpy panties down just enough to bare my pussy, noting how stickily they peel away from my hot crease as I do so.
“Beg me, dirty boy.”
“Please, please let me cum,” he groans, hand working steadily up and down on his dick.
“Cum on my pussy,” I tell him.
It’s like unleashing a beast; his hand a blur as it pistons back and forth, making slippery slapping noises on his flesh as he jerks off feverishly, gathering pace until with a yell, his spunk fountains up. It splashes onto my pussy mound, trickling down into my panties in rivulets, the sensation making me shiver. He milks out spurt after spurt before he’s finally done, sinking to his knees in front of me, spent.
I pull my panties up and rub them against my pussy, pressing them up into the groove between my plump lips so the slippery cum is spread all over me. I admire how the wetness is making the fabric almost transparent, clinging to my cunt, which is drenched and throbbing now, making my own need to be touched impossible to ignore any longer.
“You’re not done yet,” I remind him. “Clean up your cum, dirty boy. Use your tongue.”
So he does…
* Poet’s day = Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. I don’t know if it’s a peculiarly English saying, but I’m pretty sure every office worker around the world is thinking it by Friday lunchtime…
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