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The thought threw more water on his already damp amour. He didn't want to think of Grandma looking down from her heavenly abode at what was happening to her granddaughter on her bed.
That didn't stop him from undressing. He heard Emma go into the bathroom. She clearly wanted to do this; apparently was looking forward to it, and that, as much as his own awareness that he was not quite so reluctant as he pretended to himself, made him fold up his clothes and leave them in a neat pile on the floor beside the dresser.
He climbed onto the bed and lay down, his head on a pillow. After a moment he found the position too vulnerable, and stacked up all the pillows behind him so that he could sit up. He crossed his arms over his chest.
His penis lay half-tumescent as if it, too, was not sure if this was going to be a good experience.
He wished he had something to cover it with.
He heard a curse through the bathroom wall, right behind his head. Then another curse and movement. What the hell was she doing in there?
He perked his ears, listening. She must not know how easy it was to hear through these walls.
"Ow!" she said. "Ow! Dammit! Ow!"
His eyes widened. Visions of nipple clips and leather-wrapped objects for insertion into various orifices danced in his head.
Emma muttered darkly and thumped around a bit; then there was an ominous silence. His ears strained, trying to pick up some hint of what was happening. The silence continued. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was no one there.
And then all at once the silence was split by a Hai-ya! and a brief ripping sound. He bolted upright, his semiarousal shrinking like a snail withdrawing into its shell. There was a slap and a squeak, and then all was quiet again except for the pounding of his heart.
The water ran and was shut off, and a minute later the bathroom door opened. He grabbed the sheet at the bottom of the bed and pulled it up over his hips as he lay back, trying desperately to look relaxed.
"Almost ready!" she called softly. "Are you?"
"Sure." He swallowed and gathered his courage. He didn't want to disappoint her or hurt her feelings; somehow, no matter what she had pla
He tried to imagine her bare breasts. Touching one. Licking the nipples.
He heard the microwave turn on.
The microwave? What the hell was she doing with the microwave? She wasn't heating up a dildo, was she?
He closed his eyes and tried to think happy, bouncing-booby thoughts. He reached down and shook his penis, trying to encourage it to return to life. A shrunken willie was not the first naked impression a man wanted to give a woman.
The microwave stopped, the door opened and closed. Then the music that had been playing stopped and he heard her changing disks. The pianissimo opening bars of Ravel's Bolero began to filter into the bedroom. His penis perked up. It was the music used to cheesy sexual effect in the old Bo Derek movie, the piece composed of the same few bars of exotic, swaying melody repeated ad infinitum, only slightly louder each time as if building to a climax. Cheesy, but very promising.
He sensed Emma approaching. He pulled his hands back above the sheet and opened his eyes.
She was standing in the doorway, a red mixing bowl in her hands. She wore black fishnet stockings, a tiny white apron, and a small white cap pi
His animal lust shoved his noble instincts firmly to the back of his mind.
"What's in the bowl?" he asked, half-hopeful and half-wary.
Emma concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she stood in the doorway, the warm bowl in her hands and the apron the only shelter from his gaze. She had seen his eyes surf over her body, once quickly and then again more slowly. He gave no indication of whether he liked what he saw. Her gaze skimmed over his chest and shoulders; he was even more fit than she had guessed, his muscles well defined and coating his frame in a thicker, more solid layer than she'd seen on men her own age. He looked like a man, not a boy. Brown hair lightly covered his pectorals and traced a line toward his navel. She'd never been with someone with chest hair, and there was something about it in this context that made her nervous; it made her more aware that she was here to please a man, not to play with a boy.
"You'll find out soon enough what's in the bowl," she said, arching a brow and trying to sound confidently mischievous.
"Before you find out what's in the bowl you have to agree to two rules," she said, trying to stick to the plan for a "blow his mind" evening she'd downloaded from a sex advice site on the Internet.
"Okay," he said warily.
"The first is that you can't come until I say you can. No matter what I'm doing and how much you enjoy it, you can't come until I say so."
The sheet over his loins moved, a mound forming. "Okay."
"And two: you can't touch me until I say you can. You have to let me do to you exactly what I want."
The mound turned into a ridge, tenting the sheet. "I think I can do that."
She gri
She came forward and rested the bowl against her hip as she reached down and slowly pulled the sheet off him. The head of his erection came free, and then the whole lusty rod in its entirety, thick and strong and rising proudly from a dark thicket of hair, his balls beneath drawn tight up against his body. His thighs were lightly coated with dark hair, the hair growing heavier farther down his legs and ending neatly at the top of his pale, clean feet.
"You look like a satyr," she said.
"Is that good or bad?"
She felt a tingling between her thighs as anticipated being taken by him, those strong thighs between her own softer ones, that rigid member embedded deep within her. "It's good," she said in a husky voice. "Definitely good."
She set the bowl down on the side of the bed and dipped a finger in. She put on a fake French accent to go with her outfit. "Do you like zee chocolate?"
"Usually," he said warily. "Why?"
Emma had never been an actress; she couldn't even lie. As her finger scooped up a dollop of warm chocolate pudding, embarrassment made her want to giggle and make a joke about the situation; she was afraid that he would find what she was about to do ridiculous instead of sexy.
"Why? Because you are about to have a tres intimate encounter with it." She lifted the dollop of pudding and, with her eyes locked on his, painted it around her left nipple.
His eyes dropped to her breast, watching the movement. She swirled it over her aureole, leaving the peak of her nipple bare, then brought her finger to her mouth and slowly sucked the pudding off.
His erection bobbed in approval. "I think that chocolate just became my favorite food."
A smile quavered on her lips. A good start, but it was ad-lib time now. The sex advice script hadn't filled in all the blanks for this amorous scene, and she'd never been naturally creative with her body movements. She didn't even dance.
She dipped her finger again into the pudding and circled her other nipple, nervousness making her do it too quickly. She knew she was too fast, too stiff, but she couldn't stop herself. With more pudding she drew an outward spiral over her breast, watching her fingertip to make sure she got the spiral perfect. The shaking of her hand made the line wobbly. She scowled and tried to correct it, licking her finger and wiping off the uneven bits.