Tell Me More. Janet Mullany

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СКАЧАТЬ D., with his usual mastery of deflecting questions, chuckled. “Merry Christmas.” A pause. “I presume you’ve changed your underwear. Tell me about it.”

      “You want me to tell you what I’m wearing?” I was surprised. That seemed a little unsophisticated, not what I would have expected from Mr. D. I wondered if he’d jerked off already and was looking for a quick arousal. I was almost shocked, although our increasing intimacy, our shared secrets, our stories, our mutual voyage, had led us here. I knew also, without either of us having to say anything, that we could back off from this awkward moment, and return to our usual friendly banter. Back to the familiar port as if we had never even started our journey.

      “I believe it’s a standard approach,” he said.

      A standard approach. “That’s one way to describe it.”

      He said, his voice hesitant, “I’ve never done this before. I’m embarrassed, to be honest.”

      So was I. I was also turned on, wild and slightly frightened, my hands cold, a little sweat on my forehead. I pressed the speakerphone button and laid the phone in its cradle. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. Was. I’ve taken it off. My skin looks very pale because it’s almost dark in here. My jeans, now. Can you hear the zipper? I never wear shoes in the studio, and now I’m pushing my jeans down, and they’re off.”

      “I can hear the sound of the denim rustling. But denim doesn’t rustle, does it? I can’t think of the right word.”

      “I’m wearing red lace underwear.”

      “The truth, Jo. Don’t humor me.” He sounded stern and sad. “I know men are all alike but … please, be honest.”

      Tears pricked my eyes. “I am telling you the truth.” I swallowed. I sounded like a scolded child. “I—I always wear nice underwear for you. I want you to want me.”

      “Always?”

      “Since, oh, the first couple of times we talked. When I realized that you wouldn’t tell me who you are. It was all I could give you.”

      “I’m sorry. Thank you. That’s an extraordinarily generous gesture.” His voice was even deeper, slower. “Tell me about this red lace underwear.”

      “The bra is a half cup. My nipples are hard. I’m touching them.” I winced. I didn’t want to sound like a hooker but I didn’t know what I should say.

      “Go on.”

      “The panties … they’re called boy panties—you know what they are? They have little legs, and they come up to just below my navel. Even so, you can see a bit of hair curling out at the top of my thighs. And you can see my pubic hair through them, because they’re lace.”

      “Your pubic hair must be dark. I’ve seen your picture on the station website.”

      I giggled. “That picture doesn’t show my pubic hair.”

      He laughed, too, and for a moment we were comfortable together. “I’ve imagined it. You look bright and intelligent and lively in that picture. And sensual. A smallish, slender woman, that’s how I see you—quite athletic, from riding your bike. What color are your eyes?”

      “I’m stripping off for you and you want to know the color of my eyes?”

      “Ah. Please, don’t make me beg. I’m already humiliated enough.”

      “I’m sorry. I keep getting nervous and saying dumb things. My eyes are gray. They change color with what I’m wearing so sometimes they look blue or green.”

      “Tell me what your breasts look like. Please.”

      I sat in my chair, my legs spread. “They’re not very big. Although I’m dark-haired my skin is pale and the nipples are pink. I don’t tan easily. My breasts are very sensitive. My nipples get erect easily. I like to have them caressed. Kissed.”

      I listened to him breathe.

      “May I touch you?” he asked.

      “Yes. Where?”

      “I’m closing my hands over your breasts, squeezing them. Your nipples push against my palms. They’re very hard.”

      “I love that. May I unzip you now?” I was pretty sure he was unzipped, stroking himself, pants spread open, my unknown man in his dark cabin. Did he gaze at his cock and hand, or were his eyes closed? Did he smile or grimace?

      “Later. Let me give you pleasure. Stroke my way down your body. Ah, here’s your navel, that sweet little crease. Take off your bra … good. I’m holding your breasts, squeezing them, feeling their weight. I want to lick them.”

      I licked my fingers and pinched my nipple. “I can feel it in my clit.” Oh, God, I’m so crude. Heat spread over my face.

      “I think your clitoris needs some attention, don’t you? Are you wet yet? Take off those pretty panties, darling. I’m kissing the inside of your thighs, where the skin is so soft and silky. I can smell you. Yes, you’re wet. Soaking. Dripping for me. You’re swollen with desire. Your clitoris is as hard as your nipples.”

      My skin glimmered in the light, my pubic hair a dark mystery, my hand delving, playing.

      “Taste yourself.” His voice was hoarse against the artful spin of Bach.

      I slipped my fingers inside myself, then into my mouth and tasted my arousal, my salty musk. I imagined his hand pumping, the flex of his forearm as he jerked off.

      “I wish I could put my fingers into your mouth. Feel you suck them, lick between them. And I’d like to lick you. Your lips, your chest, your cock, all over. I want to make you come.”

      “I want you to come, too. I want to hear the sounds you make. Down between your legs, darling. Play with yourself. I’ll play with your nipples. A little pinch, some fingernail—is that what you like?”

      My toes gripped the edge of the console.

      “Come for me,” he whispered. “Come for yourself. Do it now.”

      I came so hard it almost hurt, ratcheting me upward. I abandoned the attention to my breast and clutched at the arm of the chair, terrified that I would fall, alarmed by the intensity of the orgasm, yet not wanting it to end. I subsided, sobbing for breath.

      “Lovely.” His voice was a whisper. Had he come?

      “Did you …” I hoped he hadn’t. I wanted to share the moment with him.

      “No. I’m sorry.”

      “Let me help you.” Maybe he was still shy.

      “Your pleasure isn’t enough?”

      I could see him, a sprawled dark figure, face hidden, his stroke slowed to accommodate my needs, fingers curled loose around his cock. Sliding. Wetness, a very little, gathered and dribbled over his fingers.

      “So.” He cleared his throat. “What happens next?”

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