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Authors: Charlotte Stein
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of contact is pretty much all I can think about. All thoughts of being restrained and respectful of his wishes fly right out the window, and I canât blame them.
The whole thing just feels too good. It feels good in a way nothing has ever felt good before. I thought I could cope because sex has never really meant that much to me, but somehow it means absolutely everything in this moment. It consumes my body, from the neck down. My nipples have stiffened, even though itâs hardly cold in here and he isnât touching me anywhere rude. And as for that void between my legs. . .
It definitely isnât a void anymore. Everything there feels heavy and swollen, as though every drop of blood inside me has rushed to that one place. My panties are suddenly tight, to the point where moving seems impossible. When I shift just a little the material nearly suffocates me, and in a way that makes me feel far too hot all over.
If the movie doesnât end soon, Iâm going to wind up doing something very bad. I can already feel the bad thing blooming inside me, like a fevered infection. Pretty soon I might try putting a hand on his knee or a hand on his thigh, or maybe I might do it higherâOh God, what if I do it higher? I cannot under any circumstances let that happen.
I bite my fist just to stop it coming on, and when the film finally blessedly finishes, I practically run out into the lobby.
But the weird thing isâit barely seems to help at all.
The fresh air feels good against my overheated skin, true enough. And the relief of not having him so close to me is a wonderful thing. For a moment I even bask in it a little, sure that I got away with my crafty feelings of overwhelming excitement. Then I turn and see him coming through the doors, face as flushed as mine feels, perspiration gleaming on his forehead and in that little groove just above his collarbone, eyelids as heavy as if he just awoke from some heated dream. . .
And it all just floods through me again. Only this time, I donât have the darkness to cover me. The lobby is practically lit by floodlights. My T-shirt is probably see-through under that glare, and even if it isnât my stiff nipples will still be visible. My lips wonât close, and Iâm reluctant to move in case it somehow gives away the fact that it feels kind of good when I do, and all of this gets worse when I realize that he maybe feels the same way.
He looks so dazed. He seems unable to form words.
âIt was good to do that,â he finally says, but I have no idea if he means watching the movie or touching my leg. It could be that he doesnât know, either. As he leads me out of the lobby I feel his hand just ghost against the small of my backâlike heâd love to put his arm around me, but isnât sure how. And when we walk down Main Street and over to Grover Close, I get that sensation in my hand again. That urge to close the gap between his and mine, ever crackling between us.
But nothing beats what happens once we get to my door. He walks me up to it, just as he always does when we part. However, instead of leaving me there he takes a step inside. He takes a step inside without being invited , and the thrill of that is something else, I tell you what. It almost beats the leg and the hand, even though Iâm not entirely sure why.
Because it promises something bigger? I think that might be the case. This is kind of our third date, really. This is the part where people do something other than just talk and watch movies and walk in the sunlight. At the very least, our farewell needs to be a little more than the previous casual good-byes.
Itâs just that I donât know what more to give. I think about briefly rubbing his shoulder, but that doesnât seem quite right. For a start, rubbing someoneâs shoulder isnât really a thing. It might look weird. Most likely heâll turn his head and watch me doing it with those
The whole thing just feels too good. It feels good in a way nothing has ever felt good before. I thought I could cope because sex has never really meant that much to me, but somehow it means absolutely everything in this moment. It consumes my body, from the neck down. My nipples have stiffened, even though itâs hardly cold in here and he isnât touching me anywhere rude. And as for that void between my legs. . .
It definitely isnât a void anymore. Everything there feels heavy and swollen, as though every drop of blood inside me has rushed to that one place. My panties are suddenly tight, to the point where moving seems impossible. When I shift just a little the material nearly suffocates me, and in a way that makes me feel far too hot all over.
If the movie doesnât end soon, Iâm going to wind up doing something very bad. I can already feel the bad thing blooming inside me, like a fevered infection. Pretty soon I might try putting a hand on his knee or a hand on his thigh, or maybe I might do it higherâOh God, what if I do it higher? I cannot under any circumstances let that happen.
I bite my fist just to stop it coming on, and when the film finally blessedly finishes, I practically run out into the lobby.
But the weird thing isâit barely seems to help at all.
The fresh air feels good against my overheated skin, true enough. And the relief of not having him so close to me is a wonderful thing. For a moment I even bask in it a little, sure that I got away with my crafty feelings of overwhelming excitement. Then I turn and see him coming through the doors, face as flushed as mine feels, perspiration gleaming on his forehead and in that little groove just above his collarbone, eyelids as heavy as if he just awoke from some heated dream. . .
And it all just floods through me again. Only this time, I donât have the darkness to cover me. The lobby is practically lit by floodlights. My T-shirt is probably see-through under that glare, and even if it isnât my stiff nipples will still be visible. My lips wonât close, and Iâm reluctant to move in case it somehow gives away the fact that it feels kind of good when I do, and all of this gets worse when I realize that he maybe feels the same way.
He looks so dazed. He seems unable to form words.
âIt was good to do that,â he finally says, but I have no idea if he means watching the movie or touching my leg. It could be that he doesnât know, either. As he leads me out of the lobby I feel his hand just ghost against the small of my backâlike heâd love to put his arm around me, but isnât sure how. And when we walk down Main Street and over to Grover Close, I get that sensation in my hand again. That urge to close the gap between his and mine, ever crackling between us.
But nothing beats what happens once we get to my door. He walks me up to it, just as he always does when we part. However, instead of leaving me there he takes a step inside. He takes a step inside without being invited , and the thrill of that is something else, I tell you what. It almost beats the leg and the hand, even though Iâm not entirely sure why.
Because it promises something bigger? I think that might be the case. This is kind of our third date, really. This is the part where people do something other than just talk and watch movies and walk in the sunlight. At the very least, our farewell needs to be a little more than the previous casual good-byes.
Itâs just that I donât know what more to give. I think about briefly rubbing his shoulder, but that doesnât seem quite right. For a start, rubbing someoneâs shoulder isnât really a thing. It might look weird. Most likely heâll turn his head and watch me doing it with those
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