“In a rush, are we?” he teases.
“No.” I gasp.
His eyes harden into flints. “No, who?”
“No, master.”
He is standing very close to me, so close that if I take one step forward, I would slam against his chest. His arm muscles are magnificently contoured and his bronzed skin is silky smooth and tight. I wonder how he would look like oiled. I can smell the sweet scent of his aftershave, mingled with sweat. Goose bumps gather on the backs of my thighs.
He seizes my right wrist and holds it up. “Would you do everything I tell you to?”
“Yes, master.”
His grasp on my flesh is tight. I feel tears springing to my eyes.
“Good,” he says.
My knees are starting to buckle. He jerks his sculptured chin to the direction of the bidet.
“Now go over there and squat on the rim.”
He lets go of me as abruptly as he has seized me. I almost fall backward, but regain my balance in time. My thumping heart is in my throat. It would not do to appear graceless in front of Max Devlin.
I trot to the bidet, studying the bewildering array of taps and nozzles circling its perimeter and dotting the generous bowl. It is complex, I decide, more torture instrument than sanitary device. The rim is fairly wide with the seat down; through it would be precarious to balance upon it on my heels.
Devlin rasps, “What are you waiting for, freshman?”
Warmth floods my cheeks as I climb onto the bidet. It is easier to sit upon it first, my bare buttocks circling its oval aperture, and then to gingerly hoist my slipper-shod feet onto its broad seat. I’m terrified of appearing clumsy. Devlin never takes his eyes off my crotch, revealed now and then – I’m sure – by the betraying hem of my short, short dress. A flush suffuses my breasts and spreads all the way down to my belly.
I finally face him – eyes downcast and cheeks aflame – in my squatting position. My legs are wide apart. My dress has ridden up my thighs to reveal the shaven area between them. My wet pussy lips are finally exposed to Devlin’s hot gaze. My slender nub throbs and quivers in cool air of the bathroom. The moist hole of my vulva gapes above the deep basin of the bidet, and just behind it, separated by only a thin sliver of flesh, my anus puckers wide open.
I feel vulnerable and displayed.
From the intensity of his blazing blue eyes, Devlin does not find me wanting.
He scrutinizes my very open and burning pussy lips. My juices are beginning to flow again in a never-ending stream, trickling from the trembling and oh-so-soft opening of my vagina down the fragile skin to the rim of my anus. I wonder if he can see how wet I am. How ready.
Devlin removes off his wife-beater in a slow, languorous movement. Peeling it off his stomach, he rips it off his head and tosses it aside. It falls onto the bathroom tiles in a crumpled heap. His stomach is ripped in a classical six-pack and tapered to a ‘V’ before flaring out again to his slender hips. Devlin swims for Gifford, I am told.
His hands begin to undo the bronze buttons on his Levis, pausing at the second one. He’s not wearing underwear. A tangle of damp blond curls plays peek-a-boo as the fly of his jeans is pushed apart by his bulging flesh. When he unfastens the third button, his straining cock – magnificent, pulsing and oh-so-tumescent – springs up immediately to raise its purple head above its denim prison.
Oh! I almost gasp in dismay. His cock is huge! It’s over eight inches long, I swear, and thicker than it has a right to be. Thicker than fat salami hanging from a meat store. Thicker than what my mouth can comfortably take.
How will my tight, tight pussy – penetrated only several times in fumbling backseat gropings, and that by the rather thin cock of Barry Mancini, my boyfriend back in high school – take Devlin’s supersized organ?
Devlin lets his jeans slide off his well-muscled legs in a rush. He steps out of them, fully naked. If he’s aware of my frantic misgivings, he doesn’t let on. I suspect he doesn’t care.
He moves towards me. Unhurried. His eyes take in the mounds of my breasts. He stands before me – a Greek god. In my uncomfortable tottering posture, his cock is at the level of my breasts. It points at my cleavage like a large, accusing finger.
“Raise your arms,” Devlin commands.
I do so slowly, fearful that I may fall from a sudden shift of balance. Devlin pinches the fabric of my baby doll dress and tugs it off my chest. The chiffon threatens to get caught at my jaw. I’m aware – in my cloud of pink cloth softness – that my breasts are now revealed to Devlin. I have always been rather proud of my firm, medium-sized breasts. “Virginal tits,” Karyn calls them.
Devlin pauses, in no rush to slide the dress off my head. For a panicked moment, I wonder if he intends to leave me in my blinded, fragile position – my arms upraised, head trapped in a chiffon tangle. My nipples pucker in the sudden cold. My areolas have always been large in proportion to my breasts. I wonder if Devlin thinks they are oversized.