The plastic-tipped fingers of the brush felt strange and wonderful on that part of me. He set the brush down and stroked my stomach by hand, petting me. He moved so that his folded legs were alongside my body, sharing his body heat with me. He petted up my stomach and sides, fondling my br**sts and pinching my pale pink ni**les.
I peeked down at his crotch to see his erection, fully engorged and pointed to the ceiling. As he stroked the sides of my face, my neck, and my body, his touch like velvet, I walked one hand up his thigh to his cock. A gleaming bead lay on the tip, and I touched him there first, with the pad of my thumb.
He moaned and pushed himself into my hand.
My fingers feather-light, I caressed the length of him for a moment, then ran my hand up his stomach to his chest. His chest was tanned, much darker than my skin, which looked white as paper by comparison. I pinched one of his tight ni**les and then the other.
His hand on my cheek moved over to my lips and he eased his index finger into my mouth. I sucked on his finger as I moved my hand back down to his cock, gripping it tightly this time. I gave it a squeeze, so hot and solid in my hand. More shining beads were coming from the tip, and I rubbed my slick thumb over the head as I kept sucking the finger in my mouth.
He pulled his finger from my mouth and made eye contact with me. Those gold-brown eyes were smoldering with desire, but he took his time. His wet finger trailed down my front, over my navel and my triangle, ending its journey at the crevice between my legs. Delicately, he parted my lips with one finger and massaged the lips, his soft fingertip running up and down my opening, getting everything even wetter.
I kept pumping my fist on his cock, squeezing it firmly for a moment, then loosening my grip and slipping my fingers over the sensitive head.
His hand between my legs kept up its work, easing inside my opening and then dragging up deliciously over my firm clit. He nudged that hard button, rubbing lengthwise and then swirling around with his fingertip.
I moved only slightly, to part my legs wider for him. I wanted him to lean down and kiss me, but he just stayed still, watching me. My skin grew hot and I started to sweat, on my forehead and stomach. His probing finger was about to put me over the edge into orgasm, but I didn't want to come just yet.
I pushed his hand away and rolled over. Still staying low, on my elbows, I positioned my face over the tip of his c**k and took him into my mouth.
He sighed and leaned back, still on his folded knees, his hands behind him for balance.
He was shower-fresh and smelled faintly of soap. Licorice soap. The smell of it made me crazy, and I licked hungrily at him as I devoured his hot, hard erection.
He seemed about to come when he pulled me off him and moved me onto the bed.
I rolled onto my back, my paws up in the air, and waited.
He circled the bed, stopping to turn on the stereo. The first song had a driving guitar and rock sound, with an angry female singer. Smith climbed on top the bed and dragged me to him. He thrust into me for the first time that day, and I moaned and wrapped my legs around him.
He pounded into me, to the rhythm of the song. He filled me, covered me, inundated me. I was gasping, panting, coming.
As I shuddered and groaned underneath him, he also shook, and then he quickly pulled out and came on my stomach, his eyes closed and face twisted.
We both stopped moving, and I heard the lyrics of the song-an old eighties song by Joan Jett, Now I Wanna Be Your Dog.
My insides were still shivering, but my feeling of bliss turned to something dark. One last spurt came out of him and landed on my stomach.
I said, my voice fiery, "Are you f**king kidding me?"
Smith opened his eyes and grinned down at the icing he'd left on my bare skin.
"This song," I said. "You manipulated me into coming up here, as your dog?"
"Come on, Tori. Don't pretend you didn't plan this all day."
I grabbed his shirt from the chair next to the bed and wiped my stomach as I climbed off the bed.
"Aw, not the shirt," he said.
I gave him an angry look and finished up by wiping the shirt between my legs.
"Fine, we'll call this one a draw," he said.
I stomped to the door. Something smacked into my butt, so I wheeled around. My hairbrush lay at my feet.
"You forgot your brush," he said, grinning.
I picked it up and stomped all the way down to my room. I pulled on my clothes and started packing my things into my backpack. It was mid-afternoon, and if I hiked into town right away, I'd probably be able to catch a bus. I could be home that night, safe in my own bed, away from Smith Fucking Wittingham.
He knocked on my door.
I yelled at the locked door, "I quit! You're twisted and you're … old!"