21 Sep Stop It, I Like It
His soft hands brush the skin just beneath the hem of my dress and send several electric currents up my spine. I will myself not to blush as I feel my thin, already soaked underwear get even wetter. Of course, my whole skin is already flushed red from all the excitement, so I doubt it will make much of a difference whether or not I do. His hand shifts from my thigh and slides under the dress to cup my bum and I stiffen my body even more. “Stop.”. Pathetic. Even I am unconvinced by the barely audible half-command. Feeling my underwear starting to shift, I clear my throat and try again – louder and stronger. “I need you to stop.”. Much better. I mentally pat myself on the back and raise myself off the bed to prove how serious I was.
At first, he seems taken aback, but then he just leans into my chest, chuckles, and grazes my skin with his teeth. I don’t need some sort of expert to tell me my conflicting emotions are the least of his concern. “Relax,, babe.”, he whispers as he traces kisses and little bites up my neck. Affirmative action must be taken lest I give in to this sexy heathen seemingly sent by the devil himself to lead me down the path of eternal sexual damnation. Somehow, he manages to get my back flat on the bed again and I lay still, quietly quivering and contemplating how to resist as his lips begin to work their way up my crossed thighs.
Having spent the past hour playing cat and mouse with the fine specimen of a man pressing up against me – letting him kiss and brush and inch closer each time and then pushing him away – my arsenal of deflective antics is pretty much depleted and the part of me that secretly, desperately, craves this hunk of a man stirring a boiling pot within me is relentlessly beating the fragile, sensible part that knows to resist into a corner. Quite frankly, I am powerless to resist. Even more frankly, I want him to persist more; to pin down my feeble flailing arms still doing their best to pretend they’re holding him back and just ravage me.
Yes, truth be told, I want this… have wanted this since he called me away from my friends earlier in the evening and made it clear to me he wanted to be with me for the night, “chilling” of course. Once the door was shut behind us, I’d even played the good-natured sport simply looking for interesting conversation and informed him there would be no hanky-panky. Although my long-ignored desires were already starting up some sort of revolt and pushing thoughts and images of tangled joints and stifled moans to the fore-front of my mind, the ring strengthened my resolve.
The ring! My eyes spring open and begin to dart back and forth frantically searching for the last string from which my morals, decency, and common sense – for whatever they were worth – dangled precariously. i catch a glimpse of it as his left hand still struggles to slip between my thighs. On sight, the weakened part of my brain is immediately renewed with strength and vitality and comes swinging out of the corner it’s backed into. Believe you me, it’s like I’ve had milo and malt and Ribena shaken together and injected straight into the vein that pumps to my brain.
Playfully, I shove him again, harder this time, and roll out from under him. I hear him mutter some cusses in Yoruba and English and giggle to myself. Unfortunately, I’m too preoccupied with being inwardly crestfallen to come up with witty banter to lighten the now slightly uncomfortable air hanging above us. All I can think about is how my birthday is in a couple of hours and my only prospect of birthday sex is a married man. Yeah, he’s married, but he’s not looking for commitment; just a fun night before he leaves the next day. I need this, he wants this, how bad could it possibly be? The sex-starved part of my brain comes back from its break and seems to be even more fortified. How often does an opportunity like this present itself?
The tension in the room is so thick you can cut through it with a butcher’s knife. We sit apart from each other quietly musing, and I’m contemplating returning to the party in the common room when I feel his hands on my waist. Before I can gasp or put together another string of protests, he drags me towards him and plants his soft, full lips on mine. He smells like man; not the overpowering, slightly nauseating musky dank that a major percentage of the male species seem to think is appealing, but a delicate mix of honey and sex and something extremely edible. Sigh. Here we go again.