“OK. Let’s be upfront with this stuff. It has relationship-defining consequences if we don’t get things right at the outset.”
That sounds way too structural, but I agree to play his game. “Yes. OK. Sooo, I like to start way up high; a gentle massage, scalp to toe, stopping at strategic points for extra attention – ears, lips, nipples, inner thighs, buttocks, soles of my feet. Kissing throughout your bodywork will yield results. My nipples probably need extra attention on the return journey, and light brush strokes across my clit, as you pass. Reactions will alert us to the effects of your work at each station.”
I could see his hesitation, the wheels turning, cogitation and a smile slowly starting to form. “OK, yer, I also like a little head focus, a playful start that can bring me to attention. Fingers, playing incidentally across my nipples, not too much oral exploration, some nut-grappling, but I like to get down to dick-central pretty quickly.”
“How long until you are ready for me” he asks, “I mean, should I get ready? Do I need extra lube on the ol’ fella? Are there signals I need to learn, to ensure we’re both ready for ‘rootin’? It’s important that our journeys come together, eh!”
Youthful ignorance to overcome! “Absolutely, mon ami, absolutely! It can be the difference between the sticky, delicious nibbling on fairy floss, the flow of sweetened nectar or the cold heaviness of a wet concrete block. And we don’t want that dampener, do we, mon cher. Oh, and what exactly do you mean by rootin’?”
The Q&A is starting to wear thin. The lad’s naivety, the forty-year age difference, does it matter? He’s not concerned, so I will ignore my own anxiety.
I really wasn’t in the mood to be his instructor, but I sense long-term returns! I’ve just got to work around those “relationship-defining” issues!
We are lying back on a sheepskin. His nipple work is ok, albeit blind, with his mouth, tongue and teeth engaged elsewhere. He abandons my nipples. “Get back there!” I command, and his fingers roughly reengage. Moments later “It is time, mon cher” I whisper into his ear, as I move to better respond to his straining prick. We move in delicious unison.
I notice a steamy mist, small rivulets moving down the bay window. The room is warming, ‘things’ are warming, tentative movements become assertive. Someone gasps, we both do, breath catching, muscles tensing, gathering.
We are reaching a shared urgency, our involuntary tremors, a noisy animalistic duet fills the room. But he is staring, unsure. A dawning to hitherto unknown delights, his eyes now tightly shut. He concentrates, as my fingers explore his arse. There are lessons to teach! I will be his teacher.
We slowly, deliciously descend into the sheepskin. Relaxing heaviness; we smile, an embarrassed giggle, an involuntary shiver, despite the warmth. Time slows, and the late afternoon light hits the loungeroom wall, way up high, higher even than the chimney tops.