with one swift movement so that the light from the street lamps illuminates the room enough to see the outline of furniture and bodies. Enough for me to see that he has left his pajama pants in the bathroom. Enough to see that he has not gone off the idea of having sex with me. Not at all.
Naked and erect he stands in front of the bed, waiting for my reaction. He doesn’t want this to be the anonymous encounter of two naked bodies in a hotel room. I can’t be mad at him for that.
“You do it.” He holds out his hand.
Oh! That’s why he went into the bathroom.
He reaches past me and takes something off the bedside table. There is a faint bleeping sound and then the display light of his cell phone dimly illuminates the scene.
And what a scene it is—the most beautiful cock in the world. Its length and thickness are in perfect proportion, the shaft is velvety and without blemish, and it is so hard that the foreskin has receded almost completely from the head, which rears up like a snake from the sheath it is shedding.
I scramble onto my knees and crouch in front of him; it is too, too beautiful, so hard and proud against the pale skin of his belly, and then like a smooth, lambent torch in my hand, and in my mouth.
“Anna—it’s not as if this weren’t a dream come true, but—”
This confession makes me grin, and with a plopping sound I release him. Gingerly I tear open the sachet and do what I have not done for almost a year—what I have never done in my life. I roll a condom over Giles Cleveland’s cock. Admiring my handiwork, I cradle his balls in my hand. This is almost the most intimate caress of all, holding a man’s testicles. So curiously heavy, so soft. So vulnerable.
I make him sit as before, with his back against the headboard, and he pulls me into a bear hug, nuzzles his face into what passes for my cleavage and exhales such a deep, heart-felt sigh that I have to laugh, though it sounds more like a sob.
“I know!” I whisper into his hair, against his shoulder. “Giles, I—” He freezes in my arms, so ready to expect a rebuke. “I don’t think I need a lot more foreplay.”
Again that spurt of laughter, and then he kisses me.
He runs his fingertips slowly down my spine, up my sides and over my breasts, over and over, like butterflies, like a length of silk, still kissing me. He is unexpectedly expert at caressing tiny tits, very unlike a man who is used to handling those sizable jugs that fill the former Mrs. Cleveland’s blouse, very gentle, suckling them, flicking at them with his tongue, raking his fingernails along my back with just enough pressure to make me shiver. Now I really don’t need any more foreplay. I raise myself on my knees, clasp the base of his cock—he doesn’t need any more foreplay either, judging by the state of it—and—
Just a naked man. Just a cock. It will feel lovely, because I am burning to have him—it—inside me, but I mustn’t picture us—Giles and Anna—in this hotel bed, me crouching over him, Giles clasping my waist with both hands, because if I could see that, his hands round my waist, both of us looking down although we can’t see more than hazy outlines, looking down to where we will be joined and fused—if I could see all that, I’d panic.
Control. Keep mine. Make him lose his.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!”
He rears up as if in pain, and I gulp for breath but manage to do it soundlessly. It does feel like pain, the stimulation overload as he slides into me, just slides in, smoothly and easily, all the way, all in one simple, fluid movement. I am so ready for him, have been, for such a long time. And because that felt so good, I do it again. All the way up till he almost slips out of me, till we almost lose contact but not quite. His fingers tighten around my waist, and this time he pushes me down, bucks his hips in anticipation, and I can’t suppress a groan of pleasure as he fills me up.
Fuck, yes. This.
“Make me last,” he whispers when I start to ride him, not fast but thoroughly, to feel as much of him as possible with each thrust. If I want to