“Just a little fun,” she whispered, as she stretched his arms up and locked the handcuffs in place. Andrew pulled, testing them. They must be looped around one of the bedposts.
“You did that pretty expertly.”
“A girl has to have some skills in this big, bad world.”
She wasn’t a girl anymore. That was for sure.
Andrew assessed her as she pushed his shirt up and stuck her tongue in his belly button. She must be thirty-five at least. An older woman. Sexy.
Dorrie paused. “Look at you, you’re totally hairless.”
“Not totally. But, yeah, no happy trail.”
She leaned in again, kissing him on his neck, grazing his ears and jaw.
“I want to touch you,” he said.
“You shouldn’t even be able to see me. Here.” And then she was pulling her shirt over her head, and Andrew caught just a glimpse of her smooth pink skin and pale, pale nipples—he had never seen nipples so small and pale, and they sent a shiver of lust through him—before she wrapped the shirt around his face like a blindfold, crisscrossing the arms around his head and tying them across his forehead. Andrew breathed in. The shirt was warm and smelled faintly of some musk-heavy perfume.
“Wait a minute,” said Dorrie. He sensed her rise up and leave the room, and he felt a shot of panic.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
It was a long minute before she responded. “I’m back. You’re not too attached to this shirt, are you?”
It was a limited-edition A Bathing Ape T-shirt he’d stalked on eBay for weeks and finally won for $182. “Nah.”
“Good.” He felt something cold and hard slide against his stomach, and panicked again. A gun? Was this all some plot to kill him and sell his organs to a drug cartel? And then he heard a snip and the cold line traveled up his chest.
“You’re cutting my shirt off?”
“It’s better that way. Then I can do this.” She threw open his ruined shirt and pressed her bare body against his.
“Mmm, okay, that is better.” He lifted his hips slightly, looking for some part of her to connect with. She met him, and for a long, exquisite moment they moved against each other until she broke free and began unbuttoning his pants. Andrew had been expecting this moment, wanting it, but now that it was here, he wasn’t sure how he felt.
Oh. Wait. Now here he was inside her warm, wet mouth. Andrew’s resolve slid out from under him and was replaced by an out-of-body buzz. Why did people bother meditating? They should just have orgasms instead.
A long, perfect minute, and then Dorrie stopped. Andrew groaned.
“I don’t want you getting too excited yet.” He felt her shifting on the bed. She must be taking off her underwear.
“Wait, I have to tell you something.”
“What’s wrong?”
It was too soon. It didn’t make sense. It should have been Emma, maybe. But he could feel Dorrie breathing over him, waiting for him to speak.
“Nothing, that was amazing. Seriously. I wish it was still happening. But, um, I don’t want to be presumptuous, but . . .” Oh god. This was ridiculous. He was cold now, pantless and with his T-shirt cut open, his shoulder was starting to hurt, and who knew what she was doing on the other side of the blindfold.
“But what?” She sounded amused.
“I don’t . . . I don’t really . . .” He’d explained it to at least a dozen girls, but this time the words wouldn’t come out right. In a rush, he said, “I just can’t have sex with someone unless I’m in love with them.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Well, won’t, I guess.”
Her hand enclosed him, and Andrew’s body rushed to betray itself.
“Won’t you?” He felt her next to his ear. “I almost do love you,” she whispered, slowly moving her hand up and down. He knew she didn’t mean it entirely, but he still felt faintly aglow. She was entrancing. Even now, even like this, helpless and flat on his back, blind to everything, he still felt the force of her odd allure.
He froze. Why not? Really, why not?
It was true what they said about older women. They knew what they were doing. One moment it was Dorrie’s hand gliding down his dick, the next it was her mouth and then back again, a constant, seamless exchange that managed to be both steady and ever changing, always some insane new swirl of the tongue or unexpected, perfect point of pressure. Pleasure. Pressure. None of his girlfriends’ ministrations had ever felt like this; Andrew floated for an uncountable number of minutes in a sexual dreamworld where he was content, almost, to just let his excitement build and plateau and build and plateau, over and over again, until he felt like he had never been so turned on in his life as he was at this moment, with Dorrie like some creature slithering over him, a million appendages and orifices all focused only on him. And then it all felt different, warm, so warm, and soft and sweet and hot and impossible, and Andrew started thrusting upwards wildly, trying to reach something, somewhere, somehow.
No. Oh no.
Wait.
He must be inside her right now.