He sparked a blunt and I watched as his face emerged from the smoke. He passed it over and I took a tentative hit, proud of myself that I didn’t cough and gag like a noob.
I passed it back and it occurred to me that we were sharing trace amounts of saliva in addition to the weed. That was something intimate, surely.
Another back and forth. The room was foggy so he opened the patio door and I watched wraiths of smoke blow off to the right, to my balcony.
We didn’t do that hold-your-breath business that we used to do in high school to maximize the benefit at the lowest possible cost. When the joint got down to the nub, Bryan tossed it into the ashtray. No roach clip or burning your lips. I felt sophisticated. In the hands of a master.
We chatted about this and that and eventually I wondered if I seemed as stoned to him as I felt. Everything was gauzy. My attention wavered. He said that he was a programmer and was taking the day off after a release. I pretended to be interested. I told him I was a grad student and he pretended to be interested too. Or maybe he really was; I couldn’t tell.
All I know is that one moment we were talking about nothing in particular and the next moment, he was behind my chair and had his hands on my shoulders. A small pang of concern met his touch and was then rubbed away beneath his fingers.
“You’re tense,” he said as he massaged muscles that I didn’t know needed the attention.
Bliss. I was pleasantly buzzed and relaxed. If he thought I was tense, who was I to argue? Maybe he was a renaissance man — programmer, weed sommelier, genius masseur. The latter for sure. His hands felt wonderful. He pressed spots that shot tingles down to my toes. My ex would never had done anything like this unbidden. He would have asked permission because spontaneity was rife with imagined danger, personal space being sacrosanct even though we’d invaded each other’s countless times before without incident.
Brian’s thumbs kneaded knots. Fingers awakened skin. My head lolled. A spark of possibility smoldered and caught. There was fuel enough for the fire to grow larger. Months of abstinence but for one episode a week before that I wanted to forget. Mostly all work and no play. I’d become a dull woman.
“My breasts are tense too,” I said after a few minutes. The words were out of my mouth before my brain could parse the consequences. The weed seemed to have numbed my mind while awakening my body.
A pause. Then his hands descended, squeezing and weighing. “I can feel it.”
More bliss.
“Let me help, if I may,” he said.
I said nothing as he pulled my t-shirt up over my head.
And I helped with my bra because I didn’t want him fumbling endlessly with the clasp.
His upper body leaned against mine, imparting his warmth to my back. Fingers teased my nipples to attention, enough to etch glass it seemed. As disembodied as I felt, he still managed to evoke a low, distant humming in my core. Anticipation, I figured. Nature’s programming.
His hands bade me to stand and he came around to my side of the chair and stood behind me agin. He made a show of removing my jeans. Deft fingers unfastened the button. He paused, waiting for me to object. No objection formed. Smooth hands descended into the opening, cradling my lower abdomen, fingers flitting over the upper margins of my pubic hair. I was grateful that I’d tended to things several days ago, partly out of boredom, partly out of alarm at the wild, unkempt thatch that had sprouted while I tended to things academic.
He pushed my jeans down a little, fingers tracing the crease between my thighs and my mound. A tiny whimper escaped my lips. I wasn’t usually the whimpering kind and I cursed myself for revealing weakness even as I whimpered again. Already I could feel my body responding, laying out the welcome mat of lubrication and heat.
Finally his hands found my hips and pushed my jeans and panties the rest of the way down.
I stepped out of them and kicked them away from me. Still standing, naked now but for my socks, I let his hands explore me, own me. Cupping my throat, kneading my breasts, sliding down my abdomen, teasing the margins of my sex. I raised a hand and cradled the back of his head while he nuzzled my neck, bathing the area with soft kisses and hot breath.
I was being selfish, standing there while he lavished attention on me. I could have let it go on for hours, but I didn’t want him to think poorly of me. “No fair,” I said finally, speaking to the wall opposite. “You’ve still got clothes on.”
I turned around and faced him, me naked and him fully dressed. The inequality might have bothered me at another time. Not now. I glowed under his curious, hungry gaze and my body warmed under it.
“Let me help you this time,” I said.
I concentrated on the buttons of his shirt, my languidness making the task more complicated than it should have been. More fun too. My heart rate increased as I slowly revealed his torso. A fine specimen, I thought. Not an ounce of fat on him. A body like an MMA fighter. A welterweight. Not a heavyweight thankfully. Lean. Muscular. Largely hairless, more due to genetics than some misplaced vanity.
Wow.
He laughed.
Had I said that out loud?
His nipples tightened under my exploratory fingertips, just like mine had. Goose pimples rose on his skin. I got the power, I sang to myself. At least I hoped it was to myself. I could have read his torso for hours. Like Braille. I don’t think I’d ever been so intent before. Chest and nipples, an actual six-pack, arms corded in veins. I explored it all. Languidly.
He made a sound. Arousal and discomfort. I looked into his eyes and then down. An erection strained against his jeans.
“That must be uncomfortable,” I said, tracing the outlines of his penis with my fingertips.
“It is.”
“I got the power,” I sang in a whisper and he laughed.
I worked more quickly now, less fumble-fingered than before. Hunger tended to focus one’s attention. Soon he and I were on equal footing, both naked, both primed. Both wearing nothing but socks.
“Show me how languid works,” I said.
He smiled, took my hand, and led me to the bedroom.
The room featured a poster of Bob Marley, of course. And various bongs and weed paraphernalia, of course. It was tidy, the bed actually made. He turned on the stereo. I expected reggae, but instead it was Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue”. I warmed to Bryan just a little more.
He crawled onto the bed and rolled onto his back, his cock pointing like an accusing finger to the ceiling.
“I want to taste you,” he said.
His words warmed my heart. He wanted to make a meal of me. I wanted to let him eat.
With all the pot we’d consumed, I had the munchies. There were no Doritos on offer evidently, so his cock would have to do. There was only one thing for it, one thing that answered both of our needs.
I joined him on the bed and straddled his head, then stretched out on his torso like a blanket until his cock touched my nose. He could have my pie and I could eat him too.
He moved me into position with insistent touches. A little back. A little down. At the first silky-wet touch of his tongue to my nether regions, I mewled. I preferred that to whimpering. His hands held my hips just so, pressing his fingers into my flesh. Before launching myself at his cock, I waited, relishing his flitting exploration of my various folds. The first flick at my clitoris jolted me out of my reveries. It was good and I could lose myself to the sensations, but I had some fellating to do.