He lies with his head in my lap, on the margin of sleep, warm and soft and relaxed. I watch him there, tracing his features with my fingertips, studying his face, running my hands through his hair. It feels as if learning the slopes and angles of his profile might give me some insight as to what’s behind them.
I let my fingers glide across his forehead and temples, curl around his ears, and down his perfect cheekbones. My fingertips trail over his lips and they part, almost automatically. My index finger dips between his lips and he sucks softly, playing at it with his tongue.
“You’re still awake?” I half-ask, knowing full-well he’s not asleep yet. I’ve kept him like this for almost an hour, in dreamy-almost-sleep. Every time his head gets heavy on my thighs and his breathing slows, I caress him with a little more pressure or speed–just enough to keep him barely awake.
“Yes,” he breathes. I stop stroking his face and he corrects himself, “Yes, Ma’am… yes, love.” He smiles an apology and squeezes my thigh.
From this position, I can see almost every inch of his smooth, pale skin, still sensitive and pink in places. As he strokes my thigh absentmindedly, his cock begins to stiffen. It’s a beautiful thing, watching his cock get hard, slowly and steadily, rising and growing by fractions of an inch with each heartbeat. He notices too, and moves his hand from my thigh to adjust himself.
“Keep your hands there, darling,” I ask. “Stroke your cock for me.”
He looks up into my eyes and smiles easily. I return his smile and admire him–hard body, smooth skin, gently stroking his cock, now fully hard. So beautiful. He lets his eyelids fall–he knows I enjoy watching him and he’s less self-conscious when he can’t see me.
He strokes his shaft tentatively, teasing, using just the tips of his fingers. I smile as I realize that he’s mimicking my technique, whether he knows it or not.
“Are you happy?” I ask.
“Of course,” he offers, eyes still closed, hand wrapped around his rigid cock, tugging gently. He glances up at me as if to ask permission. I nod in response, urging him to continue.
After watching him tease himself for a few minutes, I direct him, “stroke faster, and tell me, what exactly makes you happy?” He strokes quicker now, searching for a rhythm while trying to find an answer to my question.
“You do, Ma’am. You make me happy.” He stops stroking and looks up into my eyes, seeking approval for his response.
“No, boy. I asked you to be specific… and I didn’t tell you to stop.” He starts stroking again, awkwardly, having lost his rhythm.
“Your smile Ma’am, and your eyes. And I love it when you kiss me and hurt my cock.”
“Harder,” I direct. He jerks hard and fast now, finally finding a rhythm.
“It makes me happy when you let me lick you… your taste… your scent… when you look down at me… when you come.”
“Faster, boy…. harder. And what else makes you happy?” His words seem to fall into rhythm with his fist, pumping harder as he gets closer to release.
“…and I love it when you fuck me… and twist my cock… and tell me that I’m yours… and…”
When he begins to stammer and mangle his words, I cut him off.
“Come… Come for me baby. Come now.” I demand.
His hips jerk and his jaw clenches as he comes into his hand. For a few moments, he is motionless except for his still-throbbing cock clenched in his fist.
As his body begins to relax, I lean down and whisper in his ear, “Good boy… such a good boy.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
As he winds down, I pet him and play with his hair. Finally, his breathing slows and his head grows heavy in my lap again.