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We’re riding in the back of a cab from the degree ceremony at the university to a hotel in town, where we’re staying the night to celebrate. You haven’t changed; you’re still wearing your black gown and cap. You hired them, but said you might keep them. You might buy them from the hire company — a souvenir from the ceremony and our celebration. When we’d stood in the wind outside the university, waiting for the cab, the gown blew up around your legs. You don’t seem to mind. You clasp the gown firmly across your breasts and around your neck.
We kiss in the cab. We don’t care if the driver watches us. We haven’t met for some time; months. We’d sent e-mails, text messages and cards promising ourselves a celebration when you got your degree. Now, I’m hungry for the smell of your perfume and the texture of your lips; all of your lips. I cannot stop myself. I can show no restraint. I have to touch your legs. My hand pushes your gown up, not slowly, seductively, but coarsely. I want to touch as much of your flesh as I can. But my hand meets yours, which pushes me away, stopping my climb towards your thighs.
You say I must wait. You don’t care if the driver can see us, in her rear-view mirror, kissing, but you don’t want her — yes, it’s a woman driving the cab — seeing me groping your legs. You say it’s common. I say she can’t see what I’m doing. You say you don’t care; I must be patient. It won’t be long. I slump back in the seat, cursing the traffic jams, waiting for the journey to end.
I ask you a question: ‘You said you might not wear anything under that gown today. Are you? Wearing anything, I mean. Or not wearing anything?’
You answer: ‘I’ve told you. Be patient. We’ll be there soon. Then you might find out. Or not.’
I ask another question: ‘You mean there’s a possibility I might not find out?’
‘Yes, there’s always that possibility. Nothing is certain. Things happen; things get in the way. How many times have our plans fallen apart? So yes, you might not find out.’
I lean across to finger the collar of your gown, to try to push it open a little. You don’t seem to be wearing much under it. I can’t see the collar of a blouse. When I was touching your legs, trying to reach your thighs, I could tell you weren’t wearing a skirt. There seemed to be just your black gown and your flesh. That’s what it felt like. It felt good.
The hotel room is OK. It was just a hotel room. Double bed — I’d asked for that. Bedside tables. A writing desk. A television. A tea-tray and a bowl of biscuits. Magnolia walls. Chintz curtains. A trouser press. I wonder about the hotel guests who use trouser presses. And a bathroom with a proper tub, not a shower stall. I’d asked for that, too. I like proper baths, tubs big enough for two. But I’m not interested in giving the room a star rating; not interested in the view. The only view I want is of you. You, with your hired cap and gown off.
You say you need the bathroom.
‘Can I come in with you?’
You say I couldn’t. I ask why, but you shrug and say you can’t explain. You aren’t ready for that.
‘Not ready? After all this time?’ I’d asked her before, and she’d always said no. She couldn’t do that. Not yet, anyway.
‘Maybe later. Some other time, perhaps. But not now.’
I don’t press her; don’t make a fuss about it. Not tonight. It’s her degree ceremony; her celebration.
You tell me: ‘Undress while you’re waiting for me, why don’t you. Just sit on the bed. I won’t be long.’
Which is what I do. I’m sitting on the bed when you come out of the bathroom. You kiss me and reach between my legs, pushing them apart. My penis swells in your hand. You pull the skin down from the leaking tip.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s an erection,’ I said, ‘of the first degree.’
‘Why is it so hard?’
‘That’s how you’ve made illegal bahis it. And I’ve been thinking about your body under that black gown.’
‘And wondering what I’m wearing under it, if anything?’
‘Yes, and that too, of course.
The ‘phone rings as I reach up to open your gown.
I ask you to ignore it. You say you must.
‘You said something might happen. If you answer it, we’ll find out that something’s happened. And then what I wanted to happen here — what you want to happen — won’t.’
You walk across to the phone, pick it up and listen. Then you said: ‘No, thanks.’
I ask: ‘What was that?’
You say: ‘Nothing’s happened. They wanted to know if we want dinner.’
‘And you said no?’
‘Yes. You heard me. I don’t want dinner. Do you?’
‘No, I don’t either. I don’t want to eat.’
‘Nothing at all? Nothing to eat?’
‘Well, yes, I want to eat you. Would that be OK?’
‘That would be OK, I think. But I might want to eat you too.’
I say I think that could be arranged. I think we could arrange ourselves appropriately. You come over to me and push at my shoulders, telling me to lay back, to lay back on the bed. You swing a leg over mine and sit on me, so that your gown covers my thighs. You straddle; I am straddled. I reach up to open your gown, but you stop me.
You fall and rise, slide up and down. Your belly teases my penis. I say it seems as if you aren’t wearing anything. It was a brave thing to do; to get your degree wearing only a gown.
You say you were wearing a cap, too.
What’s this? You shift, and I’m being rubbed not by your flesh but by what seems like silk. Whatever, they are panties. I know it. Or, much the same thing, my penis knows it. You stroke me with your panties and press hard on me. It’s wet down there, between your thighs.
There is another interruption; a knock on the door.
I shout: ‘Yes, what is it?’
A voice, a woman’s, says: ‘Excuse me. Do you want extra towels?’
I ask you: ‘You’ve been in the bathroom. Do we want more towels?’
‘No, we don’t.’
I tell the woman: ‘No, thanks. It’s OK. Thanks.’
You press down on me again, then stop and say: ‘Did you bring any wine with you? You usually do.’
‘No. I didn’t get any. Sorry. Didn’t have time.’
‘Do you want a drink? We could get some from room service.’
‘OK. Let’s have a drink. Ask for a bottle of white.’
You stretch across to reach the bedside ‘phone and order the wine. You say you want it well chilled. I could still feel you pressing hard on me.
You say: ‘I’ve an idea.’
‘Great, but right now I don’t want your ideas, Professor Cleverclogs.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I haven’t got a degree in it, but I’ve studied Anglo-Saxon English. I want my prick in your cunt . . . that’s all. No ideas.’
‘Here’s my idea. When the wine comes, let’s invite in the person who brings it.’
‘That’s obviously what you want to do.’
‘It’s tempting. Aren’t you tempted? It might be a pretty girl. You’d like that.’
‘Or an ugly man. Or just a man. No, I wouldn’t like that.’
‘It would be a gamble. Anyway, she — or he — might decline. They might not be interested. Might not like the idea.’
I caress your breasts through your black gown and say: ‘Can’t see anyone not wanting these.’
You press down hard on my penis. ‘I can’t see any woman not wanting you between her legs.’
‘You’re too kind. But it might be a man. I couldn’t have that — ugly bastard or handsome swine.’
There is a knock on the door. It is the wine, and the man or woman who’d brought it.
You say: ‘You don’t want to, do you? Even if I do? You won’t let me have what I want.’
‘You would if it’s a man; I might if it’s a woman. So it wouldn’t work. Let’s settle for the wine; today anyway. Sorry.’
You get illegal bahis siteleri up, open the door, say thanks, and come back to sit on the bed with the wine and a bottle-opener.
I asked: ‘Man or woman?’
‘It doesn’t matter now. What’s the point in knowing? Get up and open the wine.’
‘Lend me your gown.’
‘No, I don’t want to take it off. Just get up and open the bottle.’
I wonder if this is a mild punishment for not agreeing to invite a guest to our celebration. I get up and take the wine across to the table by the window. I put the bottle between my legs and uncorked it.
You say: ‘That’s a very chilled bottle. I hope it doesn’t, doesn’t, you know . . .’
‘Hope it doesn’t what?’ I answer, knowing what she means. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know. Of course you do. It’s obvious.’
I say it isn’t obvious to me.
‘I mean I hope it doesn’t have an adverse effect, a diminishing effect, on . . . you.’
‘How could a chilled bottle have an adverse effect on . . . me?’
‘Well, look at you. Look where the bottle is. It’s pressed up against . . . you. See?’
‘Ah, I see what you mean. I know your degree is in French, but why can’t you talk in plain English; plain Anglo-Saxon.’
I put the now opened bottle on the bedside table and say: ‘You mean, the chilled bottle might shrivel my dick. Sure, it could do that.’
‘I don’t think dick is Anglo-Saxon. Possibly Anglo-American. But stuff the linguistics. Come here. Come closer. Let me see if it has.’
I stand in front of you. You put your hands on my hips, pull me towards you, look up at me and then down to examine my prick.
You said: ‘Oh, it has. It’s smaller and softer. I’m sorry. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea.’
‘Can you do anything about it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can you make it better? Restore it?’
You caress my balls with one hand and stroke my penis with the other; very gently, from the tip to the base, and in a minute or so it begins to harden and grow. Still holding my balls, pressing them softly, you take me in your mouth and close your lips around the shaft. You don’t suck or lick it. You just held it there, still, on your tongue, in your mouth. I want to push it in and pull it out, that’s my instinct, but I resist it. I know that if I surrendered I would very quickly come in your mouth. You have restored it; to keep me in your mouth, you had to sit up a little. Back to full strength, it was no longer resting on your tongue.
I say: ‘This is exquisite. Thanks.’
I run my fingers through your hair and rub your neck. I bend slightly to hold your breasts. You gasped, though I didn’t know if this was because you needed to open your mouth for air or because of the sudden touch of my fingers, through your black gown, on your nipples.
Anyway, I think you needed air; and I’m worried that I might come. I say: ‘Release me, please. It’s time we had a drink.’
You say you’re cold: ‘I’m getting into bed.’
You pull back the cover, twist around and into the bed, and pull the cover up. It’s startlingly white against the black gown pulled tight around you.
‘Aren’t you going to take that off?’
‘No. I’ve earned the right to wear it. Worked bloody hard for it. You haven’t, so you, my naked servant, must obey my every command, the first of which is: bring me wine in bed.’
I fill two glasses and hand one to you.
You say: ‘I have another command. Pick up your glass and put your thing into it; all the way into the wine.’
I pick up my glass, but stop. ‘I know I must obey you, but it’s not possible.’
‘Not possible? Why?’
‘Anatomically. Not possible physically.’
You say: ‘You don’t want to do as I asked?’, although I’m sure you know why it isn’t possible:
‘Look, I’ll show you.’
‘Yes, show me.’
I hold the glass canlı bahis siteleri in front of me, in front of my penis. I say: ‘I have an erection. You have given me this fine erection. I can’t dip it into the glass. It won’t bend’ I emphasize the word dip, press my penis down as far as it would go, which wasn’t very far. I say: ‘If I held the glass at the angle needed, the wine would spill out.’
‘I see what you mean. That was a very informative demonstration . . . of the laws of gravity and the inflexibility of the male anatomy. Anyway, I can see that you were willing. OK. Go to the bathroom, bring out one of the towels, put it on the floor where you’re standing, push a clean handkerchief into the wine and wrap the hanky around your penis. Wrap it around tightly. I’m sure that experience won’t be unfamiliar to you. I take you’ve got a clean handkerchief?’
I do as you ask.
‘Good. I liked watching you do that. Now, stand closer to the bed so that I can reach you. I’ll take my first drink from your cock.’
Leaning across, you put an arm around my buttocks, pull me to you and suck the wine from the handkerchief.
I ask: ‘Is the wine OK?’
‘It’s good. And, though it’s not often written about, this is the best way to take chardonnay.’
Pulling the white bed-cover back, I opened your black gown.
‘Just as I suspected, the topless graduate. Good. Now I’ll show you another way to drink wine.’
You say: ‘Are you surprised?’
‘By what I’m wearing? Or not wearing?’
‘No, I knew.’
‘Before. When I touched them before. It was obvious you weren’t wearing bra, anyway. Couldn’t feel any wires, or stiff bits.’
Pressing my wrapped penis between your thumb and forefinger, you say: ‘No, you couldn’t. But I can. I can feel a stiff bit.’
I cup your breasts and push them together. I bend to kiss them and suck your stiffening nipples, and as I bent low over you my penis grazes your panties, coming to rest on your belly.
You say: ‘You’re wet. It’s sticky.’
‘Yes, I can’t help it.’
‘I know. I know you can’t.
I sit up. With my finger, I trace a line down from your neck, between your breasts and along your belly to the top of your panties. I slide them down at your hips so that I can see your light brown, curly hair, leaving a narrow band of fabric covering your velvet slit.
I say: ‘I’m thirsty now. It’s my turn to have a drink.’
I take your glass of wine and pour it first over your crinkly hair and then over the band of cloth. I pour the whole glass. I suck the wine from your hair and lift your thighs, pushing them apart to scoop the wine from your panties. I suck, then push my tongue into you, through the silk — I guess it’s silk — inside you as far as I can. Your back arches, your hands push my head into your crotch. I could taste the wine and the juice from your sex. I’m drunk on this cocktail.
You try to push your panties down. I stop you and reach for the scissors I’d put by the bed. I put them there while you were in the bathroom.
I say: ‘Don’t. I’ll cut them.’
‘No, don’t do that. They were expensive.’
‘I’ll give you the money. Buy another pair. Buy two pairs.’
I cut them at the side, pull the strip of moist silk away, push my hands under your buttocks to lift you and buried my face in you. I pull back and rise up. I’m desperate to be inside you. Then I am. After three or four thrusts — I know it’s too quick, it’s not fair on you — I come in your dark, warm channel. I think you did, too, but I’m not sure. I was never sure with you.
We get up later, when it’s dark. Gang of drunken kids have taken over the city streets. You take your gown off and laid it on the bed.
You say: ‘Look at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s stained. Wine and your semen. And . . .
‘And . . .?
‘Me, I suppose.’
‘What will you do? With the gown?
You say: ‘I’ll keep it. Buy it, I think. I might need it again. I’m starting another degree course next year. That might mean another celebration. I’ll take the cap back, though.’
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32