HOLY CRAPSAUCE! THREE WINNYCHAN UPDATES IN A MONTH? HAS THE WORLD GONE MAD?
The giant flashback contained in this chapter was guest written by the glorious PRINCESSEBEE, formerly named whoreoftortuga, a.k.a. the author of Dust of Life and plenty of other phenomenal TMNT, Batman, and Pirates of the Caribbean fanfics here on FFnet. Sadly, Bee stopped writing for the TMNT fandom many years ago, but her work continues to be a huge inspiration for me. I've been sitting on this gem waiting for the right moment to include it in the Talk for SO LONG, and I'm stoked to finally share it with you! So without further ado, here it is... I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did!
Happy holidays, fandom!
Mike's head was awhirl with awful alternatives. Who could it have been? Donnie, of all people! Who could he possibly have hurt? Who had said she loved him, in spite of physical differences?
Something in his gut still said "April". But that didn't make sense. There was a period where April and Casey had kept their distance – Mike had even suspected that they had been on the rocks during that time - but surely he'd have heard about it if something major had happened! If she had been hurt, surely he would have known about it!
He didn't realize he had been tuning out his brother and father until they started talking specifically about him.
"Then perhaps Michelangelo—"
"Mikey's only kissed a girl before! And even that experience sounded pretty questionable."
"Wait, what?" Mike blinked. "What'd I miss?"
Donatello waved a vague hand towards Mike. "Splinter thinks you still need this lesson."
"Who did he kiss?" Splinter was still catching up. "And… when did we learn this?"
"Earlier," Don explained breezily, like it was ancient history. "He told us a goofy story that wasn't very specific. But I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark and assume that he tried to make out with Angel and it went horribly wrong."
"I wouldn't call it... making out, exactly," Michelangelo corrected with a flinch. It was always embarassing when Don's guesses were right on the money, especially regarding personal matters. "It was more of a... you know, I would have told the story better, but whatever. It WAS pretty lame. Maybe one of the lamest moments in history. So… yeah."
"Do you expect to get another chance with her?"
"No," Mike sighed. "You're right. It was a total fluke."
"There, you see?" Don got up and tossed himself shell-down onto the couch. He stared up at the ceiling. "So let's just call the whole thing off. We can finally put an end to this nightmare – or put it off for a few more years, at least."
"Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute," Mike frowned. "What are you guys trying to say about me, exactly? Why are we calling it off for my sake?"
"Do you disagree with this?" Splinter wondered quietly. He had that annoying, knowing look in his eye as he studied his youngest son. "It would be wiser to ask him directly."
Don blew out a slow breath. His gaze slid sidewise to regard Mike. "Fine. Mikey, do you feel like you're ready to be sexually active?"
Mike's eyes widened. He looked from Don to Master Splinter. "Just like that, are you serious? You expect me to— just—"
"Yes," Master Splinter affirmed.
Mike's weighted silence earned their attention better than anything he could have said to them.
Don shifted onto his side and propped his head up in one hand, watching him intently. "Well, Mike?" he prompted. "It's a pretty straight-forward question."
"No it isn't!" Mike complained. "You'd have to be the freakin' Dolly Llama to answer that question about yourself!"
"Now you're just stalling," Don smirked.
"Damn straight! That question is not just incredibly awkward." Mike gave a pointed nod in Splinter's direction, "It's downright suicidal!"
The old rat frowned. "Michelangelo, please! I only ask for your own good. Donatello has made the point that it could be dangerous, if you wind up in a - a situation. Without being prepared."
"Dangerous?" Mike gulped. "How dangerous are we talking?" He glanced over his shoulder and looked down, wagging his stumpy tail. "Is it going to explode?"
"Michelangelo!" His sensei looked as though his patience was being strained now. "Answer the question honestly, and I swear you will not be punished for it."
Mike fell back into silence. Wheels were turning inside his mind. The more he thought about it, this had the sound of a golden opportunity. The youngest turtle's tongue darted out in response to a suddenly dry mouth. Never - NEVER in a million years – did he think he might be tempted to spill his guts about this! But he knew that Splinter was good for his word. He could admit to anything…
"I refuse to answer that question!" he insisted at last. "It's not a fair thing to ask someone. But still, you shouldn't write me off so easy. You guys are always doing that. You think I'm so naïve and clueless. Well, let me tell you a story…"
He'd dialled the number with a trembling hand.
He'd been rehearsing this moment over and over in his head for months, knew exactly what to say, just how to play it.
But when the other end was answered, he'd found himself inarticulate, struggling to force discernible words through the series of croaks and squeaks that were filling his throat.
It wasn't helped by the woman on the other end sighing impatiently and saying in a crisp tone that he was going to have to speak clearly if he expected her to understand what he wanted and how to help him.
Finally, he'd managed to stammer out that he wanted to book Mercedes that evening.
"Mercedes is all booked up for the evening," the woman said smoothly, "but we have many other lovely ladies equally beautiful and charming who would be delighted to entertain you. What sort of experience are you looking for?"
"Experience?" What sort of experience was he looking for? Wha?
After a few more uhs and ums down the line the receptionist interjected: "Is this your first time booking an escort, sir?"
"That's no problem at all. We have a few lovely girls who are very experienced with first timers." Her voice suddenly became sharp. "You do understand that the service our ladies provide is for companionship only? Sexual activity of any description is not included in the service fee."
What? He was very confused now. Escorts – they were prostitutes, right? He was sure of it! Well, the ad hadn't said, specifically, but – it was certainly suggestive –
"Really?" He squeaked. "I – I thought – "
"Of course, anything you and the lady choose to do together is what you will decide as two consenting adults and it is understood that you have paid no money to the lady on behalf of Moonlight Fantasy Escorts for any sexual activities." The receptionist interrupted, efficient but bored-sounding, as though she were reading from a script.
He wasn't entirely sure what it all meant, but had decided to go ahead with it. Way too much planning and thought had gone into this night to back out now.
He'd first come across the ad in a skin rag, soft-core porn he'd found at the dump, a great dog-eared pile of it. It was a recent magazine and the ad had read:
Looking for a beautiful date to add some spice to your evening? Try me… MERCEDES… I'm twenty-one years old, busty and affectionate, waiting to thrill you all night long. Phone Moonlight Fantasy Escorts to book me and make your night an unforgettable one!
The accompanying photograph was stunning. Caramel skin and luminous green eyes, cascading black hair with golden high-lights and a perfect face, high cheek bones, full lips and a narrow nose. She was dressed in a form-fitting and revealing gown, plunging neckline displaying an impressive cleavage.
She was everything Michelangelo had ever fantasised about.
It had taken him a good two months to save. The twenty dollars Donatello gave him from each Cowabunga Carl job had been squirrelled away, enclosed within a crisp, clean envelope then tucked between the pages of Silver Sentry #10, a comic book too valuable to be read on a regular basis – or even taken out of its protective plastic bag.
He'd rung them only once, to find out how much it was and then he'd saved. Two hours with the escort – six hundred dollars. Motel room – one hundred dollars. It had almost killed him (literally – he'd lost, like, five pounds from having such a limited supply of munchies to choose from), but he'd done it. It helped that September hit and the number of birthday gigs went up. At the two-hundred dollar mark almost halfway there and a month and a quarter gone, it occurred to him that he could schedule his own gigs. The realisation had struck him like revelation – there was absolutely no reason why not – was there? No! When he thought about it he couldn't come up with a single one (well, apart from the fact that it would be going behind Donnie's back AND keeping all the cash for himself instead of contributing it to the family BUT he did his share already which is sure more than Mikey could say for Raphie, and wasn't he allowed to have just a little fun, yes he was, darn it!) and by crossing out the lair's payphone number and writing his personal cell on the cards and flyers at a couple of different gigs (not all of them after all!), the gigs soon came chasing after him.
After that, things moved far swifter than he could've believed. Donatello didn't seem to notice that Michelangelo was reading the same comics over and over or that his intake of junk food went considerably down.
Finally, he had the lot, a thick little stack that sent a thrill through him just to look at it in his hands. And he was ready to make that call.
And Mercedes had to be booked out – of course! But he couldn't wait another night for her. Couldn't wait another night period. The receptionist had taken over the call, coaching him as through he were a small child:
"Would you like blonde, brunette or redhead?"
"B – blonde."
"Busty or petite?"
"Late teens, early twenties, late twenties?"
"Uh – teens."
"Sir, since this is your first time, may I suggest someone a bit older who will have had more experience? The younger ones can be a little bit more insensitive, lack grace in some areas."
"Oh – okay."
Finally the receptionist had decided on Vivienne, a "glamorous, gorgeous platinum blonde with a triple-D bust and a wonderful personality" who was also "friendly and understanding and would be perfect to guide you through your first Moonlight Fantasy experience to make it a mind-blowing and memorable one".
"She'll be there at nine sharp, sir."
His throat was dry.
"Are you there, sir?" Her voice was sharp again. "If you change your mind, please do phone to cancel so as not to waste Vivienne's time. All right?"
"I'll be here." He croaked and hung up.
He sat on the chair in the motel room, hands gripping the seat, sitting up ramrod straight. Boy Splinter would be pleased to see me now, went curiously round his head as he recalled all the times he'd been scolded for slouching.
The room was tiny and it smelled funny. Like mothballs and some sort of cleaning agent and something else, pungent and cloying. Kind of reminded him of – naaaah. But he'd bet he wasn't the only one who'd used this room for this purpose. He drummed his fingers on the underside of the seat. Ohboyohboyohboyohboy.
If Don knew where he was, he'd be turtle soup.
The lights were turned down way low. He wanted them off altogether but he thought that might frighten her. He'd turn them off after she arrived.
He was dressed in big, baggy sweatpants and top, a beanie pulled down tight on his head, a scarf wrapped around his neck, covering the lower half of his face.
He was going to be careful about it.
A bunch of street-vendor flowers wrapped in paper lay on the scratched surface of the desk under the window. He'd thought about champagne but he had no I.D. and there was no way he was asking Casey – besides he thought it might seem a little – try hard. But the flowers – well, he thought he should get her something. After all. And every girl liked flowers, right?
A rap on the door startled him out of his thoughts.
This was it.
He tried to get out of the seat, to stand up and walk to the door, but found he couldn't. He was stuck there, as surely as if he'd fallen for one of his own pranks – superglue on Don's computer chair – but he hadn't done that for a couple of years at least – not since –
The knock came again, louder this time.
She'll go if you don't answer the door, dweeb.
That finally propelled him up and across the room, grasping the door by its flimsy handle and pulling it open, stepping back into the shadows of the room.
She stood there, smiling, peering at him in the darkness, backlit by the hall light.
"Hi there, I'm Vivienne. Are you Mike?"
Mike had sounded more mature than Mikey.
"Yeah – " he rasped and cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes, please come in."
She entered and he shut the door behind her, moved around her to the desk. She was looking the room up and down, corner to corner and he hemmed.
"Sorry it's not a nicer place."
She half-smiled. "Believe me, I've been in worse."
He realised that she wasn't checking out the décor. She was sussing out the room. Her eyes took in the window, noted the fire escape, ran down the edge of the bed – not enough room for anyone to hide under there – assessed the flickering shadows of each corner – peered into the tiny bathroom, considered the possibility of someone being in the little shower stall. Only then – and it took only a few seconds – did she come fully into the room.
He proffered the flowers to her, shyly, heart beating hard against his plastron, not quite daring to raise his eyes. She took them with a luminous smile.
"Thank you – what a lovely gesture. You want me to stay for two hours, right?"
Speechlessly, he nodded.
"Okay, no problem." She paused, waited. He stared at her, silent. She raised her brows at him and he felt a sudden panic course through him. Oh no, she expected him to do something - but what? She laughed a little and smiled kindly at him. "So, that's six hundred dollars for two hours."
He fumbled in the pocket of his sweat shirt, found the rolled up wad of notes and handed it over to her, hoping she didn't notice his sweaty palms. She counted it quickly and rolled it up again. "Perfect. I just need to call the office and let them know I'm here."
He nodded again but she wasn't looking at him. She put her purse down on the desk and shrugged out of her coat. He realised he should've helped her with that – too late now – and anxiously wrung his hands as she fished her mobile phone out of her purse and dialled, sauntering over to the window to look out at the buzzing street below.
He took the opportunity to examine her closely.
Underneath her coat she wore a tight red dress. It fell off her shoulders and came down low on her breasts, clung to her body and stopped just above her knees. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't slim either. Her platinum blonde hair fell to her shoulders and was styled with a forties wave to it. Her face was round, her eyes large and green with sharp, arched black eyebrows, a turned up nose and very full, very red lips. Her enormous breasts swelled above her dress like ripe fruit, quivering slightly with each little move she made. Her waist nipped in and her hips flared out and he saw, as she spoke to the person on the other end of the call, that there was a soft curve to her belly. Her legs were long and shapely and her pointy high heels were the same red as her dress.
She was beautiful, but she was no Mercedes.
He was aware of a dull sort of disappointment echoing at the back of his chest. He might only have one opportunity to do this and he'd really wanted –
"So, " she said, snapping her phone shut and tucking it back into her purse. "Kimmy says this is your first time. You nervous?"
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a sly smile curving her lip upwards and he felt his heart pick up pace.
He could tough-talk it. Throw on some of Raphie's machismo, grab his crotch, square his shoulders and say how he wasn't afraid of no ho. But the little smile and the twinkle in her eye was undoing him.
"I think I'm gonna hurl," he confided jokingly and she half-laughed, striding past him and over to the sagging bed where she sat, crossing her legs over.
"You want to come sit by me?"
He did. He wanted to very much. But he couldn't. The success of this whole encounter depended on it.
So instead he shook his head, pulled the chair out from under the desk, shaking hands fumbling clumsily to get it positioned just right.
"I'm just gonna sit over here." He sat down, his knees pressed together, hands clasping them.
She was looking at him with something like amusement, leaning back on the palms of her hands. "Not a lot you can do from over there, honey."
He coughed, tapped his heels on the gritty carpet. "'S cool. I'm happy over here. And you look fine over there. I think this arrangement will work out really well." His voice came out as a strangled whine. Shit shit shit shit. You sound like such a loser, nimrod.
Suddenly understanding dawned on her face. "Hey, this is your first time, isn't it?"
He knew what she meant. After a long moment, he nodded shyly.
"Is that weird?" He asked and she laughed, rolled over onto her stomach on the bed, ankles in the air.
"No way, honey. Lots of guys do it. They just want to get it over and done with and figure it's just easier and less complicated to hire a prostitute, you know? You're not the first virgin I've seen. Don't sweat it. "
Her voice was kind and he felt instantly better. "That's a relief." He supposed it didn't matter so much that she wasn't his fantasy girl. She was really nice and her boobs were pretty damn huge –
"So how about you come over here and let me give you a massage." She looked over at him from lowered lashes and patted the mattress beside her stretched out form. "Help you relax a little."
He felt his tail stir, drop an inch or two. He clenched his muscles, holding it up with a supreme force of will. Dude, she just got here – don't lose all control yet!
"I – I think I'm just going to stay here. If it's cool. I – I just – I don't think – I mean, I don't want – that is, I can't – can't really – you know – do the – the – you know."
She was nodding, an expression of sympathy adopted on her features. "Look, a lot of first timers are afraid it's going to be a non-event, you know, it'll all be over in a few minutes – but trust me, I'm an expert at this and I will make sure you have a great – "
"No," he cut her off, feeling slightly desperate. "I mean - I really can't. I just – just wanna talk. And stuff. It just – look, trust me – it just wouldn't work. I'm a little – um – that is – "
A slightly puzzled look was creasing her brow but otherwise she kept her expression neutral. Finally he burst out:
"I'm a little different."
Now her eyebrows were very high up on her head. "Oh honey, you don't need to worry about that. I have seen all types over the years and nothing shocks me. You can rest assured that you will have a non-judgemental experience with me." Her voice had become brisk and professional, as though she were presenting a product. Which, she was.
Suddenly, he wanted to.
He wanted to so much.
He wanted to just stride over to her, pull her dress from her shoulders, rip his sweats off and let his cock emerge. He had to thrust his hands in his pockets, draw back against the chair, chin to plastron, scarf hitching up to muffle his mouth, looking resolutely away.
"Just – just trust me." He managed to say through gritted teeth. "And uh – uh – condoms wouldn't fit me, anyway." He'd seen those tiny, flaccid, fragile-looking things. Mikey wasn't exactly sure how he'd stack up against other mutant turtles, but he was pretty sure condoms were a no-go for him.
Unimpressed, she raised an eyebrow and sat up on her knees, lifted a hand to her mouth, withdrawing a small clear object. Moving it around in her hands, he saw that it was an unwrapped condom. She brought one foot around in front of her, still clad in its bright red stiletto heel. Stretching the condom open with both hands, in one swift motion she covered the whole of her foot up to the heel with the condom, then grinned at him.
"Wow!" he couldn't help exclaiming and she chuckled. Somehow her nonchalance, her easy self-assurance, was easing him.
"But, anyway - ," he said, still with his hands gripped together hard in his pockets, casting his gaze back down. " – it's just really not an – an option, I guess."
She shrugged. "It's up to you, honey. We spend the time the way you want to. I just want to make sure you're happy with that decision and won't call up the agency later complaining you didn't get what you paid for."
"Oh I wouldn't do that!" he assured her. "I swear, I'll be happy if we just talk and maybe – well. Maybe you could like – um – " his tongue had become thick and furry in his mouth, the words getting lost amongst its fibres and she offered him a saucy, knowing grin.
"Maybe I could give you a bit of show?" she suggested teasingly and he'd felt the blood rush to his cheeks, making them hot.
"Y-yeah." And now that it had been said, he didn't feel so nervous. "So – uh – why did you have the condom in your mouth?"
She grinned. "Well, I think I can trust you with that little secret." She reached into her purse and withdrew a small foil packet, tore it open and pulled out a new condom. She tucked it into her cheek, rummaged around in her purse some more and pulled out a long, pink and purple vibrator. Lifting it to her lips she pushed it into her mouth and when she pulled it out again, he saw that she'd deftly covered it with the condom.
Eyes widening, he applauded her appreciatively and she'd laughed, a rich, throaty sound that sent a thrill through him.
"That way it isn't even up for discussion – most guys don't even notice."
"You bet. Well, guys tend not to notice much when they're getting a blowjob." She'd winked at him and inside his tail, he felt his cock twitch. I wish…
"So… Mike…" she set the vibrator on the bed next to her. "What did you want to talk about?" Her green eyes flickered to his face, still muffled by the scarf and obscured in the half-light, and her gaze was steady and sure, her fingertips lightly stroking the length of the toy. Okay, his tail was definitely descending now and there was going to be nothing he could do to stop it… her eyes were so piercing and her face was so pretty, and man, her boobs were so damn huge.
He leaned hastily over the desk and fumbled with the light switch on the lamp. "I'm just going to turn this off – is that okay? I'll just feel better."
The room was plunged into shadows, the only light now coming from the blinking neon sign outside, red and green and yellow, washing the room in brief, and stark flashes.
"You don't have to be nervous about the way you look." Her voice was tender and kind and he glanced over at her sharply.
"How did you – "
She chuckled, stretched out on the bed again. "The way you're all covered up. Sitting so far from me. Lights down. At first I thought you were a cop, but it's obvious you're not. I got a regular client who's a double amputee, another who's a paraplegic and another who has had third degree burns to sixty percent of his body. It doesn't matter what you look like." Her face was fully illuminated in a brief flash of red, her expression was soft and gentle, lips curved in a sweet little smile. There was something – something almost motherly about her and he wanted to go to her, lay his head against her (awesomely) massive cleavage. He knew he couldn't. And once again he felt the prick of disappointment.
"I have a pretty severe skin condition." He lied quickly. "I'm just more comfortable this way."
She let it go after that and they moved back to what he wanted to talk about.
He'd planned this as well. He had questions. Lots of them. About girls. And about what to do with girls.
"I hope you don't mind."
She rolled over onto her back, kicking off her stilettos, laughing. She was so organic, so soft and full. He was near hypnotised by the fluidity of her movement, the way her breasts undulated with her motion, how the locks of her hair slid through her fingers as she pushed one hand through it. "I'm the best sorta person to ask, sweetie. I don't mind at all!"
And finally it had all come pouring out. What to do with girls. What he'd seen in magazines or in movies. How to act with a girl if you happened to be out with one. How to ask a girl out. What it was like to be a girl.
And as the word girl came up again and again he became ever more intensely aware that he was in a room with an actual, real, live, breathing girl. A sexy girl. A sexy, sexually available girl. Michelangelo had met lots of sexy girls, comparatively really. But none of them had ever been available. To him, at any rate. But this one was. For the princely sum of six hundred dollars he had bought the ability to have sex with her and what was he doing? Sitting in a chair several feet away, in the dark, hands in pockets and face muffled, sporting a painfully hard erection that had him continuously shifting in his seat and completely, utterly, devastatingly unable to do anything about it.
And then he'd started asking about her. It was good he hadn't brought champagne; she didn't drink. Or take drugs. Or even smoke. By day she was a Project Manager with a major corporation. She'd worked in the sex industry for twelve years and with the money she'd made owned two properties in Manhattan and had investments that returned nicely. She was a strict vegan and wouldn't even wear leather shoes. She used to demonstrate with PETA. She went overseas every year to a tropical country. She collected Elvis records. She tried to have an orgasm with every client. Made the job more fun and was an ego-boost for them. She talked so confidently, was so natural the way she moved and shifted on the bed, he was quite taken with her, her lack of resemblance to Mercedes becoming less and less noticeable, the slight plumpness of her figure, the film of hardness on her face that indicated that she was older than the twenty-seven she claimed, the dark roots just beginning to show in her hairline – it all faded out, aided by the darkness of the room and the moody blink of the neon and soon he was dreamily thinking he'd never seen anything quite so beautiful.
"I tried to book Mercedes," he admitted sheepishly. "But I'm glad I got you instead."
"Thank you, honey." She said but then laughed very hard.
"What?" defensiveness crept into his voice and she shook her head.
"I'm not supposed to tell you, but I will. Mercedes doesn't exist. She's just a stock model photo the agency has bought rights to use and they've made up an "identity" to go with it. So when the clients ring up, "Mercedes" is always booked up but, not to worry, " she mockingly took on the tone of the efficient receptionist, "we've got lots of ladies equally as lovely as her who'll be happy to make your evening a special one! They've got a few different ones in different publications."
He wasn't sure how to take that. Somehow, he felt cheated – deceived. Mercedes – that gorgeous dream girl – wasn't real? So he said nothing, sat there silently with a wounded feeling in his chest and she'd glanced at her mobile phone and clicked her tongue.
"Hate to say this Mike, but we've only got a half-hour left. How about you get a bit of bang for your buck, hrm?"
And his throat was dry again, his palms instantly damp in his pockets.
"Okay." He squeaked and she'd sat up, got to her feet, smiling indulgently.
"You're cute," she crooned. She fiddled with the cheap alarm clock radio next to the bed until she'd found a station playing danceable music, a mix of old sixties tunes, crackling and tinny. She undulated to the music, her curvaceous figure throwing an attractive silhouette against the wall. She raised her arms slowly, swaying on her bare feet, her hands moving up through her hair. His hard-on, which had softened during their chat, was suddenly flaring up again, fierce and pushing hard against the seat of his sweats, angrily demanding attention.
But he had to keep his hands in his pockets.
Slowly, the escort unzipped her dress and slid it down over her shoulders, pushed it down around her waist and hips, turning in a circle, swaying her hips back and forth so that the dress fell to the carpet in a heap. She kicked it away, ran her hands up over her stomach, her breasts, back down again. She was wearing a tiny red bra and g-string. In the flare and fade of neon, she seemed slimmer, her stretchmarks invisible, her skin peachy and flawless.
He watched her, unable to blink, aware that his eyeballs were becoming more and more dry, like his mouth which felt like it was choked up with sand. He could feel his cock pulsing hot and slowly, he shifted, the rickety chair creaking beneath his weight.
Se turned away from him, undoing her bra, letting the straps fall off her shoulders, glancing back over one. He hadn't thought it possible, but his cock got harder then as the strap lifted, baring her back completely. She turned back to him, holding the bra so that it continued to cover her ample breasts, teasing him now with her smile. Oh man – what if he – in his pants – how humiliating would that be?
She turned away again, tossing the bra to one side, then dropped her hands to fiddle with the sides of her g-string, teasing it slowly down and off her hips, over her round thighs, her shapely bottom now also completely bare.
When she'd kicked the tiny scrap of material away and turned to him, completely naked, he'd made an audible noise, a strange, longing, choking little whimper and she continued to dance, smiling and moving in rhythmic beat to the music. She was so beautiful. Sheer perfection. Better, more vivid, softer than anything he'd seen in 2D before.
So captivated was he, but the way her breasts softly jiggled as she moved, the curve of her belly, the strip of dark hair curling down her pubis, and, below that the tormenting little crevice he could barely drag his eyes from, that before he was aware she was doing it, she'd danced over to him, mere inches from him in fact, turning around and around right in front of him. He wouldn't even need to stretch his arm to touch her. She turned her back to him and bent over, offering him a full and complete view of what she kept between her legs. He'd always hoped, and sort of even expected one day he'd get the opportunity in full technicolour 3D, but somehow he couldn't quite believe the day had come. He almost lost control then, but managed to hold on, drive it back down, not humiliate himself just yet. She turned back around, swung her breasts in his face, large dark nipples so close to his lips he could practically taste them.
But she respected his wishes and moved back against the bed, stretching out onto it so that when she spread her legs either side he had the most clear, the most glorious view.
Reaching back up behind her she located the vibrator and switched it on, running it down the length of her body and making strangled little gasps. He gritted his teeth hard, balled his fists in his pockets, dug his toes into the carpet. Oooooooh boy.
The vibrator slid over her hips, around her inner thighs, whirring away over the soft beat of the radio. As he watched move ever higher, to the soft, secret place now fully exposed to him, he became aware that it was building up, that it was right on the verge of breaking free, bubbling out of his throat no matter how tightly he pressed his mouth shut, dropped his soft palette, lifted his tongue to block his throat. That damned noise, that thoughtless traitor.
Inwardly he flailed, struggled wildly to hold it back even as he felt a thunderous pulsing through his cock, watching the vibrator in its plunging exploration, suddenly acutely, wildly, vividly aware of what it would feel like if it was him doing that to her, held snug and tight in her warm, moist depths. Her moans were growing louder and her free hand was rubbing roughly at the little ball above her entrance, the one that seemed to hold a lot of importance to girls. Just as her cries reached a crescendo and erupted into one long, hearty moan. A sharp, loud burr escaped his throat, a peal of chattering he couldn't suppress, and he barely got a bunched up handful of sweatshirt up to his mouth in time though it barely helped, the noise sounded horrifically loud to him. But concern was washed aside as he felt that familiar, yet endlessly novel, ecstasy run through him like a wave of pins and needles.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, the neon continuing to flash outside the window, he aware of the dampness in his sweats and the rich, pungent smell of her in the closed air.
Then she'd sat up, giggling a little, unashamed and natural in her nakedness, winking at him.
"Hows that for a happy ending?" she laughed, and went to gather her clothes, languidly stepping into her g-string and fastening her bra back up, bending at the waist to ensure the cups captured her breasts fully. Funny – he'd never considered girls might need to do that.
She picked up her dress and then hesitated, the garment dangling in her hand. She chewed on her lower lip a second then turned to him, a slightly curious and baffled expression on her face.
"That's a rather unique… um… mating call you got there." His heart lurched into his throat and as the wave of pleasure receded, he thought he might just throw it up. Oh no…
And he'd otherwise been so careful!
He could say nothing, paralysed as he was, and it seemed she took his silence for offence and hastened to reassure him, compassion etching her brow:
"Not that there's anything wrong with it, I didn't mean that… just I've never really heard that sort of thing before… but you know, it's a wonderful world full of variety out there…" she was speaking rapidly, seemingly concerned she might've irreparably wounded his fragile virginal ego whilst at the same time convincing herself the noise wasn't so out of the ordinary. He felt relief and managed a weak grin she couldn't see.
"'S cool. Just feels like the right way to express myself. It's a compliment really!"
She smiled at him, clearly relieved and then slipped back into her dress and zipped it up, kicking out her stiletto heels and stepping into them as she did so. She straightened, smoothing her hair back over her ears, beaming at him.
"Hope that was what you were looking for, honey."
He swallowed, and his heart went back down. "Thank you, V-Vivienne. That – that was very special." And a warm, wonderful relief overcame him, pushing a great exhalation from his lungs.
It wasn't until after she'd gone he realised she'd forgotten the flowers.