“I’ll do it,” he said. “Just relax.”
His hand circled my ankle. My breath stuttered. Carefully, he drew my right leg out straight. My skin had never felt so sensitive, so conscious of its placement in relation to everything around it. He positioned me, guiding my limbs to where he wanted them to go. I closed my eyes, letting his adjustments lull me into a state of suspended detachment. I was a marionette with nerve endings for strings, and the man I had once called my father conducted the show.
He brushed my nipple in the process of draping my arm across my chest. I gasped at the jolt of pleasure that echoed in my hips.
“You okay?” He pressed a hand to my stomach.
I nodded yes, though I was far from okay. I was on fire, in spite of the gooseflesh that pricked across my skin as though I were cold. I was a tangle of string, threads of embarrassment and arousal and a yearning to be made and unmade by this man, this maker of beautiful things.
Mason turned his attention to the fabric around my shoulders, and I used his distraction to restore my mask of calm. The skin on my stomach was still warm from where his hand had been. I inhaled deeply, filling my head with the scent of chalk and paper, paints and thinner—comforting smells, classroom smells.
Without warning, he grasped my ankles, bent my knees, and spread my legs.
Last night’s fantasies that felt far too much like memories flashed across my mind: the image of my father’s hands gliding down to stroke my clit.
A whimper caught in my throat as his very real fingers parted my pussy lips, exposing me to the air.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I was unmasked.
“Beautiful.” He exhaled the word, his gaze centered between my thighs.
Heat rushed to my face. I flinched at the sense of loss I felt as he withdrew, my clit throbbing in time with my rampant pulse. He guided my arm by the wrist, resting my palm over my mound, then left to gather his supplies.
“I know this is awkward for you,” he said, dragging a chair closer to the futon, “but I want you to touch yourself just like you would if you were alone. You can close your eyes if it helps.”
I didn’t know if it would help, but there was no way I could touch myself and look at him without having a nervous breakdown. My eyelids fluttered shut. I listened to the pounding of my heart, felt the throbbing of my pulse in my throat.
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t sigh or tap his feet.
Still, I could feel the minutes stretching like over-tuned guitar strings. When they snapped, would he send me out? Hand me my clothes like a pink slip and say, Nice try, kid?
The first time I masturbated for my ex over webcam, I almost couldn’t come. I was afraid of making weird faces or funny sounds. When I realized how quickly all of that faded into the background as soon as I began to touch myself, I was able to relax and let go. My arousal was sexy. My staccato moans and clenched teeth, the light from the screen reflecting off my slick fingers.
I began to draw small, imperceptible circles over my clit with my fingers. Wracking my brain for a fantasy, I reached for handsome celebrities, cute boys from school, chance encounters with sexy, mysterious strangers.
Knowing Mason was there and that he was watching made it hard to concentrate on anything else. It wasn’t until I pictured the man himself tossing down the sketchbook and coming to kneel on the bed that my body started to respond.
I imagined him climbing over me, bending to take my nipple into his mouth. I saw him slide his tongue down to my circling fingers, where I spread my lips and let him kiss my clit, just like he’d kissed my mouth.
Groping for my breast, I rolled my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, then dipped the first two fingers of my other hand the slightest bit inside me to wet them. I was sopping, embarrassingly so.
Somehow, the knowledge that Mason had a front-row seat to my shame only made it hotter. I pretended my slick fingers were his tongue, that the
hand around my breast was attached to his arm.
My legs trembled. My lips parted. I moaned.
Daddy...
“Stop,” he rasped, his voice like honeycomb dipped in gravel.
My eyelids floated open and my fingers stilled. I glanced at him. He squeezed the arms of the chair, knuckles glowing white, his gaze scalding.
The look on his face was not unlike the one I’d seen him don last night, lustful and penetrating. I could still picture him with his cock in his hand. The thought sent a rush of molten pleasure through my veins.
“Stay just like that.”
He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook and began drawing.