Massaging gently. He was sitting next to me. I touched my fingertips into his jeans, the seam in the denim rough. I intentionally caught my fingernails in the seam, just to make the pants move a little. Just a tease.I teased him for about half an hour, running my fingers over his cock, his pants tight. His pants were tight to start with, and I knew they were getting uncomfortable. He unzipped his pants, allowing his hard cock to push through, the fabric of his boxers tight. I stroked him through the fabric. His boxers were cotton. Expensive, designer label.I allowed my index finger to slip through the hole in the front of his boxers, lightly brushing his shaft then the head of his hard cock. I kept stroking him through the fabric of his boxer shorts. I looked up, my head was rested against his chest. He had his eyes closed. The television was playing for its own sake.I paused for a moment, I pulled my hand away. His chest tensed. His legs tensed. I licked my fingers. Then I slipped. In lilting jazzy riffs of moans and little pattering breaths; in low, agonized releases, in snarling, animal howls she was a singer. Awaiting a man to sing to. Thinking of the man she awaited, often in the nights, her fingers would wind their way along her skin, over the slopes of her hips, to the center of her thighs; wet lips there that clasped at her hands, sucking them in slowly, a sharp twisting grind of her clitoris against the back of her palm. Thinking of the man she awaited, her mind went all Art Deco; herself a goddess draped in velvet and ermine, gigantic embracing hat akimbo, a svelte hound beside her on its studded leash. Thinking of the man she awaited, poetry ranged through her mind like stray remembrances of beauty and desire. The silence of the night coaxed her voice to echo there. The canyon below was deserted; lightless; promising with deep shadow and revealing with fronds of moonlight. "Blue..." she sang. "Blue night in a blue city girl I’ve been known to accept.
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