“Oh snap, sorry. Of course, you hope I’ll suck.”

He groaned again. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“No.” I laughed, because I couldn’t help it, wishing I could touch him but he was holding my wrists. “I’m not. I just…I just want to make you feel good.”

He didn’t lift his head. “Right. You want to give me a blow job after I made you feel like shit this afternoon, and you still don’t forgive me for it. Because that makes sense.”

I didn’t want to tell him that the reason I hadn’t forgiven him yet was because he obviously didn’t trust me. Him not trusting me to put his penis in my mouth was evidence enough. I thought it was a truth universally acknowledged that all men love blow jobs, beer, and again, blow jobs. Who turns down a blow job? Martin Untrusting Sandeke, that’s who.

I huffed. “Listen, Sandeke. I would like to place your very picturesque penis in my mouth. Yes or no?”

He groaned, buried his head in my neck, bit me.

I bent my head to the side reflexively, little waves of wonderfulness spreading through me originating from where his mouth loved and tortured my neck.

“Yes or no?” I squeaked.

He lifted himself up, planking above me. His erection pressed into my belly and I tried not to squirm because I knew that would likely set him off again.

“Why are you doing this to me?” His tone was subdued, but his eyes glared menacingly.

“Yes or no?”

He swallowed, his gaze moving in a deliberate trail from my eyes to my mouth, neck, then breasts.

“Fine,” he said, and I could tell he didn’t think I’d actually do it. “But you have to take your shirt off.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to swallow this time. If you swallow your first time you’ll never go down on me again, because cum tastes nasty.”

“And you know this how?”

“Girls tell me so. Lots and lots of girls.”

Now he was just being crude, trying to push me away instead of giving me an opportunity to demonstrate I was trustworthy. But I was stubborn.

I lifted my chin and asked, “I still don’t understand why I need to take my shirt off.”

“Because I like seeing my cum on your beautiful tits.”

If he was trying to freak me out, gross me out, or shock me, his words had the opposite effect. My lungs filled with fire and my breath hitched. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I repeated the words he’d already used on me twice.

“Don’t tease me,” I whispered.

His eyes widened as they searched mine. I’d surprised him again. Wide eyed, mouth slightly parted, looking at me like I was a sexy alien creature, Martin released my wrists and lay back on the bed.

I sat up again, pulling my shirt off and arranging myself near his middle. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. I guessed this was a byproduct of trying not to touch me.

I bent forward and reached for his shaft with one hand, holding his erection still because it was jumping, straining as I came closer. I licked my lips, breathing on him, and he groaned. He sounded so tortured. I felt a desperate spike to ease his suffering so I opened my mouth and slid my lips and tongue over his penis, accepting him into my mouth, suckling him.

He cursed—a steady stream of panting expletives intermixed with my name.

I moved up and down, remembering a porn movie I’d watched with Sam last semester while eating seasonally appropriate pumpkin-spiced kettle corn. Sam spent twenty minutes critiquing the girl’s fellatio technique. She’d even paused the video, stood up, walked to the TV, and used my yardstick as a pointer.

“See here,” she’d said, indicating to the girl holding her own breast, “she should be using that hand to tickle his balls, the inside of his thighs, or the backs of his knees. What’s it going to do on her breast? Nothing. That’s a misuse of resources.”

I tried to recall the rest of her pointers, and knew that if I tried to bring him in too deep then I would gag. I wasn’t ready for that yet, gagging being something I didn’t enjoy, so I tried to focus on doing what felt good to me, what I enjoyed.

I was surprised and not surprised to learn that what I enjoyed, he also seemed to enjoy. When I groaned because I liked the salty taste of his pre-cum, he answered with a groan of his own. When I twisted my fingers around his shaft and swirled my tongue around the head of his penis, every muscle in his body tensed and he held his breath.

It was like having a salty Popsicle that never melted, attached to a lovely, sexy man who derived both pleasure and pain from my experimentation. It made me feel oddly powerful and light-headed. The skin was soft—impossibly soft—and so, so hot.

And quite abruptly it was over.

“Kaitlyn stop, stop…fuck, I’m going to come.” He pushed me away, gripping himself.

My eyes widened at the sight of his big hand gripping his big dick. It was the absolute sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth, transfixed.

“Okay,” I said, “tell me what to do. Should I lay down and you get on top?” Of course I was referring to the logistics of him releasing his semen on my breasts.

But it was too late. Martin gave himself two strokes and that was it. He spilled on his own stomach, angling himself down, his hand moving back and forth with jerky movements. I watched him as it happened. His body tense, his muscles cut in sharp relief, his face twisted for a very long moment in both agony and sweet relief, almost like he was confused and angry and listening to a choir of angels only he could hear.

Then he released a shuddering breath, brought his other hand to his face. He pressed the base of his palm against his forehead, like he was trying to keep his brain from exploding.

I smiled at him, waiting with anticipation for the post-BJ analysis. I found my shirt and wiped my hand dry, then placed it gently on his midsection; nevertheless, he flinched when the soft cotton connected with his still erect penis.

I cleared my throat, watched him absentmindedly clean himself, his breathing still labored. The pulse point on his neck pounded out a furious rhythm.

When he didn’t move my smile waned. I was tired of waiting.

I poked him gently. “Martin…are you asleep?”

“No.”

I waited for five seconds, then asked, “How was I? Did I suck?”

He laughed and it was mostly a good sound, velvety, seductive and satisfied; it wrapped soft tendrils of tenderness around my heart and squeezed, like a hug. It also rolled out the Slip ’n Slide in my pants and put up a sign that said Ready for business time, only Martin need apply within.

But it was also a smidge melancholy, and this smidge of melancholy made me feel nervous.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing only briefly before standing and walking to the bathroom. I watched him toss my shirt to the corner and leave, the sound of his laugh still vibrating in my ears and heart.

The water switched on and off. Martin returned almost immediately and reached for his discarded pajamas.

I considered him, then asked, “So, seriously, how did I do? Any pointers for next time?”

His movements faltered at this last question, then he finished pulling on his pants and said, “There won’t be a next time.”

His words were confusing and sad. He also looked a little sad.

“Why not?”

He ground his teeth and swallowed before answering, “I’m not doing this.”

His words broke my heart, he sounded so raw.

“What?”

“This.” He lifted his chin toward me.

“You have to be more specific.”

“I’m crazy about you—”

“I’m crazy about you, too.” I moved to stand, but his next words gave me pause.

“Stop!” He sliced his hand through the air, his voice harsh. He appeared to be struggling. “You know what I mean, Kaitlyn. I’m in love with you, and you’re not…and I don’t know why you did what you just did, but this is…this is so fucked up.”

Martin pushed his fingers through his hair and turned away from me.

My heart took a kamikaze leap in his direction. “Martin—”

“No.” He shook his head. I saw his eyes were closed, like he was trying to block me out, and I understood why he hated it when I closed my eyes or covered my face.

He continued, and I was relieved to see he did so with open eyes. “I don’t want to be a pity project. And I don’t want to push you into doing things you obviously aren’t ready for.”

“What makes you think I’m not ready?”

He faced me and gestured furiously to the bed. “Because you shouldn’t be giving blow jobs to guys you aren’t in love with. That’s not who you are.”

“What if I am that girl?”

“You’re not! This, what we’ve been doing, every time I touch you, it means something to you more than just getting off. I can see it and I don’t want that to change. I need it to mean something to you! I can’t…I’m not doing this anymore.”

“But what if I am in love with you?” I didn’t think about the words before I said them. For better or worse, I just said what I felt at that moment.