Itchen Counter

I awoke this morning well before my alarm clock rang. I was dreaming of you again, remembering. I was thinking of last night when we were in the kitchen, talking, as I cleaned the counter that looks over the living room. The last of our friends had left several minutes ago and I knew you would be leaving soon too. It had been a wonderful evening – good burgers that you grilled, fresh strawberries and ice cream, a funny movie, and hours of talking about everything and nothing. All in all, a just-about-perfect, lazy, summer night, and my dream flipped me happily back into the moment...

After I wipe the counter dry, I move away from it and flip the light off so that the only light comes from the candles in the living room.

"Too much bright light for this late hour," I say, smiling.

You turn to the living room, leaning forward against the same kitchen counter I just cleaned, your back to me. "Yeah, but now I can't see a thing."

"Give it a minute, Ryan. Your eyes will adjust. I promise I won't let you trip over anything," I say, gently mocking you.

I lean against the sink in the tiny kitchen, enjoying the candlelight and the quiet moment. I'm not really thinking about anything – not you, not the night – just feeling happy. Without thinking, I lean forward and touch you gently on the middle of your back, and jump when you gasp and arch your back away from me, pressing your waist against the countertop.

"Ryan? Did I hurt you? Do you have a sunburn? I'm sorry!" I am so startled by your reaction that words of confusion and apology simply fumble their way out of my mouth. I just wanted to get your attention to ask if your eyes are adjusting. I don't often touch you, or anyone, really. Too shy most of the time, or uncertain if even casual touches are welcome.

You draw a deep breath, clenching the kitchen counter with your hands. "No, you just caught me off guard." You don't turn around.

I feel an almost irresistible compulsion to touch you again. You appeal to me and have for a long time, but you never react to me or treat me like anything other than a casual friend. So in a moment that surprises even me, I move behind you and softly say "Ryan. Don't let go of the counter."

"What?" You start to turn around but I put my hands on your shoulders to stop you. You top me by close to a foot, and outweigh me too, but you stop turning.

I move closer, my nose almost touching your back between your shoulder blades. "Don't let go of the counter."

I gulp a breath of air. With it comes the scent of you and I smile, lifting my hands from your shoulders. Then, I start touching you.

I trace the line of your spine with my fingertips. I like the heat and feel of you under the texture of your shirt. You draw a deep breath, and when I spread my fingertips in a starburst pattern from your spine to your waist, your breath shudders out of you. I've imagined this so many times, only I have always been the one tortured with the gentlest of touches. This fantasy, with me touching you, feels strange – but strangely right.

The hollow at the small of your back is my next target. I trace patterns, spelling words I know you can feel, but not understand. You are shuddering slightly, clenching your fingers on the counter, and you are beginning to move your hips against it, too. Fucking the counter are we? I'm not ready for you to do that yet, so I pull you back slightly using the belt-loops of your jeans, and keep touching you. Where are you the most sensitive? You sigh when I caress you between your shoulder blades, at the base of your neck, where your back meets your side, but you gasp when I drift my fingers from your waistband upward to the middle of your back.

So that's it

, I think to myself.

Good to know

.

"I don't..."

The first words you've said since I started. I move my hands to your waist, caressing your sides with just my thumbs. "You don't what?" I ask.

"Jill, I don't know about this."

My hands still. I knew it. I should never have started this. You don't want me, you never have, so what was I thinking? My face feels like a flame as my embarrassment rises. I step back from you and when you start to turn to me I say sharply "Stop. Just stop. You can leave without turning around. Just go. I'm sorry I touched you."

You don't move. For the first time since I have known you, a painful silence builds between us. If I lose you as a friend, I will never forgive myself. I castigate myself silently, waiting for you to move, to leave, to say something, because I am frozen in place.

"Jill. That's not what I meant. I don't know if I can... umm... control myself. I don't want you to stop" you are whispering to me now, head turned toward your shoulder. "I want to touch you. I just don't know if I can stand it if you keep touching me like that."

The ice in my gut and flame on my face are replaced by warmth and pleasure and relief. "You can stand it a little longer, Ryan. I'm not finished touching you yet." I step toward you again, stretch up, and with the tip of my tongue, lick the nape of your neck. You groan, laughing softly, but say nothing.

Your shirt, I decide, has to go. I run my hands firmly up your sides, saying "Let go of the counter, Ryan, and put your hands up on the cabinet." You follow my order silently. I reach around your waist, and open the button of your jeans. A few quick tugs and your shirt is free, so I slide it up as far as I can reach, going up on my toes and pressing my breasts into your bare back. "Give me the shirt, Ryan" and you do. I place it behind me near the sink.

"Jill."

"Yes, Ryan?"

"I need to touch you."

"No, Ryan."

I can reach almost up to your wrists, so I trace the smooth, sensitive undersides of your arms moving my fingers down, over the soft hair in your armpits, along your sides, tickling you now. You squirm, saying "God, no. I can't stand it!"

"Mercy, then," I say. "Put your hands back on the counter."

The shape and strength of you in the dim, flickering light is so beautiful. I want to taste you, to touch you, forever. "Don't move, Ryan. Do you understand me?" I say it firmly, though with a smile on my face and in my voice.

"Yes. I understand you."

You don't sound as amused, and that makes me smile even more. I walk out of the kitchen to get a small stool I keep by the phone, and choose a small, lit candle as well. When I re-enter the kitchen, you turn your head to see me. "Now what?" you say, eyeing the stool and candle uncertainly in the flickering light.

"Shh. I don't want you to talk right now." I place the candle on the fridge, and the stool directly behind you. I sit. My knees bump your legs and I can't get close enough. Hmmm. "Ryan, spread your legs."

"WHAT? No!"

"Don't let go of the counter, Ryan. Please move your legs apart a little. I just need to be closer to you."

Muttering under your breath, you obey me. Perfect. I slide the stool forward. Now I am sitting with my face level with the middle of your back, where you seem to be most sensitive to my touch. Your skin is bare, smooth, and smells of heat, sweat, and arousal. I anchor my thumbs in your beltloops and pull you back again – I don't want you fucking the counter. I lean down and lick your spine where it disappears into your jeans, leaving a small, damp spot. I blow gently on it. This makes you shudder and arch away from me, so I pull you back again. Moving to a new spot, I repeat the process again and again.

Soon, I can no longer pull you back, you are grinding your self against my kitchen counter so hard. You are breathless, gasping, groaning "Please, please. Jill. I... God. Please!"

I stand up and move a foot or two away from you. I swallow nervously. I don't exactly know how to do this next bit. "Ryan, let go of the counter, turn around, and sit down, please."

You do, groaning as your jeans strain over the hard bulge of your cock. What you feel shows in your face, even in the dim light. Incredible.

Oops, a mistake on my part. I want your pants off.

"Ryan, please stand up again. No, don't touch me. Put your arms out, and just hold onto the counter again." I slide the stool away for the moment and put my hands on the button of your jeans, left open earlier, so I can find the pull for your zipper. I slowly lower it, listening to the grit of the metal, and the low groan you make as I free you from the prison of denim.

"Off with your shoes, please." You toe them off, barefooted now since you didn't wear socks, and I slide your jeans and your briefs down your legs, pulling them off one foot, then the other. I grab the stool, and say "Take a seat, Ryan. Don't let go of the counter."

You are seated, naked, arms resting on the countertop, hands again clenching the edge. I sink slowly to my knees between your legs. Candle light casts a flickering shadow of your cock onto your belly. I wonder if your nipples are as sensitive as your back, so I scrape them with my fingernails. Your eyes close tightly and you seem to be strangled by your own groans. Your back, the nape of your neck, your nipples – what will happen when I slip your aching, swollen cock into my mouth?

Time to find out.

I lean forward and use the tip of my tongue to lick the ridge of the head of your cock. You clench the counter even more tightly and lift your hips to me, silently begging me to take you fully into my mouth. I wet my lips and wrap them around your cock head, using my tongue to swirl around the tip, sucking gently, then just a bit harder, until you grunt with pleasure. My hands wrap around your cock shaft, and I swallow the taste of you. You thrust your cock into my mouth with your hips and in such a short time, you come, groaning my name and God's, rolling your shoulders and head back so I can't see your face – just the strain in your arms and chest muscles as you continue to clench the counter with all your strength.

It feels like you can come forever, but in a few short minutes, your hips are still, your cock is softening in my mouth and hands, and you are breathing deeply and slowly. I gently release your cock from my mouth, and sitting back on my heels, I look up at you. You raise your head from the kitchen counter, returning my stare.

"I'm letting go of the counter now, Jill. It's your turn..."

I smile to myself, rolling over in my bed. What a great night. I'll never look at my kitchen counter in quite the same way again. I'm surprised my alarm clock hasn't rung, so I lift my head, peering at it. It is well past my normal wake-up time. Oh. It's Saturday. I look over to see you still sleeping soundly, sated.

Perfect.

I slip my hand into my wet panties and slide back into the dream.

My turn, you were saying...