His steamy silhouette beckons her further in. She knows how he likes to "prepare" himself for her advantages prior to allowing her access. She quietly enters and sits, having changed into something more appropriate for her own access and surrender to a self-satisfying caress, while she observes.
His strong hands attend to his every quarter, making sure her near future and thorough explorations of him will be met with calm and cleanliness. She is well prepared in advance, for the same reason. She notes an obvious swelling that gives rise to his surging bobs, a welling dance just behind the glass, mesmerizing and hypnotic. She studies well his sturdy cobra, revealed just out of reach, out of touch, that she longs to caress. His steely lance pulses and sways, lifting of its own accord while he busies himself with his dutiful cleansing for her. She studies his movements as his hands slide over his manly frame.
One hand occasionally primes his shaft, his head tilting back each time, a slight soft moan just barely audible over the splash of warming water. His other hand takes dips between his legs then far back behind, a slight rising and falling, rhythmic, alluring. She can only imagine and tries. He moves sudsy hands along his torso, down his thighs, then one hand cups while the other pumps momentarily, as both hands reach between his legs again. Back his head moves and out comes a groan. She can see him glancing through the glass to gauge her reactions, to study her own traverses that offer self-satisfaction. Her hands have long since followed an inner primal instinct to savor her own beckoning growing desire for inflammation and resolve.
He is aware of her own exclamations, soft sultry cries, gasps, moans, mews, as her hands disappear between loose layers of silks and satins, caressing soft mounded globes and velvety folds. Her layers fall slightly open to reveal lush treasures to his hungering eyes. They prime themselves well for each other.
Once she can stand no more of the teasing, she softly murmurs that she is going to prepare for his massage, referring to him by his pet name, "Nature Boy." He doesn't need to hear more to feel a renewed rush and surge. His hands freely touch, as she sees behind the glass a primal rising bounce and renewed surging, spring up and down. She is hypnotised, his swelling so rapid. Clearly, he is rampantly needy of release.
She disappears, and heads to prepare anything still left unattended. Perhaps it is the lighting of candles, or a scented oil infuser, or the turning down of covers, or a new preparation of her attire. His own imagination plays with his mounting desire, each picture toying with what he is hoping will soon be his reality.
He rinses the last of the suds, steps out and dries, then dresses in what he hopes will meet with her approval. It is masculine, yet sensual, comfortable, and accessible. His heart beats loud in his ears as adrenaline surges through his entire length. He exits the room in search of a surrender then a conquest.
His ears follow the sound of soft music, as it leads his eyes to a faint glow filtering through a partially closed door. He remembers now, it is the same room he stumbled towards on a previous visit when his lay of the land, and the prevailing light was so limited. He moves towards the awaiting portal and slowly shoves it ajar. A soft glow meets his eager eyes, accompanied by soft music. There is somewhat of a primitive backbeat playing that engages his senses in an enticing manner.
There on the bed, on very luxurious looking sheets, in a most provocative stature, is the target of his pent up interest. A bottle of oil is on a bedside table. He tries to steady himself, tries to calm himself, to control the rush and urge and swell he realizes is already once again developing between his freshly prepared thighs. Her expression is one of eager amusement and invite. He realizes he is frozen in place and is staring. He quickly regains some of his composure (certainly not all) and moves towards the bed in her chamber.
Not going unnoticed by him, aside from her provocative posture, are her busy obvious hands, and her translucent attire. Her hands follow and flow over her lush contours, escorting his senses in just the direction he longs to assist them with. A tell-tale spot of moisture, there at the confluence of her milky thighs, gives a hint to her state of readiness.
His earnest efforts to control his own state, to suppress any hint of his own engorged response, is quickly faultering to a surrendering shudder suddenly convulsing each of his limbs, and pulsing through the rising object of interest for her eyes. His silk dojo attire is far too flimsy a veil to obscure the bobbing lift now expressing his true desires.
Her eyes study him intently, assessing the length of him, then again from head to toe, then settling back at his growing protrusion. A deep sigh recruits a quick-to-follow moan, as a soft feminine hand shifts gears. On his continuing advance, she slides sensually over closer to the edge of the bed, to receive him. At bedside, as he stands before her, she reaches for the sash of his robe to release it, allowing it to fall open. The stance of a rise within the silk pants is now more apparent and vulnerable to her whims. He is wearing no shirt. She runs a warm hand and slightly damp fingers along the side of his waist, across his taught belly, upwards to his hairy, well-defined chest, then slowly back down to his waist.
Once again her eyes traverse his real estate, only to settle longingly at his continuing bob and surge. She motions towards the oil waiting as he is, at bedside, takes ahold of the edges of his robe, slips it off, and motions him into the bed, backside up. She straddles his frame, enclosing his core with her satin inner thighs, pours warm scented oil into her soft palms and goes to work relieving much about that which aches and nags within his warrior body. He can't refrain from allowing his own sighs and moans to escape, as her talented deft hands work their magic.
The effect leads his body and mind to a state of pleasured relaxation, though what pulses between her bamboo sheets and his hips, contradict his surrendering state. He notices the occasional skimming of her silken curly patch upon strategic points along his backside, apparently keeping other interests and talents at a high state of readiness within her. His hips involuntarily press against her mattress at occasional intervals, some primitive reaction undoubtedly. He's certain she can't help but notice.
Her rigorous yet tender hands ever so slowly work his eager body over from the top down. Eventually, she is at his waist, nearing the waistband of his dojo silks. Her fingers occasionally stray under, slightly within its border. She states that in order to do the backs of his legs with the same warm oil, having the silk in the way will never do. She asks him what he thinks they should do about it, then softly laughs a naughty sultry giggle. He slides off the bed, saying nothing, then lowers and removes his pants. Under them, he wears sports briefs, also and coincidentally made from bamboo. For texture and sheer tactile pleasure, they can't be beat, which is why he appreciates her sheets more than many would. She reaches out to touch them, noticing the texture right away. She voices her approval of his taste and what she experiences as an unexpected treat. His surge bobs up excitedly "voicing" its own approval with a nod beneath its satiny enclosure. He lays back down on his stomach to allow her to continue her easing and welcoming touch.
Her hands work expertly and slowly from his feet up towards his taught thighs. As she's nearing the cuff of his shorts, her fingers edge under just a tad, obviously anxious to discover more that's yet covered and out of her vision. Another moan escapes his lips as her fingers find softer flesh. She expresses an instruction to begin working his front side and for him to therefore turn over, which he certainly willingly does. She lets out a small gasp at the fullness of his state within his briefs, apparently thinking by then perhaps that he might be more fully relaxed at all quarters. Once again she starts at his top, his neck, shoulders, hands, arms, and so on.
Continually available to her wandering eyes is his dancing appendage. It's quite a show that's on display through that thin material. His arousal is so obviously apparent, as is the pulsing, the throbbing, the convulsing, the bobbing, as it never seems to cease. His eyes are closed, but not his ears, and her lovingly expressed excitement in manner of various exclamations, finds an acute attention for his part. This of course only further perpetuates the sensually performing dance. A bit of undulation of his hips transpires as an involuntary raptured response to her moans, as well her tender silky touch.
Her warming oiled hands please his every sense and relax him entirely. She exclaims how tense his muscles are, as she works over his lean torso and legs. During the most vigorous and rapturous pulsing spikes and surges, as the limits of his soft enclosing briefs are reached, there is a noticeable pause in her activity, a hushed silence, but an ever-present electricity in the air, as she registers the obvious excitement dancing before her eyes.
His body is in full contradiction, as is his imagination. On the one hand, there is this settled welcomed relaxed calm, and visions of ocean waves caressing white sands, yet in some symbiotically melded merger, there is this charged force of vibrancy that simultaneously coerces his senses into a most vigorous state of alertness, readiness, and masculine potential. Images of waves coming to shore then receding to hidden depths filter through his mind. His breathing begins to match, as does an ever-present pulsing between his legs.
As one of his hands lies at the edge of the bed and hangs slightly over, and as she is now standing at the same side of the bed, he becomes aware of the occasional press from her loins and mons. At first, it seems as if there is a soft veil of material present, but as time passes, he becomes more certain of a silky tangled forest kissing his skin. Not long after, a moisture develops within the weave.
Long feminine moans ensue, but her hands keep up their measured slow progress with his massage. His response is obvious in her sight as his shaft strains ever more for release and exposure. As his knuckles became more familiar with her press, and slipperier with her honey, the dance between his legs becomes more pronounced and frantic.
He is well primed for this moment long before her acquainting massage began, however. As he lay with eyes closed, he pictured the scandalous attire she wore upon greeting him in the early hours of his visit. How well she tortured his eyes and senses with that far plunging neckline, her ripe taught nipples pressing ever so invitingly against that thin nearly translucent material. It was worn in combination with an extremely short skirt, that kept riding up so high as to occasionally allow him to steal a peek at her delicate dainty and oh so sensual panties, the decadent cling of which exposed each rise and crease and a slight inviting dark. It was a double threat to his composure and self-control. The carefully controlled shift of her frame would either allow him better viewing of one aspect of her allure, the other, or both at the same time. A turn just perfectly angled to one side could expose a luscious pale pink circle at the side of the nipple. A slight relaxing of thighs could open an improved view of heaven.
Of course, he still had that endurable indelible image of those tightly hugging shorts she had on the visit before this one, that clung to every contour between her legs, that he could barely tear his eyes from as she sat across from him, completely in control of his rising threshold of hunger.
He stirred and moaned at the images flowing as elegantly through his memory's vision, as her hands were now so lovingly following and flowing over his every contour. That other flow, the one now wetting her silky nest, also had him stirring.
Suddenly she shifted her position, rose up over him onto the bed, straddling his frame. Her hands quickly went back to applying her magic. At first, he noticed an obvious press of her loins against his, while her hands relaxed every muscle they met, and he noticed her hips slowly moving up his thighs. Suddenly, her vulva was following the contour of his very rigid shaft, through his briefs, starting at the base and slowly moving up the underside of it (as it was pointing so well and so firmly towards his belly button). She ground herself into him, repeating the journey from base to tip, but somehow managing to keep up the message of his chest. At first, it was satin against satin, as the layer of material his briefs provided acted as a clinging sheath. Her robe was open and she herself was fully exposed to his bamboo shorts, but soon enough her hands worked their way down to his waistband and deftly began to slip his briefs down down down along his thighs and then his shins. Her massage resumed, as did her vulvic strokes of his underside, of his swelling twitching and now well-lubricated cock. Her wetness and continuous moaning were coaxing an accompanying flow to escape his satin vermilion tip, mixing with her own slick elixir.
Each stroke hardened his phallus to an extreme. His own moans matched hers.
