Page 10 of Changing the Playbook
“Yes,” she says, her half-closed eyes and pink lips parted, a vision.
I continue exploring, watching for every tell—the catch in her breathing when I brush her clit, the way her hips lift when I increase pressure, the frustrated sound she makes when I deliberately slow down. But she remains so quiet, so controlled, even as her body responds.
Years of conditioning, probably.
Years of not being asked, not being heard.
Well, that ends tonight.
“Can you show me where you like to be touched?” I ask, stilling my hand.
Her eyes fly open, panic flashing like a warning light. “I… don’t know.”
I study her face. “You don’t know what you like?”
“I’ve never really thought about it. Usually guys just… do their thing.”
That anger surges again, but I breathe through it. Because this isn’t about my righteous indignation or overwhelming desire to meet her previous partners in a dark alley. It’s abouther pleasure, her discovery, and I don’t want to make it weird for her.
“How about this?” I resume gentle strokes, watching her face. “I’ll try different things, and you tell me what feels good. Think of it as a fun science experiment.”
Relief softens her features. “Yeah. OK. I can do that.”
I start with feather-light touches, barely grazing her folds, and she squirms with impatience. “More pressure,” she says, and the directness makes me grin.
“Like this?” I press harder, dragging my finger from her entrance up to her clit with deliberate slowness.
She nods, and I repeat the motion, mesmerized by the way her eyes flutter closed, lips parting on a silent moan. When I reach her clit, I circle it gently, and her whole body jerks like she’s been hit with a defibrillator, her eyes shooting open.
“Too much?” I freeze.
“No, no.” Quick, desperate. “It’s good. Just… intense.”
I nod, continuing the circles but even lighter, even slower. Soon, her breathing steadies, then gradually quickens as I maintain the rhythm. Her hips start moving in sync with my touch, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything.
“Is this how you touch yourself?” Genuine curiosity colors my voice.
A small, shy nod. “Sometimes, but usually faster.”
“Faster?” I increase the pace, and she moans louder, uninhibited.
“Yes. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
I keep the rhythm steady, completely transfixed by her transformation. The furrow of concentration in her brow, the flush spreading like wildfire across her skin, the way her lips part wider with each breath—all of it combines into a picture that’s stunning.
And when I deliberately slow down, she makes a sound that’s almost a growl.
“Why’d you stop?” Eyes open, accusing.
“Didn’t stop.” I can’t hide my smile. “Just changed tactics.”
She grabs my wrist with surprising strength. “Faster. Please.”
I obey, and she’s moving her hips now with abandon, chasing her pleasure without shame and without waiting for a guy to dictate the pace. She’s close—I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble, the pitch of her breathing, the flutter of muscles under my touch—and I’m ready to get her there.
“Can I put my fingers inside you?” I ask.
Eyes closed, head thrown back against the pillow, she nods frantically. “Yes.”
