The Silk Glove Hand Job
I could hear the grin in her voice as she advised me not to walk into the wall.
It was my turn to undress in front of her.
I'd never done a strip show for a girl before, and felt shy. I stood where she had asked, at the foot of the bed, and began taking off my shoes and socks. Under the soft lighting of two lamps, Tailleur knelt on the bed in her geisha pose, her hands between her legs, gently stroking her sex as I removed my tie and shirt. She never took her eyes off me, and the expression on her face was something I couldn't fathom, which made me nervous.
I unbuckled my pants, and stood in front of her in my boxers. White, with red valentines on them. That got the shadow of a smile out of her, but otherwise, her gaze was as cryptic as the Sphinx.
I stood for a second, expecting some comment, but when nothing came I bent over, took my briefs off, and threw them on the pile. I stood there, watching her watching me, realizing that my fifty-one year old body was not what it had been back in my days as an athlete. My muscle tone was still excellent, but my spare tire, so characteristic of men in my family, announced itself with a little help from gravity.
Her eyes moved here and there as she took me in. Then, swinging her slender legs out from under her, she stood up and walked over to me.
"Kenny can you put your hands on top of your head for me?"
I did, and she walked behind me. She put both of her hands on my shoulders, then ran them down my back until she cupped my buttocks, and the strange power she had in her hands asserted itself again, bringing a brief tremble.
Tailleur is after all, a nurse, and I was puzzled by her behavior. She must have long ago seen every body type in the world She walked around in front of me, her right hand laying an appraising finger on her cheek. With her left, she put her index finger softly on my throat and ran it down my chest to my belly, her eyes following it with that inscrutable look on her face.
Naked, I lay down on the bed as she requested, while she walked around and lit various candles around the room. She turned the lamps down, and the candles (a dozen of them) provided most of the golden light, scenting the air with some exotic incense I couldn't identify. The hotel room had dark wood furnishings and fixtures, and her shadow danced on them as she loaded a disc into the stereo system. An organ and choir began. A hymn? I produce musicals, and am familiar with musical literature, but I didn't recognize it.
She retrieved something from her purse, and stood directly at the foot of the bed, gazing at my body under the candlelight. She began pouring what I realized was baby powder into her hands, and rubbed them together, making sure her palms were well covered.
She was making quite a ritual out of this. I knew looked like an offering on an altar. It struck me that when she had looked over my body, she had not been admiring me, or judging me.
She had been examining me. Sizing me up for whatever it was she had planned.
Lying on my back, she asked me to spread my legs. I did; she got up on the bed with me and knelt down between them. Her hands were together, rubbing in more of the baby powder.
I would have sworn she was praying over me.
Beginning at my chest, her warm palms began rubbing baby powder on me. Her hands moved in slow circles, and it felt good. She talked to me, her voice soft, musical, telling me to relax, that she would take care of me, and that soon everything would be much, much better.
But was hard for me. I work in a profession where any sign of weakness attracts the sharks, and I had been alone, living alone, working alone for a very, very long time. A part of me powerfully resisted the idea of dropping every last defense I had, even for Tailleur. Being naked, passive and flat on my back, unable to react to any sudden threat was a difficult place to be. I was afraid of losing control.
But nurses are clever. When dealing with their charges, they are master manipulators. One way or another, by hook or by crook, with creativity or brute force of will, they will get the patient to do what they want them to do.
If they have to yell, they'll yell. If they have to wrestle, they'll wrestle. If they have to pout, sob or tickle, they'll do it.
Tailleur sensed my resistance, and immediately went to work. Her hands moved down to my belly, where they felt even better. Leaning over, she kissed my right nipple, sucked on it, and with such little force that it would not have broken a soap bubble, gently bit it. Her powdered hands still moved in circles over my belly and flanks as she kissed her way over to my left nipple and did the same.
She kissed my neck, my ears, my eyes, my forehead, stroked the back of my neck with her strong fingers, ran her hands through my hair and massaged my scalp. Her soft hair brushed me whenever she leaned over to kiss, and she stroked the insides of my arms. She took my fingers in her hands and worked and squeezed them, and wherever she kissed, wherever she touched, muscles relaxed, and I could feel the warmth as my skin flushed. She cooed, and sang in short little tones, and sung my name too, which had an incredible effect.
And something not completely unfamiliar to me began to happen.
I had first noted it in my acting classes, a long time ago. Emotional memories get locked up in muscle tension, especially in the muscles high in our backs. As these relax, sometimes for the first time in decades, the emotional memory comes flooding back, sometimes with great force. Not the literal memory of whatever event caused the tension; just the emotional memory, the feeling that it caused. Some good, like the way I had tensed up just before sacking a quarterback in high school football. But most of them bad, which is how they got locked up in my muscles in the first place.
As Tailleur's touch opened me up, old angers rose up inside me - and were immediately whisked away. Hurts and traumas, pain and losses of long-forgotten origin were made known again, but for the last time.
For Tailleur kissed them away like a boo-boo (that thought actually crossed my mind, and got a giggle, which Tailleur noted with a particularly encouraging coo and kiss). As the scars of thirty-four years of battles and struggles were revealed, Tailleur took away their power to hurt, and the wariness and defensiveness that had always been my biggest barrier in relationships began to dissolve.
The meanness that I often felt also came up, and I felt guilt and remorse, for a lot of it was genuinely uncalled for. She kissed and stroked that away too. Literally took the sword from my heart. Tailleur's touch was emotionally healing me.
With excellent timing, the music on the stereo took a dramatic turn, and deep down inside of me, something finally relaxed it's grip and let go.
Through my lashes, I watched Tailleur's face. Her mouth was slightly open, dewy-lipped; her eyes wide and seeing, but slightly glazed over. She was concentrating on her job, but was also clearly in a state of mild rapture. In front of her, I was more naked than I had ever allowed myself to be, but I was no longer afraid.
Sensing that, Tailleur sat back again on her heels, ran her hands down the inside of my hips, and began contemplating my genitals. She stroked the inside of my thighs, then the tops, then around and inside my hips again. With a mother earth smile, she leaned over and swung her dangling breasts so that her nipples began brushing over my penis, my testicles. Yeah that felt good, and it must have felt good to her too, for her nipples glowed a bright pink as she let out a squeak of pleasure. She kept that up for awhile, then sat back on her heels again, and caught my eye as she picked up her gloves.
The elbow-length gloves that she worn to the opera and which, unknown to me, she had kept next to her. She began putting them on.
The mischief in her smile and the sparkle in her eyes told me she had something delightfully wicked planned, and for my benefit she made a show out of it, pulling the gloves up to her elbows with panache and precision. Then she cracked her knuckles like a piano player warming up, put her palms up and wiggled her fingers, and began stroking my belly with her silk clad hands.
She ran them down the inside of my hips, and again stroked the inside of my thighs.
And then began lightly stroking my cock and balls.
She fluffed and brushed the underside of my balls with the fingers of her left hand. Tickled and stroked the underside of my penis with the right. Pressed her fingers into the sides of my scrotum, gently rolled first one testicle, then the other between her fingers. Whisked her silk-clad hands with whisper-soft brushes up and down the sides. Then, with my penis as hard as carbide and beginning to turn purple with need, she fondled my testicles with her left hand, two fingers pressing under the scrotum to massage my prostate through the perineum. Her right hand firmly held my penis at the base, gave it a good squeeze, and with her strong arms tirelessly pumping, she began jacking me off, her silk-surfaced hand stroking up and down my thick shaft.
A silk-glove hand job.
Clever, clever Tailleur.
Sitting back on her heels, her face glowing with calmness and serenity, Tailleur stroked my penis with the professionalism that came with her intimate knowledge of the human body. Up to the top, down to the base, neither too fast nor too slow, her left hand gently massaging my testicles and prostate.
The pleasure was phenomenal.
I knew I wouldn't last long. But just as I felt the orgasm welling up inside me, Tailleur squeezed the bottom of my penis, stopping me just short. As I began to whimper, she repeated what I now realized was one of her favorite tricks, letting her long blond hair drape over my genitals, and then slowly brushing it back and forth. Thanks to her warm-up, my cock and balls were more sensitive than they had been in decades. It was the most delicious tease-torture, and I squirmed and squeaked. My need rose to monumental levels, my testicles ached terribly, but just as it became unbearable Tailleur released her grip and began vigorously jacking my shaft, and I could hear the hiss of the silk on my prick as she finished me off, her right thumb pressing into my penis as she stroked, her left fingers tapping on my testicles to encourage them to release their load.
Tailleur timed it perfectly. Just as the hymn on the stereo reached its climax, I reached mine. It was like the sun exploded. I could hear some of the crystal fixtures around us vibrating in sympathy with the low cry I gave out, and I felt my penis pump, and pump and pump, and hot liquid fell on my belly, and I knew it was my semen, which Tailleur simply let fly into the air.
Her strong, clever hands milked me like a farmer working a cow's teat, massaging and kneading my genitals to draw out my orgasm as long as possible and make sure she got every drop of man-juice out of me. Deep inside, I a felt a great release, a heavy load carried for too long finally being lifted away. And from the bottom of my soul came a cry of relief, a loud long groan that now vibrated the springs in the bed.
But not so loud and long that I couldn't hear Tailleur's delighted, excited purring as she closely watched my penis erupt under her expert care.
I'm not sure how long I lay there. Far from being exhausted, I felt more energy and life than I had in years, but I lay very still, getting acquainted with the new world I was in. For Tailleur had taken me through a portal to a whole new existence, of life and light and sensuality, and I could hardly remember the man I had been only half an hour ago. For the rest of my life, this would be one of the great "before" and "after" moments, a true epiphany that changed everything forever.
While I bathed in the warm afterglow, Tailleur rolled her gloves off of her arms. Tossing them aside, she stroked my penis, then leaned over and began licking it clean, taking the head in her mouth to clean my shaft with one bob of her head. She licked around my thighs, and belly, and testicles, and when every drop of semen was licked up, she placed her face closely up to my genitals, and combed my pubic hair with her fingers, and cooed and talked and sang to my penis as she petted it, and arranged it, and watched it shrink to rose-petal softness.
And with a loving smile on her face, she brought her cheek over to the side of my genitals and gave them a hug. Then she put some more baby powder in her hands, and patted and rubbed the powder on my penis, through my pubic hair, and underneath and around my testicles.
When my genitals were all dry and pink and happy and put to bed, she petted them one more time, then leaned over and kissed them good night. Shaking her blonde mane back, she slid herself forward and lay down on top of me, and brought her nose up to mine and rubbed it with an Eskimo kiss.
"You were right", I whispered. "I did need your help".
She gently bit the tip of my nose, and giggled. On her face was the same look of gratitude that I'm sure was on mine.
She wrapped her arms around my neck; I wrapped my arms around her waist.
And we kissed. We kissed a kiss of pure osmosis, our beings pouring into each other and finding their equilibrium. She pulled my head into hers, and I tasted from her fountain and became drunk on her, and I squeezed her small, perfect body, and she became drunk on me, and we kissed and drowned in each other. And joy, the real thing, glowed between us and around us.
I reveled in the new world of joy and delight, in my love for my incredible Tailleur.
I haven't a clue how long we kissed. Afterward, she laid her head on my chest for a super-snuggle. I stroked her hair, murmured her name. And thought about how the whole evening so far had been about her pleasuring me. It had been a surprise, a wonderful surprise, and I was thrilled and grateful. But I'm also not one to be passive.
My male being is geared towards taking action, and I dearly wanted to assert my own sexual powers. As I rested and recovered my strength, the electric warmth of the beautiful woman in my arms stirred my animal lust, and rising within me came a primitive urge, a powerful need to pleasure my glorious Tailleur, to drive her body to ecstasy, to the limits of it's endurance.
And if possible, beyond. Tailleur's touch was magic on her body, and on mine.
I felt new powers in me, and I wanted to see what my touch could do to her.
We snuggled for half an hour when I told her I was ready for more.
"Really?" she murmured.
"Oh yes." I said, kissing her ear.
"I thought maybe I'd wore you out."
"You've only just got me going."
"Horny boy! Now what are your desires?"
I kissed her ear again. "You've been doing all the work. It's my turn."
"I liked doing all the work. I like to please."
I kissed her throat, her eyes, her forehead. "I have a need to give too."
My left hand reached between her legs, the pad of my middle finger stroking her clitoris, then moving down to separate her pussy lips. Moistness betrayed her.
Her eyes closed, and she bit her lip, mildly embarrassed.
"I can fix that, you know".
"You don't have to."
With a giggle of my own, I whispered in her ear: "But I want to!"
Tailleur lifted up her head, rested it on her left fist and looked at me with her Sphinx smile. "You want to?" She leaned over, kissed my forehead. "You've got to catch me first."
And she suddenly sprang out of bed.
She got to her feet, but no farther. I had been a wrestler in college, my reflexes were quick, and she was still wearing her VERY expensive black heels, which made for a poor landing platform. As she wobbled on them, I wrapped my arms around her belly from behind and pulled her back on top of me. She kicked, laughed and struggled. We got tangled in the covers and it got confusing, but then I rolled us over, my weight pushing her down. She made the mistake of trying to pull my hands from around her belly, and I got hold of her wrists and pulled her arms behind her back. A little more struggling and I had her where I could sit up and assess the situation.
Her legs were pinned under mine, my penis rubbing delightfully in her ass crack. Thinking fast, and with one hand holding both of her wrists, I took one of her gloves, still lying at the foot of the bed.
Her head came back as I began tying her wrists together, and I heard her giggle as she began struggling harder. It was a game, and if played right, we could both win. I had been a Boy Scout once, and the trick of wrapping the glove figure-eight fashion around her wrists and tying it tight came back quickly. I finished, and she pulled at the bindings. Silk is actually tough stuff, pound for pound stronger than steel, but the glove had enough give and stretch to allow her plenty of wiggle room. Reaching my right arm under her belly, I took hold of her left elbow, then grabbed her other elbow with my left arm
And with a move that was deft and not at all gentle, picked her up and flipped her over. With a gasp, she landed on her back with enough force to make the bed bounce.
Straddling her, my arms pinning her shoulders, I feasted my eyes on the bounty before me.
Her long blonde hair fanned over the pillow. Her red lips were parted in surprise at how forceful I'd been. Her perfect breasts quivered in the candlelight. I admired her cute belly, soft white skin, the golden tuft between her legs framed by the garters that held up her black stockings. She stared at me; her startled blue eyes wide open. Then they narrowed, and in a low voice she threw down the challenge.
"Well, big boy, you've got me all tied up and helpless. What next?"
I wanted her. Oh good Lord, how I wanted her.
Something inside me seemed to shrink and go away. Civilization began to seem very distant. The image of my Slovak ancestors, barbaric, taking what they wanted, came to mind.
From her shoulders, my big hands began stroking down the sides of her neck, down her belly, her flanks, the front of her thighs and back up the insides.
Lightly brushing her pubic hair, then back up the inside of her hips, over her belly and flanks again, then up to her breasts. My palms pressed down, mashing her breasts, and she groaned again.
I began kneading her breasts. Rubbing the nipples with the palms of my hands, then squeezing them, and not gently. Tailleur moaned louder, and began to squirm.
I raked my fingernails over her nipples, and she bit her lip while groaning.
I pinched her nipples between my fingers, and her eyes closed, her head rolled, and the moans came even louder. I pulled up on her nipples, first hard, then harder and she cried out.
But not to stop.
I did not know if it was the same thing, but my under my touch wonderful things were happening. And I suspected the magic wasn't just in my hands.
I scooted forward, and rested my penis on one of her nipples. Taking the shaft in my hand and squatting up, my penis dangled on her breast, and I began working the soft, silky tip in little circles over her nipple.
She whimpered, and little furrows appeared on her forehead.