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My hand was on Barry's crotch, my fingers tight around the bulge that pressed against the fabric of his trousers. But I barely remembered they were there, as my mind focused instead on the taunting shivers that swept through my body, as his own fingers traced up and down my moist slit, parting my lips with the gentlest touch, and sending my heart rate into orbit.

I ended a kiss that had lasted forever, and looked down, fumbling with his zipper - no, my mistake; buttons. But I'd scarcely moved before his free hand slipped onto the back of my head and, with a loud, almost rapturous groan, he angled it in the direction of his lap. Angled and pushed.

I broke his grip. "What are you doing?"

His eyes met mine and I was surprised by the look of absolute horror on his face. "I'm sorry, I thought you were going to..." His voice trailed off, shocked into silence, I think, by the way my eyebrows raised as he spoke.

I kissed him. "Sorry, no." A pause, and then, "I don't like doing that."

The horror turned to hurt. "No, of course you don't. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

I gave him my sweetest smile. "Well, perhaps you'd better cum over me instead." I finally unfastened that recalcitrant fly and slid my hand gently in to grasp him. So hard, so warm; as my fingers closed around him, I could feel his pulse beating like a drum. My thumb ranged over his helmet, gliding through the pre-cum that coated the flesh, teasing at the eyelet from whence it came.

I glanced down. My hand looked tiny against his shaft. My nostrils caught his scent, as thick as his prick. One little kiss - that wouldn't hurt, would it? But no. I'd made myself a promise and, no matter how stupid it sounded, I intended keeping it. Besides, there was no time. I'd only just begun jerking him when I felt his body tense, heard his breath catch in his throat, and then his cock jerked so hard that, for a moment, I thought I'd broken it off.

His cum was thick and almost blindingly white. It didn't spurt, it erupted, a great glob of cream that rose above his swollen glans, hung for a moment as though inspecting its domain, and then fell hot and heavy onto my still-stroking hand. Again, I almost forgot myself; almost gave in to the urge to lean hungrily forward and take him into my mouth, to savor the last few drops of his ecstasy, and feel him softening between my lips.

But I caught myself before I moved and contented myself with a few gentle squeezes, before looking around for a tissue. Typical bachelor's apartment, there wasn't one in sight. I wiped my hand on his belly instead, then kissed him once again. "There, wasn't that a lot better?"

Barry rested his forehead against mine. "That was amazing. Thank you." And that's what I love about guys. It doesn't matter how much they beg and plead for you to do some special thing for them. Once they've cum, it really doesn't matter. Who says romance is dead?

*********

You know how sometimes you get an idea into your head, and it won't go away, no matter how hard you try to shake it? On the subway to the office, sitting at my desk, during the dull parts of staff meetings, lying in bed at night - especially lying in bed at night, spiraling around in my mind until my nipples burned and my pussy flooded... written down like that, it sounds like it was the only thing I thought about... and who am I trying to kid? It was. I don't think I've masturbated so much since I was a teenager.

My friend Sandra started it, eight-plus months pregnant, and having a last night out before her life became subsumed beneath a tidal wave of diapers, rattles and baby talk. We were sitting - or, rather, I was sitting; she was perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa - in my

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