It wasn't about the rubbing, or the friction, or the feel of it, exactly. It was about the atmosphere, perhaps even the ambiance, if that's not ridiculously snobby.
So without wasting any more time, I jumped up from the bed, wriggled out of my damp panties, and sat back down, cross-legged, stark naked, and looking directly in his eyes.
I wanted him to watch. I wanted him to stare. Hell, I wanted him to help, but I wasn't going to let him.
My eyes might not have strayed very far, but my fingers certainly had. While one hand caressed and fondled my breasts, the other had found its way between my legs, between my thighs, between the spread, puffy, slippery lips of my normally shy cunt.
An electric jolt surged through me. It may have had been the urgent touch of finger to clit, or it may have been the sight of him unzipping his trousers. Did I care? Hell no! It was the feeling that mattered.
My gaze fell. I watched his hand disappear and return, cock held firmly, smeared moisture leaking from the tip.
My fingers worked faster, my thumb stopping now and then to help pinch and flick at my sensitive clit, then plunging down to join the rest of my fingers and they all strained to enter my sopping cunt together, doing their Oscar-worthy imitation of a turgid cock.
He began stroking himself and all of the feelings inside me intensified. I wanted him to touch me and I wanted to touch him. I wanted to clean the crown of his cock with my tongue. I wanted it to be my hand silently pumping him toward his inevitable climax.
Without stopping the pistoning action between my legs, nor taking my eyes off the dripping tip of his cock, I beckoned him with my eyes. I didn't want him to touch me, to impale me, even to help. But I needed him closer. Within reach. Not of my slippery fingers, or my rhythmically thrusting lips. No, I needed him close enough to come. So when he exploded, so very soon, he would come on me, and not the floor. I didn't care where on me either. Just somewhere on my bare, hot skin.
He understood somehow, and stood close while he stroked. His eyes devoured me, and I loved knowing he wanted to be my fingers, how much he wished my lips were around his rigid cock.
Suddenly it was a race.
I've always been a good multitasker. I kept my eyes on his pistoning hand as my fingers continued to plunge in and out like a lover that's been gone too long and is trying to make up for lost time. My other hand thoroughly molesting my nipples, I called out the heavy artillery - stories, fantasies, images of men I knew and that I desired in the most carnal way. Men I'd HAD. Men I'd devoured.
I recalled a story where the man had been tasked to perform with an audience of appreciative women. And a reality where he'd just had me to show. A silly situation a friend told me, with two men playing for each other while she rubbed in the shadows. I rubbed now, without shadows, without fear and without doubt.
He was ready to come. His cock was swelled, and his breathing was shallow. He stood close, so his movement was near me, and he smiled at me before the last stroke.
When he came, I could see everything clearly. The slip of his hand over the end of the head and back again, and the spurt of the fluid from the end. As well as seeing it, I could feel it. His come spurted across the small gap between us, and most of it landed on my busy hand. A small amount fell between my fingers and my desperate clit, and that was all I could take.
As I rubbed his hot semen in my most sensitive parts, I crossed the point of no return. The near silence of the room was punctuated by my loud gasp of release. My knees jerked upward as I hunched over, my hands continuing their work even as the electrified nerve endings of my sex cried for me to stop, overwhelmed with the feeling of release.
He laughed then, as he stood there. He slowly stroked his still-hard cock, coaxing the last of his release, smiled, and laughed. "See?", he asked, without expectation of a response. "You sit there doubled up with pleasure, and yet twenty minutes ago you were telling me you couldn't do it."
"I couldn't, Sam. God, I've been trying. You've no idea."
"I think I know. You'd convinced yourself."
"Yeah, but Kevin was good. I just... couldn't."
"It wasn't him. Listen, no pressure, but... wanna try for two?"
"Not like this."
"Could I be on top?"
"Emily, you're always on top, no matter where you are."
"Shut up and lie back. You're hardly any use like that, anyway."
"Best you do something about it, then."
I pushed him back on the big bed, and proceeded to see what I could do. Guys are strange. Big tough guys, strong and resiliant. But if you kiss them unexpectedly, they cave like wet cardboard. Sam, for instance. I knelt on the floor, and proceeded to kiss his thankfully clean body from the ankles up. He shuddered, but said nothing. I glimpsed now and then at his sexual barometer though, and it was soon pointing up. Well, a little to the north, but you know what I mean.
I continued. The barometer was my target. I really wanted to get my tongue all over it, and then swallow it with my lips. Both sets. Consecutively. Sam kept popping his head up to see what was going on, or reaching toward me with his hands. I slapped him, playfully, and told him to mind his own business. He stopped, after insisting that was exactly what he was doing.