A Sparrow Alights

"I'm going to have to work on that problem area for a long time," she said. "Raise your hips."

Questioning but trusting, I raised my hips. She quickly stuffed several pillows under them, pushing them forward to support my lower back. When she was done, I was tied in a four-point restraint, and my cock was the highest part of my body. With my hips lifted up, I couldn't move them.

"Oh, yes," she said, taking a seat cross-legged near my right hip. "The perfect height for a long, slow treatment."

I expected her to start a hand job, or maybe a blowjob. But she didn't. Instead, she studied my penis, looking at it from all angles, not touching it. I watched in fascination.

"Nice shape," she said, "nice and hard. But I need to keep it hard for a while."

Bounding off the bed, she went to her purse, coming back with a small item in her hand. It was a one of those elastic bands that women put in their hair to make pony tails. I noted that Sparrow had short hair, and thus no need for one of these things. She stretched it out and placed it over my cock and balls.

For a small and simple item, the effect was delightful. It was just tight enough to push my balls forward, or in this case up, but not so tight that it was constrictive. I tried to wiggle to test it out, but could barely move. I knew the impact, though; it would act as a cock ring, slowing down my ability to orgasm.

"Okay, now I need to study it a little, get to know it, so I can give it a perfect massage."

I groaned as she touched me, one finger making a small butterfly touch right on my frenulum.

"This is usually the most sensitive part on a man," she explained to either me or my cock. I couldn't tell who she was talking to. "Right..." she touched me right on the most sensitive part, "...here."

"But not always. Some penises are sensitive here." She gave me a butterfly touch on the side of my penis, directly next to the frenulum. I had no idea that part was sensitive, but I moaned in pleasure as my cock jumped on reaction.

"And some are sensitive right on the head, though that's not always a good sensitive." She swirled a finger around the crown of my penis, making me jump and yelp."

"Yes, sir, I have to study this." For several minutes she traced tiny soft lines with her fingertips across the entire topography of my penis. Bound and spread, my hips propped up so that I couldn't move, I was wild under her touch. The hair band around my cock and balls was allowing blood flow in, but not out, so I felt as if my cock was getting harder by the minute.

"Of course, sometimes it's not the penis at all." She looked at me and smiled, her Italian eyes bright. She began stroking my balls, softly, teasingly. They were trapped, tight in their skin, and every touch sent little lightning bolts into my brain.

"Oh, please touch me," I moaned, pulling against the wrist cuffs.

"Or maybe even lower." She cupped my balls in her hand and lifted them, and began stroking the skin underneath them. My balls luxuriated in her warm, oiled hands, and I gasped at every stroke underneath.

She held me for a few moments, stroking me patiently, as I gasped, afraid to move with my balls in her grip, but unable to avoid writhing in pleasure. Eventually she released me, putting more oil on her hands. Her smile was wicked.

"Or maybe... Even ... Lower."

My noise was soft and inhuman as I felt her pressure. She was pushing against my anus as I had done with hers earlier.

"Some of my customers require an internal massage to relax."

Nobody had ever done that to me. Ever. I was horrified and curious and delighted all at once. "Slow," was the only word I could croak out before I felt her fingers enter me.

I had never had a prostate massage before, but one thing I could tell is that she was talented at it. Her right hand had a finger inside me, stroking some magical spot, while her left hand wrapped, at long last, around my shaft and began a light, teasing handjob.

I implored to my gods as she worked, my cock and balls unable to get enough friction to cum, my prostate feeling sensations that had never before been felt. My fists clenched, my toes curled, and she teased and fluttered and toyed with me, offering me a beatific smile as I pleaded for her to go faster, harder, whatever I needed to climb the wall to my orgasm.

My cock got harder and more insistent, its head turning a deep purple. Noticing, she said, "Hmm, this technique doesn't seem to be relaxing you. Maybe I should let you cool off for a few minutes." As I bucked against my bonds, she relinquished her grip on me, pulled out, and began her feather strokes again.

After a few moments, she started the whole process over again, teasing, touching, stroking, but not letting me cum.

And then she did it again. And again. Like an infinite loop sending me to the edge and back. I was humping the air

After some interminable time, I was begging her for release. Anything, I offered. The pressure in my cock was immense, my need infinite.

She pursed her lips in thought. "I can't seem to relax you," she said. "Let me try one more technique. But it's somewhat unorthodox in our profession. It's the wrapped massage."

"What is it?"

"It's when I completely wrap around your penis. Would you like me to show you?"

"Yes. Yes!"

With a knowing smile, she pulled the pillows from underneath my hips, allowing me to lie fully on the bed again. She removed the cursed hair tie from my cock and balls, allowing them to resume their normal position. Straddling my hips, she lowered herself onto me, and reached underneath to guide my penis.

"Oh, yes," I breathed. "The wrapped massage. I understand."

The feeling of one's cock entering a woman's pussy is sublime. She lowered herself inch by inch onto me until I was fully inside. I now had an excellent view of her as well, from her pussy cleft up to her breasts and up to the impish smile on her face. With a little slack now, I was able to do my part, too, and we built a rhythm as she rode me.

There's nothing more beautiful than watching a woman cum, and nothing more enjoyable than cumming along with her.

****

Our weekly meeting started like normal. We were fast friends now, friends who could share anything. We talked a little about our week, a little about her children, a little about work. I told her that I had a business trip coming up.

Her: So do I. Where are you going?

Me: I'm going to be in Los Angeles all week.

I hit 'enter' just as her next message came in.

Her: I've got a night in Los Angeles this week.

Neither of us typed anything for a long minute.

I knew what this meant. We both knew what this meant. Until this moment, we were just two people typing our fantasies, talking without restraint to a fantasy partner that we knew we would never see in flesh and blood. But now the opportunity to meet was there, right in front of us.

Could I actually do this in real life? Should I?

I knew the proper answer. The proper answer was that I shouldn't. I had a great life. Why take any risks with it, much less a big risk like this? Of course the obvious answer was no. I should back out gracefully and admit that it was fun while it lasted.

But I also knew another truth. In the personal canvas that was my life portrait, there had always been one small corner left unpainted. It was a small blank spot, survivable, and the canvas was beautiful in spite of it. But in looking back on my life, my eye was always drawn to that one missing color.

I had no way of experiencing these fantasies that had spun in my mind for decades. They were harmless fantasies with a willing partner, fun fantasies, things that I would dearly love to do. But life had inadvertently steered me around them. Could I go back and fulfill them now? It would be bitterly disappointing to have the opportunity, truly a once in a lifetime opportunity, and walk away from it.

And what of Sparrow? Maybe she was not who she said. Maybe she was angry about something, setting a trap. Maybe she was crazy, and would try to destroy me. Those were risks, and I could never assure myself completely. But everything pointed in the opposite direction. We had met innocently. We were not intending to go down this path. All of the mundane conversations over the past months pointed to her being a completely normal woman. And importantly, she was a woman who had the same small unpainted corner in her personal canvas as me. She had married young, flown the straight and narrow, and never lived out the fantasies that she and I shared.

If there was ever a time for me to live out my fantasies, and a person to do it with, I had stumbled across it.

As my mind raced through these thoughts, a single line appeared on my computer screen.

Her: Know any good coffee shops?

****

We slept the rest of the night away in satisfied exhaustion, then showered together the next morning, taking care to lather and scrub each other well. We got dressed, putting on normal street clothes. We were people again. She packed her bag and I ordered room service.

We sat down for a meal before we parted ways, sitting at a table near the window that overlooked the city.

I broke the silence. "Well, that was intense."

We made eye contact, her beautiful brown eyes curious and caring. "Was it what you wanted?" she asked.

"Yes. Was it what you wanted?"

"Yes."

"What now?"

I hated to say it, but knew that I should. "We've accomplished what we wanted to do. We had one night of living our fantasies. I think ... I think that's it. Right?"

She nodded. "We had a deal. One time, no replays, great memories that will forever be our secret."

I nodded. "I'll remember this night forever."

"We'll still be friends, right? Maybe tell people that we happened to meet in a coffee shop and hit it off?"

I smiled. "We met in a coffee shop and hit it off."

"If we're friends, I probably should know your name."

I weighed the odds, the harmlessness or harmfulness of giving this person, this person who had given me such a strange and wonderful gift, my name. But I trusted her. We had a bond and we had made a promise to each other. I was sure that she would be honorable about it.

"I'm Bradley. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Laura."

Laura. It wasn't an exotic name. It wasn't the type of name that an escort or a bar girl or a wayward masseuse would use. It was the name of a woman who shopped for groceries, who worked behind a desk, who drove to the drug store in the middle of the night to buy cold medicine for her children. I was comforted by that name. It meant that our experience was real.

"That's a beautiful name," I said. "I'll be glad to have a friend named Laura."

We finished lunch, and she put on her coat that was heavier than the weather required. I walked her to the door, and noticed that its hem danced around her shapely calves as she walked.

She turned her foot shyly, looked at me for a moment, and suddenly stepped into our personal distance.

It was not a kiss of passion, or a kiss of raw lust, though both would have been justified. Rather, it was a kiss of sensuous understanding, the final chapter of a one-night promise to give each other the gift of a lifetime.

She stepped outside and the door pulled itself closed. And with that, Sparrow was gone.