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Description

We were lying upstairs, on the bed, basking in carnal afterglow. It was the second Tuesday of the month so of course it was Ashley.

I was idly thinking about the next day and wondering what to do about Monica's absence (appointment at the gynaecologist, of all things) and toying with the idea of asking Ashley if she'd like to do a twin shift when she rolls over and looks me in the eyes.

She reaches out and strokes my chest hair. "Thanks," she smiles at me and quickly looks away. Her coquettish nature was what first attracted her to me.

"No trouble, Ash, no trouble at all. It was very good," I agree.

A beat goes by.

"No. You were very good," I correct myself.

I see a blush forming in her cheeks and a smile---different from before but still a smile nonetheless---breaking out across her hidden face.

"Oh, you!" she says and slaps me gently on the chest, hoping the small sound of contact would conceal her embarrassment.

"No, it's true. You wer---" I'm interrupted by a hand placed over my open mouth.

She turns her head and looks back at me directly in the eyes: no longer bashful, no longer awkward.

I recognize her look instantly. I'd seen it before when we had both dropped a micro-dose of DMT last autumn and it had switched on every erogenous nerve-ending in her body. That became a Tuesday afternoon neither one of us would forget. Me, for the action; her, for the blinding headache afterwards. Understandably, she had refused to take any more.

But here she was with that look on her face again.

She slaps my chest once more.

A subtle moan escapes her lips.

She slaps my chest again, this time harder.

A not-so-subtle moan emerges.

"Can I punch you?" she asks, looking intently into my eyes. I can't help noticing her legs and hips starting to rock and gyrate softly.

"Punch me?" I say. "Hard?"

She nods eagerly.

And brings her hand back in preparation for a rapid forward motion in my direction.

"Wait! What the... ?" I cry out but before I can say or even think of anything else all I'm aware of is a fist flying fiercely and aggressively toward my ribs.

Instinctively, I reach out and catch hold of her balled-up fist, encompassing it in my larger and stronger hand.

I hold it there, feeling the tension and resistance in her encased limb still potent and ready to strike.

Before the situation is defused, before we can sit and talk and understand what just happened, I make a mental note to call Monica and find out what time she thinks her appointment will finish.

(Posed and rendered in PoserPro 11, postwork in PSP.)

Description

We were lying upstairs, on the bed, basking in carnal afterglow. It was the second Tuesday of the month so of course it was Ashley.

I was idly thinking about the next day and wondering what to do about Monica's absence (appointment at the gynaecologist, of all things) and toying with the idea of asking Ashley if she'd like to do a twin shift when she rolls over and looks me in the eyes.

She reaches out and strokes my chest hair. "Thanks," she smiles at me and quickly looks away. Her coquettish nature was what first attracted her to me.

"No trouble, Ash, no trouble at all. It was very good," I agree.

A beat goes by.

"No. You were very good," I correct myself.

I see a blush forming in her cheeks and a smile---different from before but still a smile nonetheless---breaking out across her hidden face.

"Oh, you!" she says and slaps me gently on the chest, hoping the small sound of contact would conceal her embarrassment.

"No, it's true. You wer---" I'm interrupted by a hand placed over my open mouth.

She turns her head and looks back at me directly in the eyes: no longer bashful, no longer awkward.

I recognize her look instantly. I'd seen it before when we had both dropped a micro-dose of DMT last autumn and it had switched on every erogenous nerve-ending in her body. That became a Tuesday afternoon neither one of us would forget. Me, for the action; her, for the blinding headache afterwards. Understandably, she had refused to take any more.

But here she was with that look on her face again.

She slaps my chest once more.

A subtle moan escapes her lips.

She slaps my chest again, this time harder.

A not-so-subtle moan emerges.

"Can I punch you?" she asks, looking intently into my eyes. I can't help noticing her legs and hips starting to rock and gyrate softly.

"Punch me?" I say. "Hard?"

She nods eagerly.

And brings her hand back in preparation for a rapid forward motion in my direction.

"Wait! What the... ?" I cry out but before I can say or even think of anything else all I'm aware of is a fist flying fiercely and aggressively toward my ribs.

Instinctively, I reach out and catch hold of her balled-up fist, encompassing it in my larger and stronger hand.

I hold it there, feeling the tension and resistance in her encased limb still potent and ready to strike.

Before the situation is defused, before we can sit and talk and understand what just happened, I make a mental note to call Monica and find out what time she thinks her appointment will finish.

(Posed and rendered in PoserPro 11, postwork in PSP.)