Sneak Peek: Cindy and Jonas

Writing continues apace on Chapter 6.  I've found this scene tricky to write--fun, but tricky.  The dynamic between Jonas and Cindy took me a few tries to figure out.  I'm not entirely sure I'm there yet, but I feel it's coming along nicely.  I'm pushing this moment as a transformative one for David--under the influence, it's the first time he's able to lower his defences and truly enjoy the experience of being Cindy.  Or at least, that's how he's presenting the story to Julia....

As always, this sneak peek is early-stages writing: it's had a couple of passes but typos persist and it's all very liable to change.

My main concern with the scene is whether it should even exist.  The whole thing could be reduced to a short paragraph or two: "I approached the boy.  As you can imagine, it took very little convincing.  Moments later I was between his legs, just another long-haired silhouette kneeling before their man, head bobbing up and down in a gently rhythmic counterpart to the fluid images on the screens above," or something to that effect.  Is the longer take worth it, or does it just kill the pace of the story?  

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[...]

The sun set. A full moon rose in its wake, argent and cratered, and under its reflected glow I began to see him more clearly. Yes: cute; disconcertingly so. Undeniably a bit geeky: the jeans were a little too fresh, a little too blue and looked as though they’d been picked out for him by his mother, or maybe a well-intentioned but equally geeky female friend. He had a backpack in the pod with him. Curious, that he’d hadn’t had to check it in at the door. It was decorated with a dozen little metal pins: from concerts? Favourite shows? Declarations of political idealism? The more I looked, the more character I saw to this boy, the more intriguing he became and consequently, that little bit sexier.

And I was still dabbling my lower lips with a finger, thighs tightly squeezing together, and a slow, hot flush built at the neck and spread across my chest once again; and I was still tingling and yes, I was growing wet again, embarrassingly so. The moon reached its apex and cast its full bright glow down up on us, and I realised that the boy was awake. Eyes open, he stared back as candidly as I stared at him.

I wanted him.

God how I wanted him and fuck me and fuck the booze and fuck the drugs but—yeah: I wanted him; and lucky little shit that he was, in the right place at the right time, this cute young man was going to get his cock sucked tonight.

I’d always half-believed that getting laid was the easiest thing in the world for a girl, especially for any half-decent looking one. And Cindy was a hell of a lot more than just half-decent. Of course, I only half-believed because I knew this wasn’t entirely true. Even for a sexy woman, guys could be infuriatingly inconsistent. Come on too strongly and they’d run for the hills. Wait, and the guy might chicken out and never make his move. Speak too coarsely and risk offence; too mildly, boredom. To hear Mel speak, men were vile shits, an inscrutable mystery, dogs in heat, woefully inadequate idiots—and an inevitable destiny, a physical and spiritual counterpart forever just beyond their reach. (The final part emerged under extreme drunkenness, which I’d only seen a few times.)

As for the boy sat across from me—how to cross the distance separating me from him? How exactly does a pretty girl address a boy she wants to fuck?

How about: ‘Guess what? It’s you’re lucky day. You’re going to take me home, and I’m going to suck your cock.’ My cheeks reddened. No. He’d be offended. Too crass, too bold. He’d think I’m drunk or off my tits on drugs—and he’d be right—and I’d probably terrify the poor thing.

How about: ‘Buy me a drink?’ and work from there? No. He wasn’t the type to buy a girl a drink. Too academic, too proud—like he was paying for something that ought to be freely given. He’d be fully aware of the economic disparities between men and women but still find the societal expectation that he pay a tax on initiating female companionship offensive.

How about: ‘You won’t believe me, but I’m really a thirty-five-year-old man. Nearly a year ago I witnessed a murder and consequently, through a series of unlikely events, I’ve ended up in this curvy, hot little body. Some girls from work have taken me out tonight with the express intention of getting me laid and a night of drink, drugs and the proximity of all these sexy young people have left me incredibly horny and sexually frustrated and therefore, against all odds and for the first time in my life, I genuinely want to go down on a man, I want to take your dick in my mouth and suck and lick and rub my lips up and down your shaft and feel you shoot your load down my throat….’

Squeezing thighs together even tighter, squirming a little in my seat, I released a shuddering breath. Maybe no.

Instead, I leaned down and unbuckled my shoes. If the boy caught a glimpse of my glorious cleavage as I did so, all the better. Taking those high-heeled sandals off was a blessed released. I sighed with pleasure and stretched my feet and wiggled my toes. Little sparks exploded at the back of my brain, a pale shadow of their earlier ecstasy. Then I picked up my shoes and collected my little clutch and walked over to the boy.

The carpeting felt wonderful beneath my bare feet. I managed to walk a straight line—mostly.  He watched my approach, face impassive. He looked up at me in silence. There was a hint of a frown to his brow, but his eyes seemed gentle and curious.

I bit my lower lip with nervousness. “Sorry,” I said. Timidity trembled my little-girl voice. “I am, but—would you mind if I sat with you?” I smiled shyly and the embarrassment crept through. “I—um, maybe drank a little too much. Took some pills. I crashed pretty hard and…” Slender shoulders rose and dropped in a weak shrug. “I don’t know you. But you look nice and…” I hugged myself and blushed a little. “I really don’t want to be alone right now.” I gestured with the hand holding the shoes at the space next to him. Buried at the back of the pod sat his backpack, half open and spilling books like seeds from an over-ripe fruit. “Could I—could I sit with you?”

The boy hesitated, long enough for my stomach to twist and to begin feeling foolish, hyperaware of my half-nakedness and the showiness of my appearance. The pause couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds but it was long enough to suddenly feel… shallow, superficial; like a needy, desperate little girl; like a slut. These dark thoughts crowded in; in his face I saw judgment and scorn; and I swear, I felt tears gather.

And then: “Sure,” he said, and with that simple word he was utterly transfigured. His act of simple generosity made him into the kindest—and consequently sexiest—man I’d ever met. My whole body flushed, not just with gratitude but also with an unnervingly profound attraction to this person who’d spoken precisely one word to me. “Grab a seat.” Four words, now; and I’d have had his babies right then and there if I’d possessed ovaries and a womb and my vagina hadn’t been a mushroom-based prosthetic pasted over male genitals.

“Thank you.” I sat next to him. It felt good sitting with someone. Less lonely; dark thoughts lurking at the periphery retreated.

“I’m, ah—”

“My name’s—”

He laughed; I giggled. “Lady’s first,” he said.

“Cynthia,” I said. I held out my hand, fingers extended. He looked at my shiny fingertips a little cross-eyed for a moment before taking them in his hand and giving a little shake.

“Jonas,” he said.

“Thank you,” I repeated and then I leaned into him. He went stiff for a moment as I cuddled him, and then I felt rather than heard a chuckle pass through him.

“Er—fine,” he said. “This is fine.” He relaxed, and his arm fell across my shoulders, and he held me gently but close. I curled my feet up under me and rested my head against his chest. “Um, Cynthia.”

“Cindy,” I said. “My friends call me Cindy.”

“Cindy.” His breath tickled my hair. “Are you—okay?”

I nodded, stopped and then shook my head no.

“Bruno—” He paused. “That’s the bouncer. He’s my roommate. He dropped you off here, asked me to keep an eye on you.”

I looked up at Jonas. “That’s very kind of you, Jonas.” Reaching up, I brushed the back of my hand across his cheek. “Thank you.”

Frowning a little, he gently pulled my hand away from his face. “My pleasure.”

I blinked at my hand in his. “You have a girlfriend, don’t you?” I went wide-eyed and scooted away. “Oh—oh, I’m so sorry, you—”

“No!” He exclaimed. “No.” A hint of bitterness scored his voice. “No girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

He smiled wryly. “No, no boyfriend, either.”

“Good.” I smiled and leaned back into him.

Outside the pod, the scene shifted again, sliding gently downwards into the sparkling sea below the resplendent moon. At first the waters shimmered with the glow of the moon above, but as we descended through shades of sapphire, cobalt and ultramarine we entered a realm of glimmering darkness. One by one, like candles at a midnight mass, tiny lights flared to life in the hazy darkness. Growing closer, they resolved into jellyfish, hundreds then thousands of slowly drifting bundles of bioluminescence in pastel shades of peach and apricot. They cast their glow across the lounge, and the soft light filled our pod.

My breathing deepened and I remained transfixed by the spectacle. His hand hovered then lowered onto my head. Jonas gently stroked my hair. I wiggled under his touch and sighed happily. My hand touched his knee. A moment later, his other hand rested gently on my hip.

Something happened, then. An echo of the night’s previous sublimity; held in this kind boy’s embrace under shifting kaleidoscope lights, I felt myself—sink—pleasurably—into a kind of happiness, but it was a happiness far removed from the night’s earlier ecstasy. I slid within the boy’s embrace until my head rested in his lap. He shifted slightly to accommodate me. I felt—vulnerable—but comfortably so—and grew warm as I relaxed under his touch. I felt acutely aware of the boy’s touch at my head and at my hip, but in a happy way; his touch felt comforting and protective as we shared this moment together.

Earlier on the dance floor I’d felt my girlhood as an explosive revelation, a frenzy of sequins, shimmer, and shine. The feminine awakening I now experienced felt equally powerful and compelling, perhaps even more so, a deep roiling of the soul as I was subsumed in the sensuous surrender to this young man’s caring touch. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be taken care of in this way? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to always feel this safe?

I looked up at Jonas. I smiled up at him and he looked down at me and still that hint of a frown to his eyes, a sardonic twist at his lips. I reached up and cupped his cheek. He didn’t push it away this time.

“Thank you,” I said.

“It’s….” He seemed to struggle to say something, winced and sighed. “My pleasure.”

Withdrawing from his lap, I shifted back to a sitting position, legs tucked beneath me. I reached out with one hand and lay it on his crotch. I felt there the increasingly familiar hardness I’d felt poking into the back of my head a moment ago.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” I asked him.

His eyed danced away. His jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he said.

I slowly rubbed him through the thickness of his jeans. “You’re upset,” I said.

His touch stilled the motion of my hand.

“You’ve been very kind,” I said.

He took a shuddering breath. “You don’t have to,” he said.

“Don’t have to… what?” I asked in my best innocent-girl voice.

“Do… this.” He pulled his hand away.

“What if I want to?” Without his touch stopping me, I resumed rubbing a regular, circular pattern over his groin. “What if I want to thank you?”

“It’s not right,” he said. “You’re drunk. You’re on drugs. You’re—” He took a breath. “I’d be taking advantage of you.”

And—I laughed. I tried not to; but he just looked so tragic and serious that it was too much. “Oh, Jonas,” I said, and leaned in close and kissed him on the cheek. He flinched and pulled back, but only a little, and rubbed at his cheek where I’d left an imprint of lipstick and gloss. “I’m taking advantage of you.”

“But—”

“Yes, I’m fucked,” I said, and with a fluid motion I straddled him, settling onto his lap. Sitting like this hiked the dress up to my waist. I felt his jeans through the nothing-fabric of panties and his hardon poked rudely into my ass. In the shelter of the pod, I was just another curvy silhouette, a backlit shadow of pigtails and glittering body. “Drunk and on drugs. But most of all, Jonas—” and here, I leaned in close and threw my arms around his neck, so that my breasts pressed up against his chest. “I’m horny,” I whispered in his ear. “And I want you.”

His hands settled at my waist. He wasn’t a large or athletic man, but Cindy was very small and I felt delicate under his grip. For a moment I thought he was going to push me away. I stiffened under his touch—not out of fear that he might hurt me, but because I feared his rejection.

Somehow, being pushed away by him felt as though it would make a mockery of everything I’d experienced tonight—as though somehow, this ridiculous young man’s approval meant anything; and yet it did. It was irrational; it was stupid; and yet if he sent me away, I thought I might collapse into the lurking darkness of a trip gone bad. In that murky headspace there’d be no hiding from the awful reality of what I was doing here—from the fact that I was a man, dressed in a sexy short dress, squirming in the lap of some young guy in an attempt to seduce him, out of my own sexual frustration but also from a need to validate the female experiences of tonight.

His fingers gripped into the sequined dress as though he was about to lift me from his lap. “No,” I gasped. “Please—don’t—I’m so sorry,” and I tried to scoot away. Incipient tears dotted my eyes.

He groaned and his hands at my waist held me firm.

And then I looked closer into his eyes and saw that he was equally terrified. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted me: the presence beneath my ass was evidence enough of that. But he couldn’t take charge, bridge that final space between us. It wasn’t weakness, just fear an inexperience, and I saw then just how young this pretty young man was, how vulnerable, how sweet.

Dark thoughts and my own fear fled. A rush of confidence suffused me. I grinned, wickedly, and brought my mouth close. “I want this, Jonas,” I whispered, flicking my tongue out along the edge of his ear. I felt delightfully powerful and in control. “And so do you.”

I crushed my mouth against his. At first, his lips were firm and unresponsive. A shudder passed through him. Then, the boy’s his lips parted and the entirely of his body relaxed. We kissed, and his lips against mine felt wonderful. The tingling haunting me all night flared to life. Heat blossomed in my chest and groin. We kissed, and I moaned as I caressed his scalp and cheeks and attacked his face. I pushed my tongue into his mouth and squirmed in his lap.

The boy sat passively. I took his hand in mine and held it my chest. His first touch was charmingly gentle. I leaned into his touch. As though shocked into life, his fingers suddenly curled into me. I felt him through the fabric of the dress. His touch was felt fantastic but I needed more. With a sharp tug of the dress my boobs popped free. His eyes nearly popped out of his head and I giggled. Like a penitent fearing punishment, the boy’s first touch of my naked breasts was tentative, worshipful. The caress of skin on skin sent a jolt down my spine. Full of wonder, his hand explored my tit, travelled along the full curve, swept the contour and finally approached the peak. First his finger than a thumb brushed across my nipple.

I jerked and bit down hard on my lip. His eyes went wide. “Did it hurt?”

Moaning through pleasure and laughter, I shook my head. Instead, I grabbed his head between my hands and pulled his face down to my chest. The boy took the hint; a moment later I felt his tongue lap at my breast and my whole body trembled.  When his lips closed around my nipple something inside of me turned to jelly. I made sounds; I buried my face in his neck and laughed as my whole body juddered.

Deep down, I felt the impossible stress of sealed away and anesthetised balls straining for release. Without the possibility of a hardon, my body was responding in strange and wonderful and frustrating ways. With every touch of the boy’s hand or lips or tongue, nerve endings flared and I whimpered with the need for release. But release remained elusive.

With a wet pop, I pulled my nipple from his mouth. He looked up at me wide eyed, like a puppy’s whose favourite chew toy was taken away. “Good boy,” I giggled, and tapped him on the nose. His eyes widened even further as I slithered out of his lap and to my knees between his legs.

“My turn,” I said.

[...]