Ella (Part 2)

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Ella (Part 1) was posted on Solo Touch in April 2010. This is what happened the next day.


Like I say, we played chess until the wee hours of the morning. Then I went home.

I lay in bed until dawn, but I couldn't sleep. My mind was filled with the events of the night before. Part of me was obsessively reliving them, trying to engrave every last detail on my memory, and part of me was wondering if I had just fucked up my friendship with Ella. Would she still respect me after what she'd seen me do? Would we still be able to talk as comfortably, as freely, as deeply as before? Was sex going to fuck things up? Would she want more? Would I want more?

Would she let me do it again?

At dawn I took a long walk, then came back and sat on the sofa and stared at the wall.

Not at the wall, precisely. As college students we had the average amount of salvaged junk in the apartment, the cultural debris of previous decades that we hoped would impress our friends with our ironic cool. My favorite bit was a hanging lamp that had been in the closet when we rented the place. It was fashioned like a gilt birdcage, but instead of a bird inside it had a gold-colored statuette of a nude woman in a semi-classical pose, like in a Victorian garden. The birdcage had oil in the base and when you turned on the lamp the oil would heat up and circulate through the lamp, dribbling down the wires that surrounded the woman, and dribbling down over the woman herself. If you turned all the lights off in the apartment but that one you got the full effect: bluish light shining through the golden oil, glistening on the woman's body like she was bathing in a waterfall of gold. We couldn't fathom who ever could have bought the thing seriously, it was made in the 60s or 70s, but was too pre-Raphaelite in its affectations to fit into the mythical Bachelor Pad of that era. We loved it, though.

Anyway, that's what I was staring at as I sat on the sofa that early Saturday morning, wondering what had just happened between me and Ella. And as I stared, I passed through irony to sincere admiration of the thing, and then passed through that to another layer of irony, then to sincerity again, I didn't know what I felt anymore.

Hey, dude!

My roommate. Sven. I hated him. He was the kind of roommate youre best friends with for the first 72 hours after you move in together, and then he becomes incredibly annoying. Good-natured as hell, but a slob. Left dirty dishes in the sink for weeks at a time (once I left one of his there, instead of washing it like I usually did, just to see when he'd notice: he never did). Wore enough aftershave to choke a skunk. Got engaged to a girl a week after their first date, then broke up with her a week later when he found out that she had a kid.

I looked up. Hey, dude. This your weekend?

He was in the Marine reserves, and spent one weekend a month in training. This morning as he bounded out of his room he was in his cammies. I hadn't realized it would be this weekend. Not that I cared, but.

Yeah, I've got duty this weekend. I'll see ya Monday.

He left.

I was alone.

The timing was immaculate. Three minutes after Sven left, Ella phoned.

Hey, Avalonandon. You awake?

It was only seven. She knew I wasn't a morning person. But she'd called anyway.

Yeah, I am, actually.

Butthead there?

Just left for the weekend.

Can I come over?


Be there in five.

She was. In five minutes exactly there was a knock on the door. I let her in, and followed her up the stairs, we lived in an attic.

She took off her parka and sat in a chair opposite the sofa. The pre-Raphaelite garden nudie could be seen hovering over her right shoulder.

Ella looked like she hadn't slept much, either: no bags under her eyes, but a definite lack of focus in them. Her long brown hair was wet she'd evidently just stepped out of the shower and tied in a loose ponytail that she'd thrown over her left shoulder. She was wearing a red flannel shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots, standard college girl attire for this place and time. As usual, she wore it all tight, and very well.

She spoke first.

Do you regret last night?

Do you?

I regret certain things about it.

She paused there. I must have looked worried; I know I felt worried.

She seemed to be steeling herself for something. Finally, she seemed to have reached a decision.

It's not what you think. I don't regret what you did, or watching you do what you did. I'm glad about that. In fact, I want to thank you.

Thank you, I broke in, sounding a bit too relieved, I'm sure.

So don't worry about that. It was a very personal thing you shared with me, and I'm glad you did.

She smiled. I smiled back. Then she continued.

What I regret is that it was so one-sided. You asked if you could see my breasts while you did what you did.

She was being a bit more guarded with her language this morning: not the devil-may-care Ella of the night before. This was evidently difficult for her.

I said no, she continued. That wasn't fair. So I figured I ought to even the score.

No, Ella, you don't have to. I mean, I didn't mind. I should think that was obvious.

You don't want me to?

To what? I wasn't exactly sure.

Ella, I want to see whatever you want to show me, in the worst possible way. But I don't want you to do anything you don't absolutely want to do. Most of all, I trailed off, but I knew I had to say this. Most of all, I don't want us to ruin our friendship. That's what kept me up all night.

I realized how that sounded.

Well, that's what kept me up all night after I got home. What kept me up before I got home was something else entirely.

We laughed. That broke the tension.

Listen, boy. Last night, that didn't ruin our friendship, at least not for me. I'd say it improved it. Just like I'm hoping this will, what I'm about to do. What I want to do. Let me stress that. I want to do this for you.

Okay. As long as you're sure.

I'm sure, goddammit. Now shut up and watch. She smiled as she said it.

She stood up. She was about five feet away from me now, and looming over me.

One more thing, she said. You have to promise you won't touch yourself.

You mean, ever again?

Idiot. You can't touch yourself until I'm done. This has to be perfect reciprocity for last night. I want to make us even. This friendship thing isn't going to work otherwise.

Okay, I said.

Then she moved her hands up to the top button of her shirt.

Holy fucking shit.

Just standing there fully clothed she was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen, with her shirt perfectly hugging the contours of her boobs (what a word that is, not every breast is worthy of it, breasts have to have a certain fullness, a certain heaviness, a certain unabashed natural quality to earn the epithet boobs. Ella had em), then hanging helplessly from them like a climber from an overhang. Her jeans, tastefully faded, encasing her powerful cowgirl thighs. She put any garden-gnome cutie to shame.

But then she unbuttoned a button. Never breaking eye contact with me. I saw a little more of her neck, a little shadow suggesting cleavage.

Another button. Now we were definitely on the edge of a cleft.

Another. Now the full majesty of her valley was revealed, a deep rift between steep slopes of skin. I could see a hint of white lace peeking out past the flannel.

She undid the rest of the buttons, then let her hands rest at her sides for a minute. Her shirt hung open but unparted, the fullness of her bra as yet unrevealed.

I was breathing hard. My hand crept to my jeans automatically.

No, she said softly. Then, ever so gingerly, she took off her shirt.

As she stood there in the morning air, in her jeans and bra, I had a new understanding of life, the universe, and everything. I comprehended principles of mass and volume better than any physics professor had ever been able to explain them. I could see, for example, that Ella's bra was sturdy, even industrial: a no-nonsense bra with straps and struts that were plainly meant to support great weight. An engineering marvel, in fact, was that bra, and about as sexy as a suspension bridge. Which is to say, not very. This wasn't the kind of thing I was used to seeing in the Victoria's Secret catalog.

But I understood, without asking, why that was so. Ella's breasts were honest: they were filled with the weight of biology, not the gravity-defying lightness of technology. And this made her bra sexier than any sheer lingerie I'd imagined. It wasn't, in fact, lingerie: it was a goddam bra.

Theyre beautiful, I gasped.

Thank you. But don't say that yet.

She cupped them in her hands, jiggled them a little with an embarrassed but determined look on her face.

You don't have to I started, but she shushed me.

She reached behind her and undid the hooks (I couldn't see them, but what cast-iron anchors those must have been to restrain the titanic force of her tits!). Then she let the bra fall to the floor.

Holy, as I say, fucking shit.

Now I understood what a bra did. As it fell so did her tits, just a little. They hung low, appreciably lower than they did when she was clothed. But that, I immediately realized, was just fucking fine.

They were, quite simply, amazing. All the weight of the world seemed gathered in their round, heavy flesh, their regal curves, their authoritative thrust. I wanted to crawl into the crevice where the underside of her boobs met her solar plexus.

And her nipples! Great brown circles of stippled skin surrounding mighty protrusions. They were already semi-erect. And now Ella lifted a hand, extended a finger, and started stroking herself in circles. At first she kept a respectful distance, merely tracing the outline of first one aureole, then the other. Then both hands gently grazed the tips of her nipples, making them jump a little. Then she pinched, coyly. Repeat, enhance. Soon both nipples were as hard and straight as

well, as I was. I hardly need to tell you that I had a raging hard-on at this point. I kept my promise to Ella, and kept my hands away from it. But good Lord, it was getting hard.

Her eyes had strayed to her nipples as she slipped from show into genuine arousal. Now she glanced back at my eyes again with a slightly dazed smile on her lips.

Keep going, I said. It's wonderful.

Then she turned her back on me.

I think I've mentioned that she had a fine can. And it was at its finest. Most girls asses are in a tight pair of blue jeans. Hers rode low, under her belly, and in back they were low enough for me to see the slight depression at the base of her spine. But mostly what I saw now was ass, big wide soft ass.

Holy, well, you know the drill.

She bent over, all the way over. She peeked at me from between her legs, from between her swinging, bouncing tits. Her hips rotated as she bent, exposing more of her denim-shielded crotch to me. The little crossroads made by the seams of her jeans was like the crosshairs of a sniper's rifle in the movies. And I knew what I wanted to shoot there.

But I restrained myself. Look, ma, no hands.

She stood up again and faced me. She unzipped her jeans. I saw a glimpse of azure cotton. She peeled off her jeans.

She was wearing sky blue panties, not a match to her bra in the least. But that was all to the good: the blue set off her hips wonderfully. And, best of all, it wasn't a thong. I don't really get off on thongs (although the right whaletail can, I confess, turn me on almost in spite of myself). These weren't granny panties, either, though. They were just right: narrow enough in front to make a perfect triangle out of her crotch, and wide enough in back to make a perfect picture of her butt cheeks.

Her jeans were down around her knees now, but she realized she couldn't take them the rest of the way off because she'd forgotten to take off her hiking boots. She sat down in the chair now, a little exasperated, and began unlacing her boots. It took her a couple of minutes damn 90s fashions but finally she had them off. She pulled off her socks, and then her jeans.

She sat there in the chair for a minute, in nothing but her panties, as if trying to decide what to do next.

I waited.

Then we both jumped at an unexpected sound. Zoom! Pow! Blammo! The neighbors were awake, and were participating in their normal Saturday morning, 8 am, ritual: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on TV with the sound all the way up.

Ella and I both laughed. We were deep in luscious, sweet sin, but the rest of this Bible-thumping college town was going about its innocent, sublimated business this fine morning. All was right with the world, theirs and ours.

The change in atmosphere seemed to make her mind up for her. She spread her legs. Lifted one leg and hooked it over the arm of the chair. Then began to stroke herself through the cotton.

So girls really do masturbate, I thought.

Soon I could see a damp spot. Then it spread. Soon I could see actual drops of moisture beading on the outside of the cotton as she rubbed and rubbed her as-yet hidden paradise.

Then, with a piercing glance at me, she stood up and took off her panties.

Ella was standing buck naked in the middle of the room, and I was sitting on the sofa fully clothed. This wasn't exactly a reverse of last night, but I wasn't complaining. The scales of friendship, I'd discover, would never completely balance.

She decided to stay standing. She came closer to me, until she was standing right in front of the sofa, her calves touching mine. She assumed a wide-legged stance, bent her knees a little, and invited me to look.

I did. I looked her up and down and all over. I didn't touch, but allowed my eyes to examine her with a look so heavy as to be almost, I was sure, tactile. I sure felt it.

First her breasts. I perused them from above, from eye-level with her nipples, and then from below. She helpfully cupped them again and lifted them. I felt like Wayne and Garth lying on the hood of their car watching the 747s fly overhead.

Then I examined her oh, God her pussy. Her thatch: this was before the fetish for shaved netherworlds, a fetish I've never understood, and she had a full, womanly patch of curly black hair. She didn't even trim it into a fake triangle: it grew wild and free and blew my mind.

Here she helped, too, by reaching down and spreading her lips. I saw everything. I saw her lips, glistening and slurping with her wetness. I saw the man in her boat. I wished I was him. I even saw into the velvet goldmine.

Then she started to masturbate herself, right in my face. With one hand she held open her pussy lips, while with the other she rubbed. I looked up. Her eyes were closed now, and she was biting her lower lip. Clearly this was for real. Soon she was moaning, and her knees were shaking.

She slipped two fingers in, first slowly and then furiously working them in and out. The other hand was worrying her nub now, and the combination of the two sensations looked to be driving her wild. She began to moan and gyrate. I was afraid she'd lose her balance, but didn't dare touch her.

A drop of her fluid flew into the air and settled on my trousers. I looked down and noticed that it had landed right next to the pinprick of precum that had soaked through my jeans.

I looked back up. She was really going at it now, working her cooze with an almost violent motion. Finally, abruptly, she screamed, a cry of desire mingled with loneliness. At the same time she lurched, and this time she did lose her balance, falling toward me.

Not on me, though. She threw her arms out and caught herself on the back of the sofa. She was leaning right over me, now, against the back of the sofa, her tits over my head and her pussy right in front of my face. I had an up-close view of her crotch as the convulsions coursed through it, clenching her stomach muscles and her groin, her whole body shuddering as if she'd collapse.

At the same time, I came. I hadn't touched myself once, but watching her achieve orgasm right in front of me was all the stimulation I could handle, and I splooged. I could feel the sticky warmth spreading over my crotch even as the last wiggles of orgasm washed over hers.

Holy fucking shit, I mused.

She stood up straight again and pushed her hair out of her face. She saw the huge wet spot in my lap, and said, Wow. That good, huh?

That good.

She sat down next to me, now utterly unprepossessing in her nakedness.

So, she said. What's Master Splinter up to?



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