Those eyes. Those diamond-shaped, diamond-white pupils suspended in irises like azure seas. They were as blue as Gil's smooth skin and the faint blush in his cheeks. Perhaps a little lighter, more turquoise than sky. A warm, living blue, too, not like the sterile, Titan-mandated hues of his house. They were the lures that had drawn Maggie in, to be captured by his kind smile and tender manner.
A pity about the Titan thing, but every rose had its thorn, she supposed. She'd asked him why he'd invested so much time in his god's cause. And he told her.
His tale was a sad one. She could have sympathised with it, if she'd cared in the slightest about the planet she'd been plucked from while scavengers had eaten it down to the bedrock. Gil's world sounded beautiful, and she felt a twinge for its loss even in her toughened heart. He was a good storyteller, and she listened intently to him recounting the destruction of his home and the triumphs and tribulations of his first days in the hands of Titan's followers.
As Gil continued, though, Maggie found herself less listening to him speak and more watching him do so. His story became hers: the usual rote Titan education, the propaganda, the preaching. Her attention wandered and she focused on the movements of his perfect lips and the way his throat tensed and relaxed with every syllable. His hands described precise, elegant arcs through the air. A doctor had to have clever hands, no? She wondered what else he could do with them. Like, for example, he could grip the hem of his shirt and pull it off in one swift motion. She waited, just in case he did.
Reality was unforthcoming, so Maggie envisioned it for herself. Gil wouldn't be overly muscled, but there'd be definition, sure. Abs, but not a six-pack. He was heart-breakingly slender, that she could tell even through his clothes. And he'd be hairless above the waist and below his neck. Maggie liked smooth men. Except, of course, for the soft trail of white hair that'd start just below his navel (if he had one) and spread out and down, thickening 'til it disappeared beneath the band of his trousers. And then he'd undo their fastener, reach for his zipper...
Maggie gasped, and Gil looked up curiously. She smiled, waved him on, and he continued. A spasm had run through her, a fluttering in her stomach and a wave of heat rolling out from her loins. She put a palm to her cheek and found herself burning. God, Titan, whatever, she hoped she wasn't blushing too much. Gil might think she had a fever and put her back to bed.
Who was she kidding? She had a fever, alright, and he could put her to bed anytime he liked.
As subtly as she could, Maggie squeezed her legs together. Her thighs were warm, and seemed to stick together. She tried rubbing them against each other again. A shiver zipped up her spine, and she almost gasped a second time. Gil's mere presence was doing incredible things to her. This went beyond her usual infatuation into something entirely different. Her mind was a fog. She could feel the blood pulsing its way to her nethers. Her crotch felt sweaty. Sweat? She was kidding herself. Just how wet was she?
Maggie had to know. More importantly, she had to feel something more solid against her mound than her thighs. She fixed Gil with her gaze, trying to judge how attentive he was. Just looking at him made her clench up again. She even tried to follow along with his story, but so few of his words were reaching her. She nodded, and mmhmmed, and tried not to let her desire glaze over her eyes as thoughts of him naked intruded from the edges of her imagination. Slowly, with every last bit of discretion she had, Maggie reached down and opened up her jeans.
It was worse than she'd thought. Her lacy black panties were soaked through, and her fingers glided across them like they were made of warm ice. Her touch sent more thrills through her, thrills that intensified when she pressed down on her puffy petals, grinding the sopping fabric between them until they outlined her slit to skintight perfection. She grit her teeth and scrunched her toes hard against the soles of her shoes, holding in her moans and shudders. To her credit, she succeeded, and rewarded herself by dipping her hand under the waistband of her panties.
Maggie's fingers wallowed in the swamp her juices had made of her bush. Her green curls were slicked to her skin, and she had to move through them very carefully to avoid making any noise. That went out the window once she reached her destination. Her pussy was a wellspring, and the slishing sound it made when she pushed her digits into her folds seemed louder than anything else in the room. She froze, heart hammering, both to avoid Gil hearing her and to hold in the fresh squeaks of pleasure fighting their way out of her throat. He kept going, uninterrupted, and she allowed herself a breath of relief.
Maggie returned to her fantasies of Gil. He’d finish stripping, and then, his clever hands would be on her, plucking at her clothes. Naked, from the waist up, she’d climb onto the table, let him tug down her jeans and panties, spread herself for him, wait for him to step towards her…
Her fingers trembled as she parted her lips and slowly stroked upwards, around the edges of her hole, over the little indent of her urethra. Up, and she held back a shudder as she passed over the exposed tip of her swelling clit, up, and she peeled back its hood. That was where she left it. Fantasy Gil had his hand on her pussy now, and she needed hers to match.
Absently, she stroked her own privates, spreading her lips apart and making very sure not to touch her clitoris. She could feel it throbbing, begging for the brush of a fingertip, but if she did there would have been no way she could have stopped herself from screaming out loud.
Gil’s fingers pushed harder, and she twitched hers in the same way, circling the edges of her hole, shivering at the urge to shove as many of them in there as she could.
She dabbled them around her opening, teasing herself, just hooking her fingertips into the rim. Her Gil pulled away, and so did she, eagerly anticipating whatever her fervid imagination next threw at her. Ah yes. Next it’d be his cock. Leaning over her, his hips against hers, bright blue cockhead butting up against her quim. And he’d thrust.
At the same time, she drove her fingers into herself as deep as she could. She shivered at the sudden stretching, her walls clinging to her fingers as if they really were Gil's thick, solid shaft. She was overflowing, her digits immersed in warmth and wetness, and it felt wonderful.
But the squelch they made as she shoved them into herself almost stopped her heart. She whipped her hand out of her pants and tried to act natural, folding her arms under her breasts while Gil told her about...whatever it was he was telling her about. She kept her fist closed, hiding the wet sheen on her fingers.
Once again, Gil either failed to notice or ignored what his weird visitor from space was up to. Maggie's heart rate fell, and she dropped her hands back into her lap. Giving herself a proper frigging like this was going to be a real pain, and for once she wished she wasn't quite so profluent. She returned her fingers to her nethers, questing around to find out how fast she could move without making any noise. Not very, it turned out. Everything was soaked down there. The very juices that made her explorations so silken and sublime also made an even noisier squishing sound than when she'd first touched her quim. She was going to leave a puddle on the chair if she wasn't careful, and wondered if she hadn't already. Still, she mused, worming her index and middle fingers back inside herself, there was more than one way to stroke a cat. Her walls closed around her fingers, eagerly welcoming them back after their absence, and she let her visions of Gil flow back into her mind.
Maggie was splayed out under him, legs spread wide, her wrists pinned beneath his hands as he pumped into her. His cock was perfectly angled to rub against the spot inside her that set her body ablaze, and it was that place that she went for with her fingers. She curled her fingertips up against it, sliding them across its slippery, squashy surface. She tensed, raising herself of the chair ever so slightly, her thighs and bottom quivering.
Carefully, alert for the tiniest sound, she pressed a little harder, rubbed a little faster, alert for the tiniest sound that could betray her. If there were any, they were safely contained in her pussy, and she felt confident enough to really dig her fingers in. Blissful sparks rose up in her g-spot, those nerves flaring and discharging, driving pleasure through her body. She was so wet, so sloppy, and her juices started to trickle out between her fingers. She clamped her hand to her mound, desperately trying to keep it inside. The last thing she needed was stains on her jeans.
Maggie imagined herself flat on on back, legs over the edge of the table, while Gil made small, quick, focused thrusts, hitting her g-spot every time. She swirled her fingers inside herself until they ached and her walls almost burned from the friction, stirring herself until she was as sticky and gooey as she’d ever been. She worked her fingertips into the ridges of her walls, feeling out every soft undulation, loving the way they went taut and hard when an involuntary convulsion ran through her, or when she clenched down deliberately. Ever so slowly, keeping herself tight, she drew her fingers out of herself, letting her insides cling to them, then loosened up and just as gradually, pushed them back in. The next time she came out, she ran her sopping digits around her swollen lips, squeezing them, pinching them gently.
Maggie closed her legs around her hand, holding herself as tight as she possibly could to avoid betraying any of the blissful shivers romping around inside her, seeking a way out. She kept on wiggling her fingers, grinding her knuckles against her walls, massaging her sweet spot 'til it sang. Staring at Gil, she hoped beyond hope that she still looked attentive and not on the verge of a mind-shattering orgasm. But his lips were still moving...such pretty, soft lips. How good they'd feel fastened to her clit, with his dexterous tongue lapping away. Slowly, dreamlike, but with the appearance of just resting it in her lap, Maggie brought her spare hand down and touched her fingertips to her jewel.
She almost leapt out of her chair, but self-preserving instincts overrode her muscles and kept her rooted to it. Locking every part of herself up except her hands, she let them move like independent creatures, each stroke producing a burst of brightness that rebounded and reacted against the upswell from inside her pussy.
She gripped her button between thumb and forefinger, rotating them around it, gritting her teeth against the nigh unbearable stimulation. When she couldn’t stand anymore, she parted her digits, let her clit rest, focused on her sweet spot once again. Subtly, she switched hands, and her juice-drenched fingers slipping over her jewel felt even better. It throbbed under her touch, stiff and hard, and when she flicked it it bounced back to its previous position with a jolt of bliss for her. She kept on flicking it, building her pleasure with each swish back and forth.
Her thoughts tumbled and whirled, more scraps of sensation than anything coherent. Pounding, grinding, teeth and tongue and lips on skin, the salt taste of sweat. Hands on her body, her hands on his body, fingers interlacing, squeezing. His face, his eyes, their kiss, their conjoinment. The culmination.
Maggie held her orgasm captive, feeling it grow like a hothouse plant run rampant. It scoured her from the inside out, forcing roots and shoots, stems and leaves through her body and around her bones. Flowers blossomed, unleashing a strange and heady perfume, and draw up water from the spring of her pleasure, turning it to rich, sultry sap that sluiced through and from her. But as that source dried, the vines withered, crumbled and evaporated, and she was free to release it as a tiny shudder and a deep, exultant breath.
Blinking, Maggie returned to herself, almost as though she'd been out of the room while some other Maggie had done all that. Not that she could fault the other's work, though. She was suffused with a deep, satisfying glow, and her inner muscles were fluttering, squeezing at the fingers still embedded in her pussy. She pulled them out absolutely covered in her lube. Checking that Gil was still distracted, she brought them up to her mouth and sucked them clean, then wiped off the rest on her jeans. Those she buttoned up, quickly, one-handedly, keeping the other visible to deflect any lingering suspicions Gil might have. She was worried there might be a wet spot on the denim, but a quick rub suggested that everything was clear. And with the evidence - save for the sticky mess in her panties - cleaned up, she rested both elbows on the table, focused, and tried to pick up the trailing thread of Gil's tale.
It had stalled. He was gazing off, clearly enthralled in his own private thoughts. For a moment she wondered if he was doing the same as her. But no. He might not be able to see the signs, but she certainly could. Whatever he was up to was entirely in his head.
"Gil?" she said. "Giiiil? Psst! Hey Gil!!!" She leaned over the table and clicked her fingers at him.
Gil started, surprise on his beautiful face. "Ah- yes!" he said. "Sorry! Where was I?"