“What are you? Six?” I shoot back.
“No,” you say, pouting cutely. “Come on, I’m bored.”
‘Bored’ doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. It’s Sunday afternoon and raining. Your military husband has been deployed for the past month. My wife’s gone out of town for her work this weekend. Neither of us has much to do.
We’ve been across-the-street neighbours for just about two years. You and your husband are like the All-American couple, you know, decent, friendly folks. We get along well as couples. I’ve spent time with your husband, and I know you and my wife have your occasional girl’s nights. But I think this is the first time the two of us have ever been together in a one-on-one situation.
I invited you over. There’s no point in the two of us sitting alone in two empty houses, I’d said. You agreed, and brought a bottle of wine with you. It’s gone now, and we’ve opened a second that I’ve had lying around the house for some time. We scanned Netflix, but there’s nothing interesting there that we haven’t already seen. So now we’re just hanging out, sitting on my sofa, chatting about nothing in particular, and listening to the rain.
“Fine,” I say. “First to blink loses.”
We turn in our seats to face each other. You shake your fingers out. I shrug my shoulders and let them fall. You roll your head around, loosening up your neck. I scrunch up my face a couple of times and let it relax.
“Ready?” you ask.
I nod.
“Okay. Three… two… one… go.”
We stare.
Your eyes, it occurs to me, are really quite beautiful. They’re a stunning shade of blue, like sunlit Mediterranean pools.
I know it’s only been about twenty seconds, but I’m starting to feel the weight of my eyelids, and become aware of the energy I’m expending to keep them. I can see the concentration in your face, almost as if you’re willing me to blink with your mind.
“Your Jedi mind-tricks won’t work on me,” I joke.
You chuckle, but maintain eye contact. You move your face closer to mine. Now my entire field of vision is filled with you. For a brief second I have the impulse to lean in and kiss you. But I remember my wife, your husband. I tell myself I’m just being foolish. But your eyes… there’s this look in them…
“OHMYGODWHAT’STHAT?!!!” you suddenly scream, pointing across the room.
Instinctively, I turn my head in the direction of your arm, looking for danger. The next thing I know, you’re laughing hysterically, and I realize I’ve just lost the contest.
“That’s not fair,” I say.
“I won, you lost,” you say, gloating. “You’re a loo-ooo-ooo-ser.”
“You totally cheated,” I argue.
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
You get up off the couch and do a little victory dance, where you stick your butt out and wiggle it. You give the tight round denim a loud playful smack while making kissy faces at me over your shoulder.
“I still think you cheated.”
“Show me where it’s written,” you defend as if there’s an official rule book on staring contests sitting right there on my coffee table. There isn’t.
I just sigh.
“Okay, if you’re going to be a big cry-baby about it,” you tease, “then let’s go again.”
“Since you cheat, let’s make it best of five.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Fine, best of five. No holds barred.”
“No holds barred,” I agree.
“You’re going down, pal,” you say. I had no idea you were this competitive.
“Alright, I’ll count us down this time. Ready?”
“I was born ready,” you say.
“You’re such a goof,” I smile at you.
You smile back.
“Okay… Three… TwoOneGo!” I rush the count hoping to catch you off guard.
It doesn’t work. We lock eyes.
Seconds pass.
“WATCHOUT!” I shout suddenly.
Your gaze remains steady.
“Ha!” you laugh at me. “You think you can use my own strategy against me?”
“It was worth a try,” I admit.
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”
“Yeah? You want to make this interesting?”
“Sure.”
“The loser gets dinner for the winner,” I propose.
“You’re on.”
“Shit just got real,” I say.
You giggle, almost losing eye contact, but you recover. Seeing a potential weakness, I start making faces. It’s juvenile, but effective. I can see you’re trying hard not to laugh. Here comes my finishing move: I hook my fingers into the corners of my mouth, and pull my lips wide. Then I stick out my tongue, and make a sound like ‘nnnuuunggggeeeennnuuungggg‘ at you. You totally crack up. It’s just so stupid!
“That’s not fair,” you complain. “You made me laugh.”
“No holds barred, remember?” I remind you. “I win.”
“Whatever. Fine. We’re tied: One-one.”
“Best of five.”
“Ready?” You don’t even wait for me to respond. “One-two-three-go.”
After only a couple of seconds of eye contact, you reach down and pull your shirt up, exposing two amazing breasts. They’re neither too large nor small, but they look perfect on your frame. In the middle of each is a delicious looking dark pink nipple.
“Wow.” I’m in shock. There are no other words coming to mind.
“Two to one,” you call out proudly, still holding your shirt above your chest. Clearly, you’re enjoying the attention.
“But – That’s – mean… You can’t do that!” I protest.
“No holds barred, remember?” You say in mocking imitation of what I told you earlier. You finally allow the material to drop back over your beautiful breasts.
“But I’m married,” I object.
“So?”
“You’re married, too.”
“So?” you ask again.
“So… So…” I repeat, spinning the tires of my mind looking for traction on a coherent thought.
“Come on, what’s the big deal?” you ask. “They’re just tits. I’m sure you’ve seen tits before. Your wife has a pretty big pair.”
That’s true, she does. Something about the way you’re looking at me makes me feel like I’m acting like a teenager, and should grow up. So, I’ve seen your boobs. Really, what’s the harm? We’re both adults here, I tell myself. Still, there’s a nagging doubt.
“Well, I don’t think they’d like it if they knew you flashed me,” I say.
“They’re not here,” you refute my argument. “So there’s no reason for them to know. Stop making excuses. One more loss, and you owe me dinner.”
“Alright,” I say, deciding to let my objections drop.
“Three, two, one, go!” you say.
Once again, I’m swimming in the lovely blue of your eyes. I can see in them that you think you’ve got me. I steel myself to stay firm in my eye-contact. I don’t care if a whole chorus line of bare-breasted women comes dancing through my living room. I will not lose.
“If I’m honest,” I say, “I’ve actually kinda wanted to see them for awhile.”
“Really?” You ask, sounding surprised. I’m not sure if you’re sincere or just kidding me. “Since when?”
“When you and your husband first moved in,” I admit.
You giggle.
“That long, huh?”
“I remember the day I first met you. You had your hair pulled back in a pony tail, and you were wearing that nice little dress. You know, the blue one. It kinda shows off your figure pretty nicely.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Damn, that girl is fine,’ you know. But we’re both married and all, so I just kinda put the thought to the back of my mind.”
“You thought I was fine?”
“Mhmm. And sometimes, you know, I’d think about you in that dress and wonder what you looked like out of it.”
“Well, now you know,” you say with a devilish grin. “The top half, at least.”
“From what I’ve seen, your husband’s a pretty lucky guy.”
“Yeah…” you say as if you want to disagree with me, but don’t quite trust what you’ll say.
I keep my eyes fixed intensely on yours. You look as if you’re plotting some scheme to get me to blink first. I need to act quickly before you think of something. Without my eyes leaving your face, I lean in closer to you.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
I just smile mischievously back at you. I slowly reach out my hand beneath your line of sight which stays firmly on my eyes, looking into me, trying to discover my plan. Wasting no more time, I cup your breast through your shirt.
You give a little shriek and look down startled to where my hand is full of your flesh. It’s beautifully soft and slightly overflows my palm. It’s quite different from my wife’s big heavy tit. Not that I’d complain about hers – they’re great – but yours are a new feeling for me. It’s a feeling I don’t mind savouring for a minute longer.
“Two-all,” I announce, giving your breast a light playful squeeze.
“Ahh, I see how it is,” you say accusingly. “I can’t show you my tits, but it’s perfectly fine for you to touch one of them.”
I notice that you don’t pull away.
“That’s really playing dirty,” you say.
“Two-all,” I repeat smugly. “We’re tied.”
I flick my fingers over your hardening nipple as I remove my hand from your chest. I hear you draw in a sharp breath.
“I have to admit,” I say, “I’ve wanted to do that since we met, too.”
“And how was it?” You ask.
“Nice,” I say. And then on reflection, “Really nice. Amazing.”
“It’s good to hear that,” you say smiling. There’s a tone of sincerity in your voice. “I don’t hear it enough. Sometimes… I just need to be reminded.”
“Jesus,” I swear. “If I was your husband, I’d never let you forget.”
“No,” you say. “I mean he’s great when he’s around. It’s just that he goes away for such long times… It’s just hard you know…”
You trail off, and look sad. I put my arms around you and give you a big hug.
“Okay, this is it!” you say, breaking our embrace after a minute. You’re trying to shift the mood back to fun.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Sudden death.”
“This time I’ll be ready for your sneaky tricks.”
“And me for yours,” I return. “Winner of this gets dinner.”
“By any means necessary,” you warn. “You better look out.”
“I’ll be looking… straight at you… cooking me dinner.” I know it’s a lame come-back. You smile anyway. I love seeing it.
“We’ll see,” you say doubtfully.
We each take a long sip of wine.
“Okay, ready?”
“Yes. Let’s do this.” I psych myself up for the final round.
“Three… two… one… go!”
This is it! The staring contest to end all staring contests! Anything goes. The connection between our eyes is so strong it’s almost a physical link between us. We maneuver our heads around like two boxers sizing each other up, attempting to throw each other’s gaze off balance. We move closer together. I can feel your breath, warm and scented with Merlot. I desperately want to kiss you, but if I do, I’ll break eye contact and lose.
Instead, I stand up. You hold my gaze, looking up at me from my waist. As I stare into your eyes, I imagine this is what you look like to your husband when you give him a blow job. Oh shit! I feel myself starting to get hard. Can you notice it out of the corner of your eye? I’m not sure. After a few seconds, you stand as well.
“You know,” you say. “I’ve thought about you, too.”
“Really?” This is surprising.
“Remember last summer, when we had that barbecue, and we were all hanging out by the pool in the back yard?”
“Yeah.” I remember that you looked smoking hot in your little purple bikini.
“You went for a swim, and when you came out your trunks were kind of clinging in a way that was… revealing.”
“I didn’t even notice.”
“Well, I did,” you say in a near-whisper. “And can I tell you something?”
“What?” I whisper back.
I feel your hand brush against my pants. I fight the urge to look, and focus all my energy in keeping eye-contact with you.
“I was impressed,” you finish.
You begin to rub the front of my jeans, feeling the outline of my hardening cock beneath your fingers. To even the playing field, I return my hand to your breast caressing it through your shirt, drawing delicate rings around your stiffening nipple. You give a soft moan. I look into your eyes, and see the desire there, almost begging to go further. Boldly, my hand slips beneath your shirt.
I feel as if this is crossing some kind of new boundary – as if everything over the clothes was fine, but underneath is forbidden. I don’t care. It excites me. You feel me getting even harder in my jeans, as I press my hands to the smooth soft skin of your breasts. I gently pinch and pull your nipple. You respond with a little sharp inhalation, and let it out in a long pleasurable moan.
Not to be outdone, I feel you working at the front of my pants. This is a difficult process without looking, only feeling your way. I double my efforts, bringing my other hand up inside your shirt, squeezing both breasts now.
There’s a firm tug at my waist, and then a loosening. You’ve undone my belt, which I feel hanging limply to either side of my hips. Next your fingers nimbly fiddle with the button of my jeans, pausing now and again to slide along the length of my cock. It strains against my pants, begging to be freed. If you were to look down, you’d see it clearly pressing outward – but you can’t look. You stay focused on my eyes.
My hands travel down your sides, and around to your ass. I think of your little victory dance earlier. The jeans you wore today show it off really nicely. I grab it with both hands and give a hard squeeze. You can’t help a little surprised yelp. I smile at you because I know you almost looked away.
You finally get the button to my jeans unfastened. Your hand darts inside. Your fingers run through my trimmed bush. Your thumb and forefinger circle around the base of my penis, as your other fingers gently cup my balls.
“Mmm, look what I’ve found,” you say.
“You can look. I know you want to,” I tease. “But my eyes are staying right here.”
You pull my cock from my pants into the cool open air, and begin to explore it with your fingers, like a blind person reading brail. You examine the tip, run up and down its length, taking in every square millimeter of it through your sense of touch. I love the way you tease me.
You feel my fingers skimming the waistband of your pants, and meeting in the center. As they dip into the small gap between fabric and navel, I encounter only smooth skin.
“Shaved?” I ask admiringly.
“Mhmm,” you nod. Your eyes are full of mischief. “You should really see it.”
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You giggle. Your hand wraps around my cock, and you begin to stroke it. Shit, that feels good.
“Do you like that?” you ask.
I moan appreciatively in response.
I pop the button of your jeans, more easily than you did mine, and slide down the zipper. I tug at them. It’s like they’re molded on to your body. They don’t so much slide as peel off you. I pull them at least half way down your thighs. It’s hard to judge exactly without looking. It’s far enough, at least, that I can trace the contours of the small soft mound at the meeting of your legs.
As I slip my hand between them, what I encounter is hot and slippery wet.
“I think you’ve been enjoying yourself far more than you let on,” I say.
“Maybe I have,” you admit. “But I’m not the only one.”
I’m so hard in your hands, my cock is throbbing. You feel my hot breath coming rapid on your cheek, as you continue to pump it. My eyes never deviate from yours.
I begin to rub my thumb against your clit in small circles. Your breathing gets faster and harder. You feel me spread your lips with my fingers. Your pace on my cock quickens. Sensing my plan, you try to maneuver your hips away from my hand, but my fingers follow.
“No, you can’t get away that easy,” I say.
We stand in the middle of my living room, mutually masturbating each other, while staring deep into each other’s eyes. Neither of us willing to blink first, neither allowing the other to retreat. I hear your sighs turn to moans, deepening and get louder. I groan, and grunt, holding back my own climax.
You feel your arousal escalating. I maintain the pressure on your clit. Then, I slip one finger inside you. You’re so fucking wet, and hot. A second finger follows the first. You feel them pressing against the walls of your pussy. They probe inside you for that sensitive spot – as you pump my cock even faster – and find it. My fingers inside making a ‘come here’ gesture (fuck!), and my thumb continues to rub against your clit (FUCK!).
You’re crying out loudly now. There’s desperation in your eyes. You want to win, but you need to cum so badly. You feel yourself go past the point of no return. Your grip on my cock is intense. A split second later, your eyes squeeze shut, as wave after wave of ecstasy washes through you. Your entire body convulses.
Your body goes limp, and I lay you back onto my sofa. You catch your breath. Your legs still trembling and tingling.
“That looked intense,” I say, sitting next to you.
“It was.”
“Looks like dinner’s on you tonight,” I say.
“Okay, fine you win,” you say. And then you add while looking hungrily at my still-hard cock “But dinner can wait.”
