Tell Me More by Janet Mullany

time, with someone new, it’s not always easy to figure out what they want. Don’t feel offended.” Just rub my clit, you idiot.
    “No, no, I’m not offended.” He shook his head with such vehemence that I didn’t believe him. “It’s just that generally gir—I mean women…come pretty easily with me.”
    “I will, too.”
    I pressed the great lover’s hand a little more insistently where only minutes before he had dabbled and played with such skill. He looked pleased at my praise but pulled up his pants and zipped up in a way that suggested today’s fun was over and his cock needed time to recover its hurt feelings.
    Then he gave me an orgasm with very little effort on his part, as I’d predicted, and a lot of heaving and gasping on mine. I couldn’t help thinking he saw it as the consolation prize for the girl who didn’t appreciate the finer points of the Willis Scott III penis.
    I rolled away from him and scrambled to my feet. “I need to pee.”
    He blinked at me and it occurred to me that maybe I should have said something in praise of his technique but my bladder was about to burst.
    After taking advantage of the privacy of some scrub oak nearby, I stepped back out into the open meadow. Sunlight drenched and warmed me, caressed me, and the long grass brushed against my boots with a soft shushing sound. A small breeze brushed my nipples erect. I stretched out my arms and circled, taking a few dance steps, feeling the old familiar stretch, my body drawing itself up and in, taut, strong.
    Willis watched, arms folded on his knees. I’d forgotten what it was like to have an audience, to see admiration and wonder. I tipped my face back to the sun, eyes closed, orange and yellow and red sparking behind my eyelids.
    “I’d like to make you look like that.” I heard the brush of grass against denim as Willis approached.
    “Like what?”
    “Ecstatic.” He bent to kiss my nipples. He slid his hands down my sides, over my hips, my butt, and then knelt to kiss my mound.
    I didn’t need to be told to open my legs. He held me, strong gym-toned arms around my knees, and his tongue parted and flicked, small nibbles and sucks and the occasional graze of his teeth. I gripped his shoulders hard, my legs shaking, and came with the colors of the sun flaring behind my closed eyes.
    “Nice?” he said, grinning up at me as I opened my eyes.
    “Ecstatic,” I said, trying to get my breathing under control.
    He stood and reached for my hand, drawing it to the front of his jeans. “I’ve never seen a woman so comfortable with being naked. With being watched.”
    “I was a dance major.”
    “Yeah. You’ve got great muscle tone.” He groaned a little as I squeezed his erection. He put his other hand on my hip, stroking, assessing.
    “What would you like me to do?”
    He blinked and looked at my mouth. “Uh…”
    I dropped to my knees and undid his jeans to reach his cock, and darted my tongue out to catch the drop of liquid that welled from the slit. He groaned again, and put his hands to my head, and I breathed him in and took him as deep as I could. His fingers dug into my shoulders, moved to grip my head, to guide me. This time it was he whose legs shook and who cried out, his hips jerking as he spilled warm and salty into my mouth.
    I released him and wiped a dribble of semen from my chin.
    “Wow,” he said. “It’s great in the open air.”
    “Like salami sandwiches,” I said as we strolled back to the blanket.
    “What?”
    “When you get up to a high altitude—higher than this, the top of a mountain, maybe—terrible food tastes great. Salami on white bread, for instance.”
    “You’re a funny girl. Woman.” He picked up and handed me the bottle of mineral water that he’d abandoned by the picnic gear. It was a polite gesture, I suspected, that I might want to rinse out, but I took a large swallow and suppressed a belch.
    “Was that better than a salami sandwich?” I asked.
    “Never even