Without touching, she is milking me

She got up off the lounger.

Eight meters, maybe. From the poolside to the sliding glass door of that house. Eight meters, and she turned it into a small eternity by walking slowly, and by the simple fact that her hips did something I had never noticed hips could do. Left, right, left, right. Not a waddle. Not a sway exactly. A statement.

"Don't go away," she teased over her shoulder, without even turning around properly.

Go away. Go away. Where was I supposed to go? My legs had resigned. They had handed in their notice. I was stuck to the ground like a fence post somebody had cemented in, and she knew it, and that was the whole joke, and she was twenty-one and I was not, and there is a canyon of difference between those two ages that no one warns you about.

The sliding door clicked shut. Anthony was somewhere inside, sulking about something, probably me.

And then I did the stupidest thing a boy can do in that situation, which is to think.

What is she changing into? She said underwear. Underwear, why underwear, who changes out of a bikini into underwear to sit next to a pool? Is that normal? Do French people do that? Is it a test? Am I being tested? What is the answer to the test?

I got no further than that.

The door opened again.

And Élodie came out in the skimpiest pair of panties I had ever seen in my life, white, and—this is the part that killed me—semi-transparent, in that specific Mediterranean light where the sun goes through fabric and shows you the shape of everything underneath without ever fully showing you anything. And above the panties: nothing. No top. No bikini top. No bra. Nothing. Bare breasts, tanned, moving with each step, with that weight and that slight bounce that bikini tops spend their entire careers hiding from you.

My face went red.

Not pink. Red. The full furnace. I could feel it in my ears. My ears were hot. Who gets hot ears? Me. That's who.

I did what I always did, the only reliable strategy in my arsenal.

I looked down at the pool tiles.

Blue and white, blue and white, a little mosaic by the steps, one tile missing near the skimmer. Beautiful. Fascinating. Ten out of ten. Look at those tiles.

But she had other plans. She came and stood right in front of me. Not beside. In front. Standing so that when I finally raised my eyes I would be looking straight at her stomach, then her breasts, then her face, in that order, like climbing a staircase.

"Do you like my underwear, honey?" Her sweet-warm voice, teasing me like she had all the time in the world.

"Eh—yes."

"Look at my boobies," she whispered.

So I looked at her boobies.

Two seconds, maybe. Then back to the tiles. Two more seconds. Then up again, because a man has to breathe at some point.

"I think I might get a sunburn," she said, in that tone of voice that means you are going to be the solution to this problem whether you like it or not. "Can you put suntan on them?"

On them.

On the boobies.

Then she took me by the hand. She just reached down and took my hand like it was the most normal thing on earth, and the touch went up my arm and straight down my body and into my gut, and something in my swimming trunks—the old dark yellow ones, the ones that hid nothing, remember—something moved, and then a warmth spread, and then, quietly, without a single warning from anybody:

I came.

In my trunks. Standing up. Fully dressed in the sense that swimming trunks count as dressed. From holding hands. From holding hands and looking at a pair of boobies for four seconds.

Élodie looked down. She looked at the wet mark spreading on the front of the old yellow trunks. She looked at my face, which by now had reached a shade of red normally reserved for fire hydrants.

"Do you like me so much?" she asked.

And here is the thing. There was no mockery in it. She was pleased. She was delighted, actually, the way a person is delighted when a machine they have been fiddling with suddenly lights up and does exactly what the manual promised.

I nodded. Shyly. Which is the only way I know how to nod.

"Come with me on the lounger."

She sat down on the long one, the one that lies flat, and she tapped the space beside her with two fingers. Tap tap. Like calling a dog. And I was a dog, and I came.

"You need to do my boobies."

She handed me the tube. White suntan lotion, that thick cream stuff, coconut smell, the kind that comes out of a tube with a little round shoulder cap. My hand was shaking. Genuinely shaking, like a man about to do his driving test. I squeezed out a blob into my palm, way too much, a small mountain of white cream, and I reached over to the breast nearest me.

And I smeared it. Carefully. So carefully. Barely touching. Like the skin was a museum object. Down the side, around the curve, up over the top, and my thumb brushed the nipple, and she made a small sound, and that sound went into me like a current, and—

I came again.

Two minutes. Two orgasms. In a row. And I was still holding the tube.

"Oh my," she said, and she turned her head to look at me properly, propped up on one elbow now, admiring me the way you admire a horse. "You sure have a lot for such a young man."

I had never been told that before by anybody. I had nothing to compare it to. I just held the tube.

"Come do my other breast," she whispered.

I did the other breast.

And then the afternoon simply continued. That is what nobody tells you. It doesn't stop because you've already been humiliated twice. The sun moves. The water in the pool gets a bit warmer. Somewhere a cicada starts up like a small chainsaw. And Élodie lies there on her back in her semi-transparent panties with suntan lotion on both breasts, one of them smeared by a shaking teenager's young hand, and she starts to tease.

She did it with almost nothing. That's the terrifying part. She had a whole arsenal, and she only ever needed the smallest tools. A finger drawn down her own stomach, slow, while talking about something completely unrelated. Her knee drifted over so it touched my thigh and stayed there. Turning on her front so her back arched, and then asking me, oh so innocently, whether the backs of her legs had any sun. Her heel, later, resting against my shin. Her soft fingers on my forearm once, just once, to make a point about something, and that was enough.

I came two more times.

Two more. Just from that. From a finger, from a knee, from a heel on a shin. Her soft fingers made my young balls spew whenever she wanted them to, like she had a button for it and the button was connected by a wire to somewhere deep in my body. And she loved it. She absolutely loved the power. You could see it in her face, that lazy, pleased, cat-with-the-cream look. She had found a toy, and the toy was many, many months younger than her and completely in her hands, and the toy replenished itself, which is the great joke of being a young man.

By late afternoon I was empty. Or so I believed.

She turned to me, sat up, and looked at the state of me—the red face, the wet trunks, the dried white smear of suntan lotion on my own hand, and the general collapse of a human being—and she made a decision. A mercy.

"You cum back tomorrow, honey. One PM."

One PM. Not morning. She was saving me from a fifth one, which at that point would have been painful, and she knew it, because she knew more about my body than I did.

"You go home now and rest. Promise to be here tomorrow, babe."

"Yes," I said, softly, to the tiles, because I still couldn't hold eye contact for longer than the duration of one sentence.

And I walked home across the road, slowly, with a strange heavy ache low in my guts and a feeling like two little stones had been wrung out completely dry, and I did not sleep much that night, and the next day at one PM on the dot, I was standing at that gate like a man reporting for duty.

To be continued.