Mind Caviar Fiction

Matti Jackson writes erotica and other fiction in Tasmania-- that bushy, triangular bit at the bottom of Australia.

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The Selfless Lover

I first met him at a Sunday morning brunch at a restaurant with a few friends. He had come along with one of them, Alison. I assumed she had spent the night with him after one of her Saturday night party rages. He wasn’t anything special to look at but he was just so attentive and thoughtful. Not just to Alison, but to all of us. He ran off to get napkins for everyone; he asked for the salt and sugar from the next table; he gestured to the waiter as we finished our coffees. It was refreshing to have a man thinking of a gaggle of chicks before himself.

After meeting him that morning, I ran into him again several times over the following few weeks. Each time he was thoughtful, ministering to me in some way - asking about my work, the flat I had just moved into, buying me a coffee or opening a door. Each time he made me just a little special.

He piqued my interest so I asked Alison about him and, importantly, about their relationship.

“Oh, no”, she said, “we’re not sleeping together. He’s not my type at all. He’s always so nice its spooky. Every time you turn around he’s doing something for you. In the beginning I felt really valued but after a while I wanted some space. You know, there’s something to be said for the Australian wombat.”

“Eats, roots, and leaves.” we chorused, recalling an old joke.

Well, Allison might still be raging, but I was feeling the ravages of the real world after leaving university and finding myself on a very low rung on a very long corporate ladder. My life now consisted of long days, power dressed, trying to impress similarly power dressed ciphers a couple of rungs above me. Those padded shoulders have a purpose, you know-- to push other people aside as one rushes for the next promotion.

I would come home at 9, or 11, exhausted, wondering what I had achieved and why. Long soaks in the bath and red wine had only limited therapeutic value. I needed to have assurance that I was important-- that I had a place in the universe. I needed to feel that I was at least a minor planet with even one moon revolving about me.

Each time I met Iain he gave me that feeling.

In the end it was me who asked him home and into bed. We had separately attended a housewarming-- Alison’s, in fact-- and he seemed a bit quieter than usual, as if large groups confused him. We chatted early in the evening and I saw him a few times through the night. Each time he seemed a little more apart from the group. As the party began to thin out we found ourselves together again. He seemed relieved to be asking about my week at work and my plants.

“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” I said “They, and I, only live at the other end of the street.” As I closed my mouth I thought “What have I done? Do I want to sleep with him? Are there dirty knickers on the floor?”

“Okay”, he smiled, obviously happy to get away from the party.

 As we made our goodbyes, Alison leant forward, pecked me on the cheek and whispered “Don’t feel sorry for him.” I riled against the inference that I couldn’t manage my own sex life and a little disappointed to be reminded that he was not virgin territory. The thought crossed my mind that we girls might be entering a new, rather depressing, phase of our friendship, trading boyfriends and lovers.

 It was a pleasant walk to my flat. The air was a little cool, sharp on the skin, and we could see some stars in spite of the streetlights. He walked at my pace and continued to ask about me. Had I always lived in Sydney? How long had I known Alison? Did I like city life? He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. Most men only talk about themselves-- even when they’re talking about their football heroes. It was a seductive change to be asked about myself. 

At my flat he diagnosed my plants’ ills. I put some Diana Krall on the CD player, we drank some wine and I kissed him. He kissed back but kept it short. He pulled his face back, looked into my eyes, and kissed me again.

 Kissing this man was different to the other men I’d kissed. He didn’t immediately try to push his tongue down my throat nor did he keep his mouth closed hard against me. His kiss was dry until I parted his lips with my tongue. His tongue was playful with mine and only went into my mouth as I drew it back with my own. In my mouth it explored my teeth, gums and tongue, firm against my lips, but not overwhelming. His hands rested against my hips and later my breasts outside my clothes. Even though I was wearing a skirt, he didn’t put his hand under it or even on my leg. He was obviously enjoying himself but this unusual man was following my lead-- responding to me. And it felt as if he was in no hurry, that he had all night for me and nowhere important he had to be tomorrow. Except wherever it was I wanted him to go. 

It was a luxurious feeling, knowing that you’re the one in the driving seat and your partner is taking their cues from you, responding to your wants and needs. I could see why the men I’d had before had been so resistant at giving it up, why they had worked so hard at keeping me in the attentive, subservient role. And here was a man being attentive to me for a change. How could I not take him into my bed?

 Beside the bed we stood and kissed again. He slowly ran his hands down my back, still outside my clothes. He cupped my buttocks as if supporting and savouring them and pulled me into him. As our lips parted I could smell myself, excited. I pulled him onto the bed. I undid his shirt buttons and gazed at his chest. It was hairless but the muscles were defined and his shoulders wide. I ran my hands over it. It was firm, but the skin was soft. He lay on his back watching me, a smile on his face.

 I was aware of his thigh between my legs, firm against me. I couldn’t resist rubbing myself against his leg. I smelled myself again and knew I must be very wet. He rolled me onto my back, gently held my hands beside my head and kissed me again. It started long and gentle, but I needed more. I penetrated him with my tongue, pushing as much of myself into him as I could. I could feel the strain at the root of my tongue but needed to get still more of me into him. I drew my lips back and our teeth clashed against each other.

 Even as I did it, I was thinking, “This is what men do to me. I hate it-- being invaded,” but I couldn’t stop myself. And he accepted me, opening his mouth to me, stroking my tongue with his. His compliance only made my urgency greater.

 The kiss ended. I lay there stunned by my audacity. I had never, ever, kissed like that before. It felt as if I had bruised my own tongue. I didn’t know I had that sort of passion in me.

 He moved between my legs, his face against my mound. I felt his tongue against my knickers and tights. It was slow and firm, stroking me from my perineum along my labia to the front of my folds. Then it stroked me again. And again. I wanted to lift my bottom and slide my clothes off but I didn’t want to disrupt his rhythm. I couldn’t gather myself enough to remove my underwear. My legs opened wider without any conscious instruction from my mind. I could smell myself again, richer, fuller, replacing the oxygen in the air.

 His tongue found my clitoris, stroked past it then returned and stroked it again through the cloth. A crazy thought went through my mind, “What underpants was I wearing? Fancy ones I had treated myself to sometime or some daggy cotton pair that I’d found on the floor that morning? Probably the latter, given my laundry habits.” Even as I was embarrassed at my lack of domesticity, it was unimportant.

 He was sucking on my clit, through my clothes. How could he do that when some other men hadn’t even managed to find my nub when I was nude? I grabbed his hair with both my hands and pulled his face into my sex. Could he still breathe? As long as the pulsing suction didn’t stop, I didn’t care. I felt it up into my belly and back to my anus. Then I could feel it in my nipples, my fingertips and toes. I couldn’t believe it. I was coming and I was still fully dressed.

 My legs snapped closed. I could feel his ears imprinted into my thighs. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I needed him to stop but didn’t want him to. Then it was too much, I moved my hands to his forehead and pushed him off me. He crawled beside me; lay his head against my breast, his hand caressing my belly as I panted. I tried to speak but couldn’t make my mouth work. Finally I managed a garbled thanks.

 “No, thank you.” he replied.

 I drifted into sleep.

 Later I woke to church bells calling the religious while I smugly felt blessed to my core. I was still dressed. He lay asleep, his arm across my stomach, still in his jeans.

 I woke again, aware that he was lying awake beside me. I muzzled into his side.

 “Hello,” he whispered.


I moved my hand to his crotch, still in his jeans. I tried to slide my hand into his clothes but his belt was too tight. He unclenched his belt. I undid the button at his waist and unzipped his fly. I found his penis, soft, silky-skinned. I pushed past it to his balls. I stroked them with my middle fingers. It was like stroking my own labia. I could feel him hardening against my wrist. I rolled onto my elbow and kissed him. This time I wanted to see him, to return the favour, to thank him for what he’d done to me. I moved down in the bed and grabbed hold of his jeans. As I pulled them down, he lifted his hips. I could feel his buttocks tighten against my knuckles. His trousers got tangled at his feet, half inside out and going nowhere. 

He sat up and pulled them off from the cuffs, one leg at a time. His unhurried motions looked like ballet. He leant over and took my left breast into his mouth. His tongue circled my nipple. I pushed my chest into his face. As his hands rested against my ribs I remembered that I wanted to minister to him this time. I took his hands in mine and pushed them back past his body until he was lying on the bed. Holding them at his sides, I lifted my leg over his and straddled his pelvis.

I looked down his body. His hair was cut short without regard to fashion, his eyes set a little too deep and his nose inelegantly wide. What set his face off were his wide lips curving out of his bushy beard, wet and inviting. The corners of his mouth turned up, a natural smile. His pubic hair was rusty-coloured. I looked back to his beard and saw tinges of red I had missed before, but there was no red on the top of his head. I wondered if the colour graduated all the way to his toes. Was the hair on them carrot-coloured? The hair around his groin was also thin and fine. I could see the pale skin beneath. And the freckles. I had never thought that anyone might have freckles around their genitals before. He did, and even on his cock. The sight of freckles on an erect prick seemed incongruous. I could also see the scar of his circumcision below his glans. How, I wondered, do men feel about that operation? Do they feel reduced? Damaged? Is it some sort of irreconcilable rejection by their parents when they were only babies?

 As I took him in my hand I was aware that I had never before looked over a lover like this, lingeringly, with all the time in the world. Not rushing to slot appendage A into slot B like some sort of biological quotient test-- the round block in the round hole. It was so languid, sexily nonsexual somehow. I looked back at his face and saw he’d been watching me. Not my body, assessing my parts, weighing my breasts, pinching my rolls, but watching my face. It felt as if he was seeing something more of me than my body. I blushed.

“Do you ever think about being circumcised?” I asked, circling his scar with my finger.

“I’ve never known anything different. As a kid I would sometimes roll the skin forward over my glans and wonder how it would be different. There are some guys, I’ve read about, who hang weights from the skin to stretch it and make a new one. I couldn’t be bothered trying that hard to make something I’m not sure I’d even like. I wouldn’t have it done to a kid of mine, though.”

“What do you like?” I asked, wanting to distract him from looking into my face.

“In bed, in women, or in the world?” he asked back.

His question was taking control, but I didn’t want that. “In women,” I said, trying to regain authority.

“I like women who are comfortable in themselves. Women who don’t hide behind seeing to men. I like you.”

He was still watching my face. I needed to stop him. I grabbed the nearest loose thing and held it over his eyes. To my horror I saw I’d blindfolded him with my knickers. And, yes, I had been wearing unflattering cotton ones. I could see their stain over his nose. I could feel myself blush even more deeply than before.

He drew his breath in through his nose. “Ummm. I’ve been here before.”

The mood had changed and I needed him in me. Or rather, I needed to be around him, to engulf him.

The mood had changed and I needed him in me. Or rather, I needed to be around him, to engulf him.

I knew I should relax my mouth but couldn’t. My orgasm seemed to go on and on as I rocked and bit. The coming was different than I normally had with a man. It was more like a really good masturbation to fantasies I’d never share with another person. I don’t know how long it lasted, but finally I started to come down, my rocking slowing, my face relaxing, my skin sweaty. I let his fingers free and collapsed forward onto his chest, my face against his. And my knickers. I smelt myself and couldn’t tell if it were my sex or my underwear. He pulled the panties aside and kissed me full on the mouth.

I blushed again at what I’d done, wondering where the passion had come from.

“Thank you” he whispered and kissed me again.

I felt the wet and warmth of my sex. I also felt a little embarrassed that I had used him somehow, that even as had I intended to service him I had become overwhelmed by my own passions.

With other men I had always been aware of their needs and found my satisfaction, at least to some degree, in their release. Sex with Iain seemed turned about. At its height I had only been aware of my own body and its sensations. Had I been a bad, negligent partner to him? Was this what Alison meant when she told me not to feel sorry for him? And for what had he thanked me?

Copyright  ©  2003 Matti Jackson. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

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