Cock Love

I love my SO’s cock. Long and thick, without being too much so, it fits so perfectly inside me and inside his hand. That’s right-his hand.  Because have I said this before? I love to watch him masturbate. Well, any man, really…and okay okay, women too. It is just so damned hot, I can almost work myself into an orgasm with no other stimulation than laying there next to him as he does it.
As most men do, and as I may have mentioned elsewhere before, he wakes up hard and ready to go. He also usually wakes up before me, and oftentimes I will wake to feel him stroking himself next to me, to his quickened breathing, to the feel of the bed moving as he thrusts himself into his hand. Other times, he takes advantage of my still-sleeping form, coaxing wakefulness from me with his hands and his body.
This morning I woke before him and slipped from the bed, out and away, but he soon woke up too to check on me.
Morning orgasm abridged.
Back in bed two hours later, I am reading blogs and emailing on my laptop. He is curled next to me, book in hand. I turn to look at him…and put the laptop aside.
He glances up from his book in surprise.
“You missed your morning orgasm,” I say, sliding down into the covers next to him. I stroke my hands lightly over his exposed skin, touch his mouth, which is now quirked in a smile, nip at his ear. He inhales sharply and I feel the tension in his body rise.
“I love watching you masturbate,” I say against his throat. I reach down to find him hard, as I knew he would be. “Please,” I say, “come for me.”
I watch him fill his hand with his cock, watch how he wraps his palm and fingers around himself, squeezing and tightening with each long stroke. He is a slow stroker, is this lover of mine, drawing his hand all the way down his shaft to cup his balls and back up to his swollen, red head in long slow strokes that make me ache to slip my mouth down on him.
But I don’t. I am only watching this time.
His hand is so brown against his cock, but even that is not the white I expect: as it fills with blood it darkens, the veins standing out, the mushroom cap of his head deepening to a purplish shade. He strokes slowly up and back down. His breathing is even, the room quiet except for the sound of the air conditioner clicking on-and my own excited breaths. Unconsciously I start to move against him in time with his strokes, my breathing matching his as he grows more excited. It is almost painful not to touch him, not to feel him throbbing in my hand, not to be the one pulling his excitement out of him.
And when a drop of moisture glistens just at the tip of his penis, it is all I can do not to lap it up.
But I don’t, and he slicks his hand over the crown of his head, leaving it shiny and slick. “I love your cock,” I whisper. “I love to watch you touch yourself.”
He is stroking faster now, his breathing is harsh and loud in the room. The eye at the head of his cock opens and closes like a tiny, gaping mouth. I am pressed hard along his side, my cunt pushed against his hip, riding his truncated thrusts as he begins to push back into his hand. Suddenly he is no longer stroking lazily. He grasps his cock in a tight fist and begins pumping up and down in staccato movements that match his sharp, quick breaths. His entire body is strung tight, every muscle straining upward with his thrusts. I am panting, aching, clutching at his shoulders.  Wetness pours down between my thighs.
And then he is coming. Groaning, growling, he thrusts up into his hand and the milky white fluid spurts out, over his hand, onto his belly, down the lovely shaft of his cock. He continues pumping his hand up and down, squeezing every last drop from himself, and I finally, greedily, lap it up.