You have to relax first? I have to relax first. But she doesn't send it, because she doesn't want to spook him. It feels like she always spooks him. She comes on too hot and heavy, she needs to chill. So she sends an answer that isn't, apparently, too tepid. They meet up. They swim, and get leeches, and Joan tries not to faint like that kid in Stand By Me. She doesn't reference Stand By Me because Quentin seems like the kind of person to have film school opinions on a Rob Reiner movie.
Quentin brought a blanket. Joan bought a large jug of home-brewed sweet tea. They make out in the shade, and Joan feels unbelievably young, in a childhood she never had, with the kind of boy she would have repudiated during her actual childhood. It feels good to step out of her history, but with the knowledge she's gained from her own.
Which is to say, she still knows how to give a hummer. She eventually gets him naked, gets him worked up, watches blue sparks skitter over sensitive skin. She works his dick slowly, slowly to the back of her throat, until her breath moves around the head. Her throat muscles constrict around it. She hums, she pets his chest, she looks up at him through her eyelashes. All this effort is always, always worth it to see the reactions it writes in their bodies, on their voices. To hear them moan and feel them twitch. She wants that for Quentin.
The sweet tea cuts through the smell and feel of murky water. The taste of it on her tongue, the sun licking the lake off them, the blanket against his back and her sides and tits under his palms, it all feels like summer. When she slides down his body, chasing his zadza as it ripples down, he thinks for the first time in a long time about songs with trilling guitars and rolling bass, scratched CDs and sweating, lukewarm beers.
His fingers follow her down, petting through her hair at first and springing away-- "Oh--shhhhit, oh, fuck, Joan." Laying flat, there's too much tension, too much leverage in his hips that he doesn't trust. Quentin props up on one elbow, chest sinking, and gingerly sweeps her hair back from her eyes. "Jesus--careful." Like this isn't expressly what they came here to do.
He doesn't need to say it twice. Joan instantly moves off him, but not too far. Her mouth-- already a bit swollen from kissing and sucking-- is an open redness next to his twitching cock, her eyes wide with concern. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, jesus, no! Just--" He doesn't even think about drawing his fingertips around the corner of her mouth, tracing back down her jaw to the top of her throat. He'd just been there. He'd just been-- "Sorry, just--you're not fucking around, huh? Sorry, I'll chill. I'm trying to chill. I am.
Joan settles her head on his flat hip and begins, idly, to jerk him off. She likes talking to men when they're hard. They're either more honest, or so dishonest it's comforting. She thinks she knows which one Quentin will be. "Careful about what, Quentin? That your big dick is gonna choke me?"
She turns her head to nip at his hipbone, making it clear-- she hopes-- that she's teasing.
"Hey, a person could drown in four inches of water," He snorts, keeps his fingers in her hair, farther down and more boldly twisting and turning (tangling) now that the position is a little lower risk. "That doesn't hurt? You're not--I mean, you're okay?"
"Nah. I had this- I guess he was my boyfriend? And he was really into deepthroating porn, so I taught myself how. Only took a month." She moves her hand over his dick, appreciating that he's being patient with it. "It's very hot on my end, so don't think you're the only one having a good time."
She gets a flush out of him with that. Quentin's eyebrows raise, lips purse so his breath rushes out slow. "If it's hot for you, I'm--fucking--flying."
Her lip curls in a sharp smile. "I could teach you," she says. She adjusts the angle of their bodies, curling herself forward so he can see her touching herself as she touches him. "That'd be hotter."
His tongue scrapes over his lower lip, head tilts to follow the angle she shows him. He shifts at the hips, in her hand. "Sure. I'll just--call you the next time I've got a guy with his pants down. I'll just tell him I'm getting coaching."
Joan rolls her eyes, and shifts a little closer to him on the grass. She lets go of his dick so she can prop herself up on one arm, letting Quentin pillow his head in the crook of her elbow. Her other hand brushes his jaw, pets his lower lip. "Be more creative."
She pushes two fingers against his mouth, and will move them into his mouth if he'll let her.
As Joan slides up his body, Quentin takes the lead he thinks she's giving him, palm following her spine down until it rounds her ass and squeezes. His pinky and ring fingers catch slick off her cleft just a moment before hers split the seam of his lip. His hand stills, brow pinches in puzzlement--and his eyes light up as he catches on.
Quentin's tongue slips under her fingertips, jaw loosens so she can slide back. He's got the very basics, at least!
Joan peppers Quentin's face with kisses, going for gentle, relaxing. Her fingers move in and out of his mouth without much depth. "That's good, you've got it. Good boy."
She nips his jaw, sucks his skin. "You're so hot like this. Try'n relax for me. Breath through your nose."
Carefully, tentatively, her fingers press deeper, finding the back of his throat. They retreat almost immediately; all she wants to do is test him.
The cradling (of her arm, of her voice and accent going creamy) feels strange enough to have his ears burning, and he takes that deep breath she recommends to cool off. He hums when she retreats, fingers pinching around her ass as he lifts his head insistently. Eager to suck her fingers farther back and prove himself. He can get it--he's not a kid.
She sees his vulnerability, the way he clearly wants to rise to the challenge, and something solidifies in her gut. She kisses his temple and murmurs into his ear as her fingers work into her mouth again, only staying at the back of his for three seconds.
"I thought you might not like it when I take the reins, but I think you do."
Three seconds, and then he swallows as her fingertips retreat. I can take it, he notes even while he tries to relax back against her arm, I can handle it.
Forcing it, he means. Pushing it too far, just the way he assumed she would do, just the way it's been asked of him before. He likes to have her in charge; he'll like it even better once it clicks that she's tell him to go slow. His fingers fidget in scrunches and circles at the back of her thigh.
His eyes stick on hers, needy and a little blown, but thinking. He huffs noisily through his nose. How not to. He doesn't like it. I didn't want you to get stuck--working. Today.
"Then stop begging me to fist your esophagus and be patient." Who says romance is dead. Her fingers touch soft palate, staying a little longer before retreating again. "Do this to yourself every other day. After a month, you'll be a pro."
A snort makes it harder to keep her fingers down, but she pulls back just in time to keep him from tripping over them. His mouth purses for hers when she bows in, teeth pinch light around her knuckles to murmur (aborted), "Joan."
His tongue slips up knuckle by knuckle as he lifts his chin, away from her hands. Clearer: "Joan." A sharp little clap against her ass. "C'mere. Bring it up here. Lemme do you while you, um. Demo that. Again."
She laughs, hiding her face in the cook of his neck. "You want me to ride you while you suck on my hand? Pretty fucking versatile."
But she likes the idea. She aligns their bodies, petting his chest, his stomach. She touches herself before she slides down on him, making a show of it, before using that same hand to press against his lips.
He really means to contest that no, no, no, Joan should ride his face, but the moment he tips into the heat of her, he cannot argue with the results. The moan echoing around her fingers spikes when he catches her taste. Quentin's hands squeeze at her knees and drag up her thighs, tracking the tension as she rocks. His tongue squeezes between her fingers--less eager-to-impress, but still absolutely eager.
How can someone he's pretty sure would give him a noogie at the drop of a hat be so hot? She does it naturally, like lacing her boots or hauling water. Maybe that's where the heat comes from--the ease of it. Maybe she's lowkey some kind of witch. Whatever. His heels ground in the blanket to hitch his hips up, insistent there as he remembers the patience in his mouth.
Joan, meanwhile, is still gathering information. She doesn't usually get the appeal of guys like Quentin-- not to adult women who aren't afraid of real men anymore. But Quentin's unquestionably an adult, even if he isn't Kurt fucking Russel. There's an appeal, a flavor. Her fingers slide between his lips, gently fucking his mouth, and she kisses his jaw.
"I think I misjudged you," she says. "I figured you'd hate being told what to do. But I think... I think you just want me to earn it."
Her fingers plunge a little deeper, stay a little longer, as her hips roll forward.
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...by a lake. Have you ever been deepthroated by the lakeside?
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Quentin brought a blanket. Joan bought a large jug of home-brewed sweet tea. They make out in the shade, and Joan feels unbelievably young, in a childhood she never had, with the kind of boy she would have repudiated during her actual childhood. It feels good to step out of her history, but with the knowledge she's gained from her own.
Which is to say, she still knows how to give a hummer. She eventually gets him naked, gets him worked up, watches blue sparks skitter over sensitive skin. She works his dick slowly, slowly to the back of her throat, until her breath moves around the head. Her throat muscles constrict around it. She hums, she pets his chest, she looks up at him through her eyelashes. All this effort is always, always worth it to see the reactions it writes in their bodies, on their voices. To hear them moan and feel them twitch. She wants that for Quentin.
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His fingers follow her down, petting through her hair at first and springing away-- "Oh--shhhhit, oh, fuck, Joan." Laying flat, there's too much tension, too much leverage in his hips that he doesn't trust. Quentin props up on one elbow, chest sinking, and gingerly sweeps her hair back from her eyes. "Jesus--careful." Like this isn't expressly what they came here to do.
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"Just be careful."
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She turns her head to nip at his hipbone, making it clear-- she hopes-- that she's teasing.
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She pushes two fingers against his mouth, and will move them into his mouth if he'll let her.
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Quentin's tongue slips under her fingertips, jaw loosens so she can slide back. He's got the very basics, at least!
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She nips his jaw, sucks his skin. "You're so hot like this. Try'n relax for me. Breath through your nose."
Carefully, tentatively, her fingers press deeper, finding the back of his throat. They retreat almost immediately; all she wants to do is test him.
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"I thought you might not like it when I take the reins, but I think you do."
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Forcing it, he means. Pushing it too far, just the way he assumed she would do, just the way it's been asked of him before. He likes to have her in charge; he'll like it even better once it clicks that she's tell him to go slow. His fingers fidget in scrunches and circles at the back of her thigh.
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It's a genuine question as her fingers work back to his throat, pressing and retreating.
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She kisses the corner of his mouth.
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His tongue slips up knuckle by knuckle as he lifts his chin, away from her hands. Clearer: "Joan." A sharp little clap against her ass. "C'mere. Bring it up here. Lemme do you while you, um. Demo that. Again."
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But she likes the idea. She aligns their bodies, petting his chest, his stomach. She touches herself before she slides down on him, making a show of it, before using that same hand to press against his lips.
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How can someone he's pretty sure would give him a noogie at the drop of a hat be so hot? She does it naturally, like lacing her boots or hauling water. Maybe that's where the heat comes from--the ease of it. Maybe she's lowkey some kind of witch. Whatever. His heels ground in the blanket to hitch his hips up, insistent there as he remembers the patience in his mouth.
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"I think I misjudged you," she says. "I figured you'd hate being told what to do. But I think... I think you just want me to earn it."
Her fingers plunge a little deeper, stay a little longer, as her hips roll forward.
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🎀?