It has been five nights since Tony gave me my first orgasm. He has given me another on each night since. I have never given him one. I was not ready. But I am ready now.
“Teach me how to give you an orgasm,” I tell him.
“Are you sure?” he asks, “you don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to. Teach me.”
He gives me that kind smirk of his, and we take off our clothes. We lie down and he kisses me with an eager, open mouth. I mirror the motions of his lips and tongue. I think I am getting better at kissing each time. He always goes slow to start, and I think he is teaching me. But after many long, soft moments, he increases the pressure, increases the speed, begins to do things with his tongue that I cannot keep track of, and I yield to him with a small, muffled sound.
He begins to kiss his way down my body, but I stop him with a hand on his head.
“You don’t want one first?” he asks, looking up at me.
“I want to learn,” I tell him with impatience. I long for the pleasure of his mouth on me, of his tongue drawing my orgasm from deep within my being. But right now, even more than that, I long to please him. I am always failing to please, always failing to be enough, always failing. But, with him, I feel a little less like I am doomed to be a disappointment.
He lies flat on his back and I hover over him and initiate a kiss. He rests his hand on the side of my face - the side that is both metal and flesh - and kisses me back with enthusiasm, though this time he uses more passive motions, waiting for me to take the lead. For a moment I am unsure how to guide the kiss, but I have memorized all of his moves and so I choose one and begin to work my tongue against his. I scan the list of techniques in my mind and shuffle them, enacting them in a new order. I am trying to make it my own, but I fear I am doing a poor job, and I pull away.
But then I look at his face: it shows enjoyment, and a desire for more.
“I like the way you kiss,” he tells me. I wonder if he means it. I am afraid he is mocking me; even after all his kindness, I still panic at times, disbelieving of his sincerity, disbelieving that anyone could want me this way.
“I like the way you kiss,” he repeats, and this time he is staring into my eyes with such pointed determination, such honest emphasis, that I cannot help but believe him.
“Thank you,” I reply with a smile I didn’t mean to show, and I kiss him again, but only for a brief time because I am so eager to explore his body. I kiss across his shoulders and chest, just as he does to me when our roles are reversed. I can feel the bones close to the skin; he has lost too much weight in our time here. Thinking about it makes me sad for him, and I press my lips to his collar bone with intensity. He cups his hand around the back of my head, and I want to melt into him. I hesitate - then permit myself to bury my face in the bend between his neck and his shoulder. He wraps his arms around my back, and I want to cry a little because it feels so nice, because, despite our dire situation, his nearness is making me feel safe.
I pull away a little, frightened by my emotions, and return to my task. I aim to cover his chest and stomach with grazes and presses of my lips. I kiss the metal device on his chest the way he kisses the metal plates on my body. I do it even though I know his metal is detachable, and I wish I had known him when he had the device that was a part of him, when he was part machine, like me.
I settle at each of his nipples for a time. I trace the tip of my tongue over each areola again and again. I use a flat tongue to lap over each circle of puckered flesh. I wonder if I should suck on them, the way he sucks on mine, but decide instead to kiss down his stomach toward my goal.
But when I get there, to his already erect penis, when I find it there, so close to my face, so imposing and unfamiliar, I jerk away unintentionally.
“Hey,” he says gently, “you don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I rush to reply. “I want to. I honestly want to. Tell me what to do. I do not know how to do it.”
“It will be easiest to make me come using your hand.”
“No, I want to use my mouth, like you do for me. If,” I pause, “if you want me to.”
“I would absolutely love that,” he says, impassioned, “but I don’t want to pressure you.”
“Just teach me. Please.”
“Start with your hand.”
I raise my good hand and reach for it. It is appealing; I am compelled to touch it, to examine it with my fingertips despite my lingering trepidation. I place two fingers lightly on the tip and he moans richly. It startles me. I yearn to inspire more sounds of pleasure. I stroke up and down the side of it, then wrap my fingers around the base, taking it into my hand. I gaze at it, admiring its form and the sensation of its firmness against my skin.
“Are you okay?” he asks a little breathlessly.
“Yes,” I nod, very much enjoying myself, “tell me what to do.”
He reaches down and covers my hand with his.
“Pump up and down like this,” he instructs as he moves my hand in a fluid motion. It feels strange, but interesting. He releases my hand and I continue the motion on my own.
“Is it good?” I ask, hearing the fear in my voice, the fear of how he will reply.
“So good,” he moans. His words make me feel warm inside, and I don’t try to hide my smile. He smiles back at me, and I am startled because it is a smile I have not seen him make before. I cannot quite decode it, but it makes me want to be closer to him, so I bend my head and push through my apprehension and press my lips to the tip of his penis.
“Nebula,” he cries, and I gasp. I have never heard anyone speak my name that way: with wild desire and explicit appreciation. I continue to raise and lower my hand around him as I kiss the tip over and over. I do not know if this is what I am meant to do, but I like it, and it is clear that he does too, so I keep going.
“That feels so good, oh fuck,” he groans.
His words give me the courage to use my tongue, and I lick all around the head. He makes a low sound of pleasure. I run my tongue around it again and again. The skin is smooth and salty. I lick over the tip.
“Oh, oh fuck, Nebula.”
I moan without meaning to, because I am so elated to be pleasing him.
“I want to use my mouth more,” I tell him, “tell me what to do.”
“You’re doing a pretty damn good job working it out yourself,” he replies. “You could make me come like this, with your hand working the shaft and your mouth on the head. It feels so good I could come right away if I let myself. But if you want to put more of your mouth on it, you can move your hand lower down. Take however much you want in your mouth and leave the rest covered by your hand. Work your hand and your mouth in sync.”
I nod, taking mental notes.
“What about these?” I ask as I dip my fingers down to brush momentarily against his testicles. He makes a small gasp.
“Up to you how much or little you want to play with those. You don’t need to at all, but it feels good for me if you do. But you have to be really gentle with them.”
I nod again. I wish I had two good hands so I could stimulate his erection and his testicles at the same time. I think about how much better someone with two hands could please him. I am glad, at least, to have my mouth to bring him pleasure. I take a deep breath. I slip my hand toward the base of his erection, leaving the top portion free. I part my lips. I stare at it.
“You don’t have to,” he says after I have stared for too long, “please, I really don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He sits up, and I let go. His kind concern for me makes me ache a little in that way his affection often does. No one has ever treated me the way he treats me.
He takes my face into his hands and kisses me with tenderness - too much tenderness, I am feeling too much, my heart is beating wildly and it is more than just the lust - I ought to pull away, but I only deepen the kiss. He makes a muffled sound of pleased surprise. I reach again for his erection and begin to pump up and down as we enjoy one another’s mouths.
“I do want to,” I tell him when we finally break apart. I stare adamantly into his eyes. I want him to see me. I want him to see that I desire this. I want him to know what it means to me to be pleasing someone. I want him to know how close I feel to him, and how terribly I want him to be the one I please.
“Good,” he says, staring back at me, and I think he understands. He lies back again, and I position myself on my stomach between his legs the way he does when he makes me come with his mouth.
With curiosity, I cradle his testicles in my good hand. They feel velvety, and interestingly weighted. I rub my palm against each one and stroke it with my fingertips, careful to be gentle. He makes little moans and gasps and each sound sends a thrill throughout my being.
I shift my hand to encircle the base of his erection and hold it steady. I feel the curls of soft, dark pubic hair brushing against my skin. I press my lips to the tip, and he groans. I open my mouth and wrap my lips around the head. I can feel the shaft twitch against my grip.
“Nebula, oh fuck,” he pants.
Slowly, I lower my mouth onto it. I try, but I cannot figure out how to fit the entire thing, so I leave my hand on the bottom section as he suggested.
“Fuck, oh god, your mouth feels so good.”
I feel warm and glad at his words. I suck in my cheeks so that they press against the firmness of his erection. I raise and lower my head, moving my hand in sync. I try to swirl my tongue around the head each time it enters my mouth but find it difficult to coordinate without breaking the rhythm; I do my best.
Reluctantly, I rest my metal hand on his thigh as I work. I do not know why I want so badly to do it. My metal parts cannot feel his flesh. But out of the corner of my eye I see him cover my mechanical hand with his own hand. I cannot sense his touch physically, yet I am overwhelmed by emotion. I consider snatching my hand away, but I do not.
I feel his other hand land on the back of my head, then slide down to rub the back of my neck; it soothes me, and it excites me. I increase the speed of my movements, enjoying the feel of him in my mouth, the sensation of his hardness pressing against my tongue. Even more than that, though, I enjoy his loud, rich moans, and the blissful knowledge that I am causing them.
“I need to come soon,” he cries after a time. “You may not like the taste. I’ll tell you right before so you can take your mouth off and use just your hand,” he pants.
But I don’t want to use just my hand. I want him to come in my mouth, to come against my tongue like I come against his. I want to feel the wet proof of his satisfaction slide down my throat. I want to taste the reality of it. I move my head as fast as I can.
“Oh, fuck, Nebula, Nebula, I’m gonna come,” he groans, but he is clearly holding it off, waiting for me to pull away, so instead I remove my hand and push my head farther down with a garbled sound so he will know what I desire.
“Nebula,” he screams, and I feel his ejaculate spurt into my mouth, taste his passion coat my tongue, and I relish the sound of my name spoken with such pleasure, exclaimed with such satiation. His sperm tastes bitter, but oddly appealing, and I swallow it all.
“Nebula,” he whispers as I remove my mouth. I see that there is a little drop of wet still on the tip and I lick it off. He shudders.
“Did I do it right?” I ask, straining to conceal my terror that he will say no.
“Oh yes,” he replies, satisfaction plain in his tone. He gives me a dreamy smile and opens his arms. I climb up into them and lay my head on his chest. “That felt so good,” he praises me, “you did such a good job.”
I can feel my smile take over my face. I do not hide it, only kiss him with a gentle passion and allow myself to feel pride.