Handjob Request: A Rough Day's Delight

The rain hammered against the panoramic windows of the penthouse suite, each drop a tiny, insistent reminder of the storm brewing both outside and within me. Below, the city lights blurred into a hazy, golden smear, reflecting the turmoil in my own chest. I’d been anticipating this night for weeks, a simmering heat building with every stolen glance, every whispered word, every brush of skin. Now, staring at the message on my phone, the anticipation threatened to consume me entirely.

"My Love, I know you would like to make love to me tonight, but I have had such a rough day and I’m really not up to it. But how about handing me the oil and I’ll give you a nice handjob to help you sleep.”

It was from Seraphina, a woman who had effortlessly infiltrated my life, twisting her way into my desires like a vine around a sturdy oak. She was a sculptor, her hands capable of coaxing beauty from cold stone, but tonight, they were going to be used for something far more primal. I’d met her at an art gallery opening, her presence a splash of vibrant color in a room full of muted tones. Her eyes, the shade of jade, had held a knowing glint, a silent invitation that I couldn’t resist.

Over the past few weeks, we'd built a connection based on shared secrets and mutual fascination. Her apartment, a chaotic masterpiece of half-finished sculptures and scattered sketches, had become my sanctuary. We’d spent hours lost in conversation, discussing everything from ancient mythology to the latest advances in neurobiology. And always, beneath the surface of our intellectual sparring, there was a current of undeniable desire.

Now, her message hung in the air, a blatant declaration of her intentions. It wasn’t the passionate, poetic language I'd come to expect from her, but it was direct, unapologetic, and utterly captivating. The thought of her, usually so composed and elegant, offering such an intimate request, sent a shiver down my spine.

I rose from the plush velvet sofa, the rain intensifying its assault on the windows. The room, usually a haven of masculine elegance, felt suddenly charged with a strange, electric energy. I moved towards the walk-in closet, my senses heightened, my focus narrowed. There, on the polished marble countertop, sat the bottle of imported black truffle oil she’d gifted me last week, a small, dark treasure that now held the key to this evening’s experience.

As I reached for the bottle, my fingers brushed against a silk scarf draped over a nearby mannequin, a piece of her wardrobe that I'd been admiring for days. It was a deep crimson, the color of blood and passion, and its texture felt exquisitely smooth against my skin. I hesitated, a flicker of something unexpected stirring within me. Seraphina always had a way of pushing boundaries, of challenging my inhibitions. Was this invitation a test, a way to see how far she could push me?

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the bottle of oil and turned back to face her. She was sitting on a chaise lounge in the corner of the room, bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, framing a face that was both beautiful and alluring. She wore a simple, black silk robe, its folds clinging to her curves like liquid velvet.

"You've got it," she said, her voice low and husky, laced with a hint of anticipation. "Now, hand it over."

I placed the bottle in her outstretched hand, feeling the heat of her skin against mine. She brought it to her lips, inhaling the rich, earthy scent of the oil before pouring a generous amount into her palm. The scent filled the room, a heady mix of truffle and something else, something primal and undeniably enticing.

Her fingers curled around the bottle, her nails digging slightly into my skin. She looked up at me, her jade eyes gleaming with amusement. "Don't just stand there," she murmured, her voice a silken whisper. "Let’s get this show on the road."

I took a step closer, drawn in by her intoxicating presence. As I got closer, I noticed a small, silver ring on her finger, shaped like a coiled serpent, its eyes made of tiny, glittering rubies. It was a striking piece of jewelry, and it seemed to perfectly encapsulate her enigmatic personality.

“Let me give you a hand,” she continued, her voice barely audible above the pounding rain. “I know you'd like to give me a handjob, and I'm happy to oblige.”

Her words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all rolled into one. I felt a surge of heat rise from my stomach, a primal instinct taking over. The rain continued to lash against the windows, but I no longer noticed it. My world had narrowed to the space between us, the only thing that mattered was the intoxicating desire that pulsed between us.

With a slow, deliberate movement, I reached out and took her hand, intertwining my fingers with hers. Her grip was firm, confident, and undeniably powerful. As our hands connected, I felt a jolt of electricity course through my body, a signal that the game had begun.

“Don’t be shy,” she whispered, her breath warm against my ear. “Let me feel your pleasure.”

I leaned in, closing the distance between us. Her scent intensified, a potent blend of jasmine and something darker, something wild and untamed. My hand moved instinctively, tracing the curve of her wrist, her forearm, then slowly, deliberately, descending towards her most sensitive areas.

Her moan was soft at first, barely audible above the rain, but it quickly grew louder, more insistent, as my hand found its mark. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and anticipation. I pressed harder, feeding off her reactions, feeding off her pleasure. Her body arched against my touch, her muscles tensing and relaxing in response to my ministrations.

She began to writhe, her fingers digging into my back, her nails scraping against my skin. The rain continued to fall, but we were lost in our own private world, a world of lust, desire, and unbridled pleasure. As my hand continued its relentless assault, she let out a piercing shriek, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

The experience was overwhelming, a sensory overload that left me breathless and exhilarated. As I finally pulled away, my chest heaving, I looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of restraint. But there was only desire, a burning intensity that mirrored my own.

She smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent another shiver down my spine. “That was just the beginning,” she whispered, her voice husky with satisfaction. “Let me show you how a real handjob should be done.”

And as she took my hand once more, I knew that this was just the start of a long and passionate affair, a descent into a world of pleasure and abandon that I would never want to end. The rain continued to fall, but now, it felt like a blessing, a fitting soundtrack to the night's indulgence.

Did you like this story? Handjob Request: A Rough Day's Delight look, but like these, here Sex stories.