The sound of rainfall dimmed as we entered the house. She must have pulled her boots off at the door, because her footsteps became muted. Then we were moving again.

The coat shifted around like she was taking it off, and then went completely still. Gripping bunches of fur for balance, I poked my head up and out of the pocket to find she had hung the jacket up on a hanger in the bathroom by the guest room.

Her eyes drifted to the gap in the awning window.

“OH,” she gave a dry smile. “VERY CLEVER.” She pulled it shut again, before returning to me, and stood a moment, as if marveling.

“SOMEONE LOOKS VERY SNUG. IS THERE ROOM FOR ONE MORE?”

“Why are we in here?”

She slipped her hand behind me, down into the pocket and scooped me up into her palm. Then she placed me onto the sink counter.

“YOU’RE GETTING A BATH NOW, LITTLE GUY.”

“I already bathed this morning.”

She laughed as she started to run the water.

“YOU SAID YOU WERE COLD. AND WE’VE GOT TO GET YOU OUT OF THAT WET SUIT, PRONTO.”

While the sink was filling up, she took my head between her fingers and lifted me up a little off the counter, while the fingers of her other hand grasped the material at one of my ankles. Then she gave a firm tug.

For one brief moment my body was pulled unbearably taut, before the superman suit slid off me in one go.

Maybe my relief and elation that I’d stopped her from driving caused me to let my guard down. Whatever it was, the feeling of my clothing altogether flying off my body with such effortless precision, leaving my stark naked body hanging limply by my head in the semi-warm air breezing over my skin (due to the inside ducted heating) had a powerful effect on me.

I was in the clutches of acute helplessness and vulnerability. In that moment, the only thing giving me a measure of reassurance was Jennifer’s affectionate smile. She found my position amusing, and seemed to enjoy prolonging it, but there was also deep warmth in her eyes. My brain seized on this affection like it was some elixir of wellbeing, and my blood started pumping hotly.

“DOES THAT HURT?” she inquired softly, referring to the way she was holding me by the head.

“No,” I said earnestly. “It just feels really weird.”

It wasn’t the only thing that did: growing arousal was panging my insides almost to the point of nausea. My groin was beginning to stir.

“YOUR NECK IS SO MUSCULAR,” she wondered aloud, sticking her face right in as she poked at my neck tendons with the end of her pinky finger. She was trying to be delicate, as to not compress my throat, and it was tickling me. “HOW ABOUT WE TIE A ROPE AROUND IT AND SEE IF YOU CAN PULL ME ACROSS THE FLOOR.”

She was joking, of course. Hopefully.

I didn’t say anything. I was worried my voice would flutter.

She turned the water off. When her eyes returned to me, they drifted slowly down my body and stopped on my groin, which was now throbbing madly.

Her smile became more pronounced.

She had a light burning in her eyes now.

I swallowed hard, feeling a wave of nauseous longing roll over me.

“YOU CAN’T HELP YOURSELF, JERRY,” she said with a low chuckle, “AND YOU KNOW IT. YOU JUST HAVE TO COME OUT AND SAY HELLO THE MOMENT I RAISE A FINGER.”

On a whim, she cupped her hand under the faucet and then brought it to her mouth. I watched, perplexed. She swished it around in her mouth for a second and then, holding me up some distance before her face, her eyes held on my erection like a laser, her lips sucking and puckering in concentration. Then she sent a spurt of water straight at my erection.

Her aim was fantastic. Her practice came from the weird party games – like shooting beer at a target – she and university friends played where the penalty for losing was the removal of an article of clothing. Even drunk she tended to blast through the games and get people naked, without having to remove scarcely a shoe herself.

The spray of warm water whipped my dick like a sharp swat, making it flap.

I let out a whimper. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, snickering.

Her voice was less distinct; my temples were beginning to pulsate with white noise. The pressure of her fingertips was slowly easing the blood out of my head and sending it to my groin. If she didn’t put me down I was going to pass out.

Luckily, she then lowered me into the sink water. The wet warmth climbed up my body, seeping into and relaxing my muscles like a painkiller.

I groaned, shifting my hips and clenching my butt under the water. There was no point hiding my arousal.

With no wash cloth nearby, she briskly lathered her hands in washing lotion, before they came for me, plucking me up out of the water so she could begin to wash me.

“Aaaaargh!” I screamed, writhing in her grip.

The moment her foamy hands made contact with my flesh, it set my skin ablaze – and not in a good way. Unnoticed by either of us, my body was covered in fine scratches caused by twig branches when I’d fallen through the hedge below the bathroom window. I’d been so adrenaline fuelled at the time, the pain hadn’t caught up with me.

Alarmed, she slipped me back down into the water.

Even my face stung and it felt like there was some soap in my eyes. I shoved my head underwater and when that didn’t work, began swiping my hands over my cheeks and brow, and trying to hold my eyelids open in the water with my thumbs. My butt bumped against the bottom of the sink, I let myself drift there, and as my body seeped, the stinging began to subside…

Suddenly there was pressure around my shoulders and I was yanked up over the surface.

“HEY, DON’T FREAK OUT ON ME,” she said, sounding worried.

“I’m trying to get all the soap off. It stings like a bitch!”

“JUST DON’T DROWN, OKAY?”

“I was barely underwater,” I said, disgruntled.

“YEAH, BARELY, LIKE, TWO MINUTES.”

“What?” I scoffed.

“SERIOUS.”

While I was underwater, she’d been rubbing the soap off her hands with a towel, and had turned to realize I hadn’t yet surfaced.

But I hadn’t even been out of breath. An idea came into my head.

“I must be able to hold my breath for longer now. My circulation is different. Maybe my brain is able to process oxygen more efficiently.”

Jennifer went quiet for a moment.

“REALLY.”

Her eyes held on me for a beat, gleaming.

"WANNA SEE HOW LONG YOU CAN HOLD IT?”

That was always her first response to something odd, even dangerous; go investigate. If I’d said there was a landmine buried in the backyard I think she would have whipped out a metal detector and said ‘Wanna find it?’

She didn’t wait for my response. One of her hands dived into the water like a big pale dolphin, and curved beneath me, positioning itself. I looked up at her quizzically.

“YOU READY?”

“What are you doing?”

“THE SECOND YOU STRUGGLE, I’LL LET YOU UP. I JUST WANT TO SEE EXACTLY HOW LONG YOU CAN LAST.”

“Hang on—”

The hair on the back of my neck was prickling. This was starting to sound a little on the not-safe side.

“DEEP BREATH,” she said, giving the top of my head a playful tap with a finger of her other hand.

Given no choice, I opened my mouth and filled my lungs.

The hand that was poised beneath me in the water flashed with movement, like a hungry shark. A pair of fingers closed around my penis and pulled me under. An aching stretch tugged through my dick as I was taken down to the bottom of the sink.

Fuck! I thought.

The pressure was a killer on my hard-on, which hadn’t yet subsided since it had been used for improvised target practice. It didn’t hurt – my member was so big and thick and my body light and small – but it felt distinctly uncomfortable; an intolerable tightness that ran clean through my dick and lodged deep in my gut. It was like I had been harpooned in the bellybutton and was being dragged along. And I couldn’t wriggle out of her grasp now, lest I make the pulling pressure worse.

Stray bubbles escaped my lips.

My full lungs trembled.

A painful throb ran around my head.

Every couple of seconds the blurry sink basin flashed, like I’d blinked, even though I wasn’t. Then the basin started darkening.

I needed a slap in the face.

My hands pounded and raked at the giant fingers anchoring me. They didn’t budge.

A stream of bubbles burst out of my lips.

My lungs were emptying and began to constrict.

A choking sound; from my throat, but as if someone else made it.

My muscles started twitching, random kicking motions in my legs exacerbating the pressure in my groin—

From below, the palm of the giant hand rose like a platform. Water spilled off my face as I was lifted over the sink, coughing and gagging until my face was red.

"I'VE GOT YOU," came Jennifer’s murmuring voice, rubbing and compressing my chest to squeeze any water out.

Once I had settled, she brought me, sitting in her cupped hand, up just beneath her face to examine my condition.

"I CAN DO MOUTH TO MOUTH IF YOU NEED IT," she said with a wink.

"I think I'm good now," I panted. "How long was that?"

"EIGHT MINUTES."

"Holy fuck. Really?"

“ABSOLUTELY. I TIMED YOU.”

My head flopped back against the inside of her fingers, and marveling again at how much like a soft sofa her cupped hand was, the supple flesh cradling and contouring my body. She automatically curled her fingers against my back to provide my spine the best support. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I was sitting in a leather recliner built just for my frame.

“That’s insane.”

She nodded. She still had the gleam in her eye from before, like my performance had excited her. I didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

After draining the sink, she deposited me in the living room while she went to find a towel to dry me.

When she returned she didn’t have a towel, but she’d changed out of her clothes and was now wearing a white bathrobe and matching open toe slippers. And by the looks of it, only lingerie beneath the robe. She was wearing a lot of lingerie in lieu of pyjamas these days, I realized.

Scooping me up, she dropped back against the couch, settling me on her lap. Then, cupping me in folds of the terry cloth robe, she began to rub the material over my body to get me dry. For the next few minutes I was repeatedly pressed and clamped between the walls of her robe covered hands as they rubbed together; me sandwiched between, causing me to get rolled back and forth and around.

In spite of her tenderness, the terry cloth was somewhat abrasive against my cuts and scratches, which soon began to tingle like tiny needles all across my body, until it felt more like I was being licked by a giant prickly cat’s tongue.

“Please…!” I gasped, arching my spine and kicking my legs in protest against the onslaught, “…That’s enough…!”

The ceiling appeared above me again as she opened her hands exposing my naked, now reddening body.

“AW, BABY, I’M SORRY,” she leaned right forward, causing a stray, blonde-tipped tress of her hair to tumble down onto me. “I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU WERE HURT.”

The concern in her voice stunned me. She sounded surprisingly bothered, like it hit a sensitive spot. It was almost enough to make me feel guilty, even though I couldn’t remember what I’d done wrong.

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “I fell into a bush.”

Normally, this would have occasioned a splutter of laughter from her, and possibly a double entendre to boot, but now the room was hushed, awkwardly so.

I was almost relieved when she put me down on the sofa to momentarily leave the room. When she came back, she had some ointment cream.

Once more I found myself on her lap, now stretched out on my stomach along the length of her thigh. The terry robe was much more comfortable now that it wasn’t scouring my flesh raw.

I folded my forearms arms and lay my head sideways over them as she massaged the cream into her fingers. A moment later, her hands set upon me. A jerking shudder ran beneath my flesh. The antiseptic was still cold and she must have seen me squirm.

“YEAH, IT FEELS LIKE ICE CREAM, DOESN’T IT?” she said in a small, apologetic voice. “YOU’RE TIGHTENING UP. RELAX. LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU.”

The fingerprints began to work into my shoulders, and ribs, making multiple points of contact with my back all at once. The lotion made her hands feel even softer than usual as she followed my spine down until her thumb was doing its sensual shiatsu thing into each of my butt cheeks. After stroking down the back of my thighs and calves, I was then flipped onto my front.

Her touch was so soft, almost ticklish, that it was disarming. The cream-coated fingers glided over my muscles with no resistance, tracing all the curves and bumps of my body. She was even taking extra care not to accidentally prick me with her long nails; the fingers which were not in contact with my flesh she kept delicately raised off my body.

Most of her attention was on my torso, where the majority of the scratches and marks were. She had a serene look on her face as her fingers ran over my body; exploring my anatomy as much as looking at me.

With my face oriented up, I just stared at her expansive profile inclined over me, not really focusing, letting my eyes run over her features like a painting.

As the massage carried on, my blinks got heavier.

After a short interval of dreamy half-sleep, my eyes flickered open again to find her gazing at my face. We locked eyes and she sent me a soft smile, almost in spite in herself.

Now she had finished rubbing my belly, the very tips of her nails were trailing down towards my groin which, at some point during my rest, had swollen right up again, and was now pointing at her, stiff as a pole.

In the past few hours it had risen and fallen so many times that I couldn’t be bothered trying to hide it anymore. 

“I SEE EVEN YOU CAN’T STAY MAD AT ME,” she smirked, giving the tip of my penis a prod with an ointment slicked finger.

“I’m not mad at you,” I exclaimed.

If anything, I was enjoying the attention, and her mood had seemed to have improved since earlier, too. Also, my dick was silently pleading for more physical contact, and I had barely any reserve of willpower left to deny it.

Hugging my arms over my chest, I went on in a low voice:

“I just got frustrated earlier. You act like the answer to everything is to throw on a pair of heels and make a race out the door to the nearest nightclub.”

It was difficult to sound like the voice of wise counsel when I could see my red blown up dick in my peripheral vision like a second head.

She regarded me for a moment, thinking.

“I DIDN’T THINK YOU GUYS WANTED ME IN THE HOUSE.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“NEVER MIND.”

Searching for a distraction, her eyes fell back upon my engorged member.

“I HAVEN'T FINISHED WITH YOU YET,” she indicated slyly, “YOU’RE STILL A LITTLE RED AND SORE.”

Before I could respond, she took my penis between soft creamy fingertips and began coaxing it through a seemingly endless number of luxurious stretches that I felt ripping through my pelvis, all the way up my spine, and down to my toes.

In order to avoid lifting me clean into the air by my rod (which was virtually big and thick enough to pass as a kind of handle) she pressed a couple of fingertips of her other hand down against my heaving chest to keep my back flat on her lap, while the tip of her pinky rested firmly on my brow to keep my head still.

I let out a long trembling groan, as raw, agonizing arousal ran in feverish waves across my body, and my stomach busied itself tying up into knots. The outbreak of nerve activity caused my scratches to spark up again, but the prickling pain mixed indivisibly with the pleasure into an overwhelming hybrid of sensations.

Above me, she gave a low bubbling giggle.

She loved the noises and faces I made during orgasm, and would commit them to memory and play them back to me at some inappropriate occasion. And she was a good actress.

If going by how I felt right then, I was giving her a lot of good material.

The pressure in my loins seemed to collapse outwards all at once; spraying the inside of her hand and my stomach in a series of pulses.

She let me catch my breath on her lap for a moment, dabbing my belly with a finger to clear away the traces of fluid.  Then, as if unable to help herself, her hand went lower, and she began idly twiddling the head of my finished penis between forefinger and thumb, ignoring my feeble grunts of protest.

“WOW, THAT WAS A BIG ONE.”

Her voice lilted with genuine surprise, and no undercurrent of mocking. A rare compliment.

It was the result of not having jerked off in a while; at least since I’d been incarcerated by Samantha. Not to mention, something about that whole scenario made Jennifer more radiantly beautiful than ever, as if by comparison. Even her teasing thrilled me, if only for its comforting familiarity.

Then she gave me a dreamy, somewhat sad look.

“AS MUCH AS I KNOW YOU’RE ENJOYING YOURSELF,” she said as she nipped and tweaked my penis affectionately between forefinger and thumb, maybe as a strange kind of parting handshake, “IT’S LATE. I’VE GOT TO CHECK ON STUART.”

The bizarre temptation filled my head to leap into one of the pockets of her robe and sleep in there the entire night, while she wore it to bed – or even if she took it off, at least I would be surrounded by her scent. Deep down I just didn’t want her to leave me alone for the night. I wanted to be pressed against her in bed like we used to, and wake up to her pressed against my back, drooling into my neck. Maybe that was no longer possible, but I was grasping for anything remotely like it. The coy, clandestine handjobs were just a consolation prize that only deepened my embarrassment at not winning first place, and deepened my guilt that I was still hanging around uselessly in her life like a…a key ring.

She might have been joking when she’d said that, but the metaphor was strikingly apt to me. I was stuck to her almost as a possession, left hanging, and she fingered me occasionally as if to figure out what I was good for anymore…

My system was depressing in the post-climax come-down. My thoughts circled around and tripped over themselves. I was too exhausted now to even articulate what I really wanted or what I really meant.

The living room shifted around me before I was deposited onto my sponge bed, where I curled up. She tucked me in.

“THE SUIT IS IN THE LAUNDRY,” she said a little regretfully, rubbing the hand towel blanket around my shoulders, “ARE YOU GOING TO BE WARM ENOUGH?”

“I’ll hang in there.” I closed my eyes.

I sensed her pause as she leaned over me, her breath swept through my hair, which was quickly smoothed over by the caress of a finger.

“ARE YOU HAPPY HERE, JERRY?” she said in a very soft voice.

I thought for a moment. My brain felt way too slow for such a simple question. Finally I replied:

“I can’t complain. I’m looked after very well.”

She continued to stroke my hair for a moment.

“MAYBE IT’S TIME WE GOT YOU A PROPER BED,” she considered aloud.

“That would be nice.” And added without thinking: “Goodnight, Jen. I love you.”

As soon as I said that, her head swooped down and pressed a startlingly passionate kiss against the side of my face.

“I LOVE YOU TOO, JERRY,” she said into my neck, but very softly.

Then she patted my body gently with the inside of her hand, before switching off the light.