Changing Room Ruse

"Not all the time, by any means, but ..." I started, then paused and stammered a little as if I was embarrassed, "um, you know, my ... my girlfriend likes me that way sometimes. She says it makes me more ... um, she calls it, 'accessible.'"

Jenny giggled. "'Accessible,' huh?" She understood the connotation, but I thought I'd make the colors on her mental image a little more vibrant.

"Yeah, so if we're going to a movie, and she knows the theater will be fairly dark and it won't be too crowded then—"

That's as far as I got before she interrupted me. She looked at me with widened eyes and her jaw dropped a little ... not to the floor, but it was a classic 'You're kidding me!' look ... which was appropriate, because that's exactly what she said. "You're kidding me!"

"Well, she suggests it," I responded, defending myself. "And besides, she's fair about it. If I go without, then she does, too." I heard a quick intake of breath from my changing room companion. It wasn't loud or obvious, but I heard it. "Accessibility works both ways, you know."

Her eyes held mine for a just a moment before a hint of a smile broke through. Then she abruptly did that little backhand swat on my stomach again. "Ooh ... you're a naughty one, aren't you?!"

Jen turned her head back down, completed the zip job, then extracted her hand in the way I liked so much. I stepped over to the mirror to take a look. Jen followed me over as before, but was uncharacteristically quiet. She was looking at my pants, but looked pensive, like she was contemplating something.

"Don't like this pair?" I asked. "Bad color on me?"

That pulled her out of her contemplation zone part of the way. "Oh ... oh, actually, I think they look nice on you," she said. It was without her usual enthusiasm.

"But ...?" I said, my inflection implying she should finish the thought.

"Um, would guys really like that?" she asked.

"Like what?"

"You know ...," she hesitated, "their girlfriend going ... without."

Apparently what I said had a bigger impression that I thought. I was pleased. Not as pleased as I was about two minutes ago when she was sliding her soft hand up my shaft, but I was still pleased.

"Oh, that!" I said, then I looked thoughtful as if I was considering her question. "Well, honestly, no ... probably not 100% of the men in America would like that." I paused and smiled. "I'd say it's more like about 99.7%."

I laughed, and she joined me, although her laugh seemed nervous. "Really?" she asked. "You're not just ... you know, like, yanking my chain again, are you?"

I shook my head side to side in response to the second part of her question. "Really," I confirmed, changing to a nod. She held my eyes for a long moment. I had a feeling Jen's boyfriend just might be in for a pleasant surprise in the near future.

"So you do like these pants?" I asked, abruptly shifting topics.

"Oh, yes, I do," Jen said. "I think they're very nice on you." The enthusiasm in her voice was still absent, and I missed my bubbly Jen. Mostly, I was looking forward to her bending or squatting down beside me again so I could look down her dress one more time before calling it a night. Or maybe even get a shot at another upskirt, courtesy of the mirror in front of us.

"Are you okay, Jennifer?" I asked. "Did I offend you or something?" It was an odd question coming from someone who had been parading his erection in front of her for the last 15 minutes or so, but until now she had seemed to accept the unlikely pretense under which we were together in this room. Maybe she was seeing through my ruse, and I was wearing out my welcome. I couldn't read her thoughts for sure, but when we locked eyes a minute ago I didn't think I saw anger there. One thing I would never claim, though, is that I always know what women are thinking.

Jen was about to prove the validity of that last statement.

"Oh, no, no!" she answered, rushing to reassure me that all was well with our relationship. "It's just ... well, I was wondering if I could ask you ... could ask you a question, but I don't ...," she paused and exhaled, "... I don't want to offend you."

I played it cool and easy, pulling out my disarming smile again. "Don't worry, Jennifer! Go ahead and ask!"

"Well, as you said earlier," Jenny began, "this is an awkward situation under unusual circumstances ..." It seemed she had more to say but was thinking about how to say it.

"Uh-huh?" I answered, indicating she had my attention and I was ready to hear what she had to say.

"It's, uh ... it's sometimes hard to talk to my boyfriend about ... about certain topics, or to ask him questions that I ... that I wonder about, you know?" Jennifer said. "We're close, but sometimes almost 'too close' to ... well, almost like we don't want to hurt each other's feelings so we, like, just avoid going there."

I thought I might know what she meant—in an abstract way, at least—though I didn't know why she brought it up. I responded, "Yeah ... actually, Jennifer, I was just talking to a friend of mine who is married"—[In case you're wondering, I wasn't making this up. A couple of nights ago I had a beer with this friend and for whatever reason he got to talking about the difference between relationships with former girlfriends versus his relationship with his wife.]—"and he told me basically what you just said ... that some topics tended just not to be discussed because of ... oh, what did he call it? ... I think he said because of the 'protective' nature of the relationship he had with his wife. With a girlfriend, he could talk about anything, even wild sexual things, but with his wife, he didn't want to take the risk of hurting or offending her because she meant so much to him." I paused and shrugged. "I didn't fully understand that, but maybe it's because I've never been in that position." I was proud of myself for my candor and honesty.

Jenny seemed to appreciate that insight. "Yes, I think your friend is right!" There was excitement in her voice. Then she toned down again, and this time, I thought I saw her blushing as she spoke. "So, anyway, since you're such a nice guy, and ... and this is an unusual situation ..."—she was nervous, fidgety, and repeating herself—"I was wondering if ..."—now she looked away like she was embarrassed—"if you could maybe, like, do me a ... a big favor?"

"I'd be glad to, if it's something I can do ..." I said, being agreeable, but hedging just in case I wasn't up for whatever her favor might entail.

She hesitated a bit more, then spoke. "I guess I'll ... I'll just ask then," she said. Jenny smiled at me now, but it seemed forced to me. She broke eye contact again and continued. "When my boyfriend and I ... are intimate, I always want it to be, like ... good for him, you know what I mean?" She looked up at me, again blushing, and I nodded slightly to let her know I was listening. "Anyway, a girlfriend of mine was talking recently about a very sensitive spot on guys' ... um, on their ..."—she couldn't bring herself to say it, so she just gingerly gestured toward my crotch—"... down there, and I was too embarrassed to tell her I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just didn't say anything." She stopped a moment, then brought her eyes and that cute blonde-hair-framed face back up to mine. "Um, do you think you could ... um, would you be willing to show me the ... the spot she meant? You know, just point to it maybe, so I know where it is?"

I took a deep breath and let it out. It probably sounded like I was a little taken aback by her request, or possibly even put off by it. In actuality I did it to calm myself so I wouldn't be tempted—for the second time tonight—to pump my oversized fist into the air. I could definitely help her out. I could even make myself available as a full-fledged sex instructor, and throw in some hands-on demonstrations at no extra charge. Maybe she'd like to know the ins-and-outs (pardon the choice of words) of the standard sex positions, and some of the not-so-standard ones as well. Maybe she'd like some constructive feedback on her blowjob technique. [Yes, I was stretching her request well beyond what she implied, but I can dream, can't I?]

"Uh, I guess that would be okay," I said tentatively, ponderingly. It was a performance worthy of an Emmy.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" the blonde beside me gushed, looking relieved. "I ... I really appreciate this ... and my boyfriend will probably appreciate it, too." She giggled, then lifted a finger and put it to her lips, like she thought it might not have been proper to laugh, and the finger would prevent her from continuing to do so. "I mean ... uh, I realize this will be awkward and ... and, like, uncomfortable for you, but I really am grateful."

I had calmed down enough that I thought I could continue, though there was a big—well, it felt big right now—part of me that hadn't calmed down for the last 20 minutes. I decided to get on with answering her question before she changed her mind.

"Um, I guess it will be easier to show you if ... if we get these off." I lifted my hands away from my sides and looked down at my pants.

Jen giggled nervously. The dynamic had changed. "Oh, yes, I guess that's true." She stepped toward me and started the process. She hadn't seemed tense the last two times she pushed her hand down my pants to be my erection's guardian, but this time she was. Last time she was a fashion consultant going above and beyond to assist a customer through an uncomfortable predicament; now the consultant role was about to be reversed, and he (quite obviously a member of the opposite sex, but not her boyfriend) would be tutoring her on a sensual and sexual topic.

I decided I'd teach her all I could.

Once she had me naked again, I took over. "Okay, then, um ... I can show you the spot that your friend was referring to," I said, "but probably it's best to start by confirming that she is correct. While it would be fair to say that a man's penis"—I used the proper clinical word to match my more formal speech—"is sensitive in general, there is one area that has a higher concentration of nerve endings, and is particularly so." As I talked, Jen glanced down below my waist several times, probably anticipating I'd simply point out the spot I was talking about. I had a different approach in mind.

"How about I step up on this? So you can see?" I gestured toward the bench.

"Uh, okay ... sure," Jenny responded. She displayed that nervous smile again. I knew, and she knew, that I has just granted her explicit permission—even instruction—to look closely.

I stepped up and turned toward her, then motioned for her to come closer, which she did. The bench put me at the perfect height for ... for close study. My prominent and expectant manhood was (still) pointed slightly upward, right toward her chin. At the moment the neckline on her dress laid flat against her chest because of her straight-backed posture, but I figured I'd have a chance to ogle those beautiful mammaries again before too long. A backdrop like that is always welcome, even if I'm too distracted by certain other activities to give it the attention it deserves.

Now that we were both in position, I began the lesson. "I guess it makes sense to start with a few basics," I said, looking down at my equipment. I reached down clumsily, trying and failing to lift my rod up a little to show her the sensitive underside. I hoped it looked like I was trying. "Do you think you could, uh ... help me?" I asked Jen. "What I need to show you is underneath."

"Oh ... okay," Jen responded. She started to reach up with one hand. Before it arrived at the destination I decided to be more specific and see how she complied.

"Um, I'd suggest holding it like you'd hold a wine glass. Fingers around the back, thumb in the front," I said, then paused. "Well ... a very small wine glass."

Jen giggled. Music to my ears. She had paused when I talked, but now she moved her hand up, wrapping it around my shaft as instructed, then lifting it up so it pointed nearly straight up. Her thumb was on the underside—the side facing her—just like I had asked. I couldn't have done it better myself.

"Like this?" she asked, looking up at me, then back down at the contents of her hand.

"Yeah, just like that."

"No offense, but it doesn't feel like a wine glass at all," Jen said, with her little half smile. Her other hand reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear on one side, while she tilted her head the other way. "It's the right height for one, but I'd say it's more like ... a shot glass!" She giggled again and then looked up sheepishly at me, probably wondering how I would respond to her little joke.

I lifted a wrapped hand up and put the back of that wrist across my forehead, melodrama style—copying from her earlier use of that technique. I looked as disappointed as I possibly could. "Oh, Jennifer, that really hurts! I was hoping ..."—I sniffed in anguish—"I was hoping you'd say ... a beer can!"

I held the pose for the half second it took Jen to crack up, then joined her myself. Only part of my laughter was because Jen's hand was jiggling as she laughed.

"Anyway," I said, getting back into character, and nodding at my erection to direct her eyes there, "the top part of a man's penis—the part that most say looks like a helmet covering the head—is called the 'glans,' and the rim of the glans—the bottom edge of the helmet—is the 'corona.'

As I talked I could see my student's eyes focus on the feature I was describing. Her hand wasn't moving, but she had a good solid grip.

"If you tip the shaft down," I continued, being careful to say 'the' instead of 'my,' which depersonalized things a bit and made 'shaft' sound more like a medical term, "you can see that the edge of the glans on the top side—"

"You mean the corona, right?" Jen interrupted, correcting my terminology. From my angle I mostly saw the back of her blonde head, because she was looking down at the top of my boner for a better view. She had pulled it down as I suggested. Maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I felt her breath.

"Yeah, that's correct." I paused for a second to let her finish her visual study.

"And what about it?" she asked, without looking up.

"The edge—the corona—on that side is rounded and fairly pronounced ... like you'd expect the edge of a helmet to be," I explained. "But the corona on the underside," I said, pausing while she tipped my cock upward again, "is different."

My student interrupted me again, showing some excitement like she had just made a discovery. "Yeah, I've noticed that, but I didn't know if it was just my boyfr—I mean, I didn't know if all guys were the same way or not." Then she added, "And the glans is kind of tilted, like the helmet is falling off his head."

I smiled. "Whether all guys are the same or not is not a study I've pursued, and most of them that I know are happy that I haven't. You could probably get away with it, though."

She used her unoccupied hand to give me one of her backhand slaps on my thigh. She blushed and rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything in response.

I went on. "I'm sure there is plenty of individual variation in shape and proportion, and men who have not been circumcised will look some different, but the basic anatomy is the same. Now, if you look at that underside again"—I paused for her to refocus—"we're almost to that spot your friend was telling you about. See how the corona gets thinner there? And see that little cleft in the middle, right up near the soldier's head?"

"Soldier?" Jen giggled, looking up at me.

"Well, if he's wearing a helmet, he must be a soldier, right?"

Jen shrugged, looking back down. "Could be a biker ... or a bicyclist ...," she said, emphasizing the word and looking pointedly up at me so I wouldn't miss her inference, "... or a drum major or a football player or a space ranger ... or a ... a penis!" she said, then looked up at me impishly and giggled again. This time I rolled my eyes.

"Have it your way, Jennifer," I responded with a mock sigh. "See that cleft in the space ranger's helmet?"

"Yes, I do!" Jenny giggled, examining it.

"That is called the 'frenulum,'" I said, "and it is right above the most sensitive spot. If you mentally draw a circle about the size of ... oh, I'd say maybe a penny ... well, I guess a nickel would probably be a better size ... where the top of that circle just touches the frenulum." I paused for just a second, enjoying watching her gaze at that spot. I was hoping she would automatically do what I suggested next ... and I'm happy to report in advance that she did. "So you know where it is, take your thumb and slide it up just a little bit to that imaginary circle, and then ..."

"Right about here?" my Jenny asked.

"Yes, right there," I confirmed, then continued. "... and then use it to trace over that circular shape. Yeah ... like that ... good."

"About the size of a nickel, right?"

"About. Yeah." I reverted to short answers while I savored the sensations. Even though she just started, it felt heavenly. I gave her a few moments to practice.

"Like this?" my compliant blonde asked, looking up at my face for a moment, then back down to concentrate on her thumb's motion. "Um, do I press gently ..."—she demonstrated that for me—"or more firmly?" She gave me a sample that way also.

"Um ...," I responded, trying to concentrate. "Some of each, I think—just vary your touch from time to time."

I didn't want her to stop, so I figured I'd better keep her focused. "Move the circle up just a tiny bit from where you are ... no, not quite that much ... now down just a hair, yeah, there. I think you've got it." It was perfect to begin with, but she didn't need to know that. "Now, while you continue to do that with your thumb, we can get your other hand involved to make the experience better for your boyfriend." [You see, Jen was really doing this for her boyfriend. I was just standing in for him in his absence, and looking out for his best interests. So that made it all right. Wink.] "Bring your other hand up underneath your other one."

"Underneath?" Jen questioned. "I'm not sure what you mean." She continued massaging the space ranger with her thumb as I said she should, though, and lifted her other hand up near the other one. She needed further instruction before she knew what to do with it. [This wasn't my motive, but lifting both of her hands did cause Jen's neckline to pull away from her chest ... enough that I could see my black-satin-adorned friends again.]

"Uh, yeah, underneath," I explained, without really explaining yet. Why not drag this out a bit? "You are probably aware that the sack that holds a man's testicles"—professorial tone again—"is called his 'scrotum'—"

"Also called nuts, balls, family jewels," Jennifer said, looking up at me. She now apparently wanted to impress me with her more casual approach ... though that crooked little smile appeared again. "Yes, I know that part." Her circular thumb motion was becoming automatic now, because it continued as we talked.

"Good!" I responded. "Well, allow me to share some of that part's finer points, okay?"

Jen didn't respond verbally, but nodded and looked down at the topic of our discussion.

"A guy's ... um, balls ... are sensitive in both a good way and a bad way," I said. "Bad, because they are vulnerable to ... um, let's call it 'getting too rough,' which can turn a pleasurable experience into a painful one. But good, because they are sensitive to gentle stimulation that ... hmm, looking for the right word here ... um, I think ... that amplifies other sensations."

I continued. "So if you were doing this for your boyfriend, you'd take your left hand and ..."—I paused to shuffle my feet apart slightly, giving her hand more room and sending a strong signal about what I intended for her to do—"... curl your fingers a little and, first, cradle the sack ..."