Joe jolts up on the sofa, her focus leaving the telly for the first time in... I'm a bit too dazed to know the time right now, but in a while, because the only Doctor Who I've been watching is what reflects in her eyes and I'm pretty sure it's been several episodes. On second thought, I probably shouldn't be staring at her so much. What if she noticed? Or maybe she's too tired to pick up on that. Yeah, let's hope that. But I'm still staring–

'I have an idea.'

Her eyes are so big. As is her smile, the gems glistening in the evening light. I wish I could see it every day for the rest of my life. I'm the luckiest person alive to have gotten to see it every day this week.

I blink my mind into focus. 'Alright.'

'Since you won't let me touch you yet, I thought we could touch ourselves.'

Oh... I push myself onto my elbows. 'Like, split up?'

'No, it wasn't a euphemism. We can masturbate together.'

Turning off the telly, Joe moves to straddle my lap and my mouth dries. My charity shop sofa isn't exactly large but it works perfectly well for us to spend our free Saturday on, as proven by the condom wrappers that litter the rug. I'd hope to have a semblance of maturity, but I start to harden as soon as Joe's thighs press to my sides.

They're squeezed by the spandex of the biking shorts she's wearing with my hoodie, a horrible fucking invention if I may say so. Just zero fucking access, innit. Have to wrestle them off every time—might as well wear a chastity belt. But fuck, do they make her thighs look biteable.

This time I don't stop staring even when Joe says my name in a "my eyes are up here" voice.

'I think I'm getting hungry again.'

She pulls my hands off before they land on her hips. 'I'm withholding the assets until you let me explore your assets–' The words strangle in her grimace. 'Gross. I don't know why I phrased it like that. Erase that from your brain. But, Nikki, I want this to be mutual. You're not my personal sex slave.'

'No fair.' I lean up, align my face with hers, and drop my voice. 'What if I want to be your personal sex slave?'

Joe dodges my come-on. 'Why don't you like it?'

My eyes seek hers despite the warnings from my brain. The brown catches the evening sun that gets through my absolute shit living room blinds and her gaze drips onto me like tree resin, sticky and healing. It trickles into the fissure cracking in my chest again.

'It's just...'

Question: How can I be on the verge of tears and have a semi at the same time? Also: Sex is not my problem! Sex is her problem. That's what this whole friends-with-benefits thing were about, that I'm good at sex.

'I can do it myself.' I drop my head back, allowing my neck to bend over the backrest and a groan to roll out. 'You fuck me all the time. That's you pleasing me.'

'Doesn't count: that feels good for me too.'

'Why is it so important to you?' I ask though I've not already asked this at least twenty other times.

This time, though, Joe's answer is short: 'Because, Nicolás, I want to make you come.'

My stare nails to the ceiling.

She grinds against the once-again hardening erection in my joggers, tracing her thumbs on either side of my exposed neck. 'I love fucking you but I want to be able to focus on the way you come apart just for me.'

Lifting her weight off, Joe's voice returns to normal. 'But if you're not comfortable or you're not ready, of course, I won't pressure you into it. I... care about you. In the future, I want you to be able to date people who aren't complete plonkers.

'I mean, that was the point of this, right? For me to not panic at the thought of someone looking at me and for you to learn to receive so you can find the love of your life who is a nice person and actually appreciates the blessing of love from someone like you. But I understand that you might not want to take that step with me–'

I snap my head upright so quickly it cricks. 'That's not it! I just feel awkward being the centre of attention.'

I've already started massaging the cramp in my neck before the words land. My eyes widen as Joe's face splits into a grin. 'Did you just admit you have difficulties receiving attention?'

'Did I? Nah, I don't– I think you're well tired.'

'I'm right.'

'No.'

'I'm right.'

I slump against the armrest again, raising my hands as well as I can in the confines of the sofa. 'Fine. Your diagnosis is correct, Dr Rawlins. I don't like attention. What've I done to deserve it?'

'Nicolás, you're the best person I know.'

Oh, she's definitely tired. I'm like a monkey's tail cactus—looks dead soft and the next moment, you've got a palm full of needles.

'If you're not comfortable with me touching, I would like to watch you touch yourself.' Her fingers find the flutter of my pulse as her voice lowers. She leans close enough that her breath tickles my damp lips. 'I think you like being told what to do.'

I try my best not to show the shiver of arousal over my skin. Not it makes a difference; Joe can perfectly well feel my desire growing. 'What makes you think that?'

'You read the instructions on conditioner bottles.'

'How else should I know how many minutes–?'

'Take your trousers off.'

'Yep.'

I hook my thumbs into the waistbands of my joggers and boxers to shove them off in one go. I glance at Joe for silent permission before pulling my shirt off which is actually her Frank Ocean tour t-shirt. Question: When the fuck did I put on her shirt?

Joe faces me, cross-legged on the sofa, holding a vibrator and a bottle of lube like the crown jewels of her coronation. I'm about to become the most devoted royalist, is all I can say to that. She hands me the latter. 'Touch yourself.' I've barely started before she interrupts. 'Slower.'

'What?'

'Slower.'

'This is well unfair,' I grumble even as pleasure washes over me.

It's oddly vulnerable and exhilarating for summat so simple as having a wank. So much for thinking for myself—I follow all her instructions, even when she tells me to stop. And when she compliments me for being good at following instructions, my whole body shudders.

After forcing me to edge myself enough times that my atoms barely hold together, Joe's own arousal demands attention. Unable to wait long enough to take them off, she presses the vibrator to her clitoris over the biking shorts—most impractical clothing, I've said—and if I thought this were hot before then, well... Joe masturbating to the sight of me is summat entirely different.

She grinds against the vibrator, struggling to keep her eyes open, but they never leave me. And she never stops telling me what to do, right up to when she finally tells me to come.

I melt into the cushions. I should probably wash the covers after today...

I force myself to stay conscious so I can watch Joe unravel onto the other end of the sofa. In a haze, she clicks through the vibrator speeds until it turns off, sucking her teeth at the pulse setting. 'Why do vibrators always have this mode? I promise you, no one with a vagina has ever thought "I really wish I could write morse code on my clitoris".'

Joe crawls up and drapes herself against my body. 'That was hot. How did that make you feel?'

I jolt awake. Today's Headline: She's asking me about my feelings after sex! Maybe she is a mind-reader fairy and knows how I've suppressed the question from immediate pillow talk our previous times. According to popular opinion, it's a "turn-off". Though I've never understood why it matters if summat's a turn-off after sex.

'Good,' I say. 'Your diagnosis is correct again: I do like being told what to do.'

'I liked it too. Almost felt like I was giving you a hand job, in a way.' She strokes my locs off my shoulders. 'Do you think it helped you get more comfortable with the idea of me touching you?'

In the haze of pleasure, yeah I thought I'd love for her to just reach over the distance and touch me, but now that the orgasm high has faded... But this is Joe. Joe is one of the kindest and most compassionate people I know. There's nowt I've gotta be afraid of with her.

'Alright. Next time. If you promise not to split with me for being needy.'

Notes

Cleistocactus colademononis: Monkey tail cactus