Lending A Hand

“How long can you do this for?” Randall looked down at my rapidly vibrating wrist on his cock.

“I don’t know. How long do you want me to do it for? I’ve never really timed myself. Maybe 10 minutes?”

“Oh, I usually need a lot longer than that,” he said, reaching over to his bedside cabinet for that ever-handy bottle of Johnson & Johnson baby oil and pouring some over my fingers.

(I’m sure if the abovementioned Mr Johnsons – honourable gentlemen and undoubtedly excellent fathers – knew what twisted applications their innocent, baby formula products were being put to, they would turn in their graves. And then turn back – so they could conduct more statistically significant market research.)

“Well, however long you want” I said with a smile, thinking that it would be no real hardship to maintain speed for about 20 minutes.

“I’m thinking an hour of this would be very good…” he crossed his fingers around the back of his head and lay back looking reasonably content.

I tried to keep my lower jaw stuck to my teeth. One WHOLE hour? Good grief. Even the Electronic StrokemasterTM doesn’t last that long, I thought.

But I was stuck. We were both naked on his bed. We had done some very rudimentary shagging (he like a beached whale, me like a starfish – I came once out of courtesy) before he whipped off his condom and lay back requesting to be pleasured. I felt it would have been rude and extremely unsatisfactory to just refuse and walk out abruptly. Even though I should have, on the luxury of hindsight.

In general, men don’t usually ask me for extensive handjobs. I mean that’s something you pay $30 at Orchard Towers for a well-qualified Thai dame (real name Dave) with bad breath and heavy biceps to do. I’m always happy to lend a hand or two as part of foreplay – in the shower, on a balcony overlooking a beautiful skyline or surreptitiously in a bar. I have also helped guys finish off whilst keeping my mouth nearby.

But I’m a real, live, sexy woman, for chrissakes. And I would imagine that after you’ve bought me drinks and attempted to put up at least 2 hours of decent conversation, the last thing you’d want me to do is just sit between your legs and work on perfecting my wrist action for an hour. It’s hardly an efficient use of resources for you. And dead boring for me.

Suck me, fuck me, or take me home to Mom if you must, but there are a ton of other things to do in the realm of lovemaking than having an hourlong assisted wank. Or am I missing something here.

You’d think someone from the entertainment industry would have had a bit more imagination. Randall had relocated from LA a year ago to work with “financing budding Asian talent” (am I the only one that finds that phrase side-splittingly funny?). He name-dropped for a living. (“I’m meeting Jeffrey Katzenberg next week”, “Yea me and Harrison go way back” etc.) He was 38 but mentally he seemed to be still in high-school. I should have known he’d be the sort who would want a one-hour handjob. And maybe a light-sabre fight after.

So 30 minutes in and I was beginning to feel like a professional i.e. I had settled my hands into a somewhat monotonous rhythm and was busy thinking of what to cook for dinner. That was when Randall started to give me instructions, as if he was a director on set:

“Ok now a little bit lower…aah yes, good. That feels verrry comfortable…now if you can just use your thumbs to touch my balls? Ohhh! Great. That’s it…Now long strokes. Right, looooong strokes. Up…and down….Up….and down. Let me see your face. You have a beautiful face, don’t hide behind the hair. Great…”

Admittedly, my handjob skills could have done with a little brushing up, since it’s something I hadn’t really quite bothered to master for long periods of time until now. Every guy likes to be touched a little differently. You can’t go too far wrong with a firm, straight-up pump. But some men also like long, tight strokes down their shafts. Others prefer quick, frantic rubbing around the head. I even met a guy who would vibrate the inside of his wrist directly on his frenulum. But then he also wrote poetry about dead animals – so we can assume he was a bit unorthodox.

Randall seemed to like a combination of techniques. And he let me know it, which made me feel like I was in one big, stinking B-movie. The Curse of the Infernally Pumping Hand Part Deux. A Hand In Need is A Hand Indeed. (Heh) It felt pretentious and just didn’t make up for the fact that I was cramped up in 3 different places. In fact, my right hand might have even lost sensation for a while, close to the 50 minute mark.

This is what it feels like to wank one’s arm off, I thought to myself gloomily. And then he came. I almost cried with relief and legged it out of there as fast as I could.

So Randall, and all you other would-be marathon wankers, next time you’ll have to content yourselves with talking to my face because the hand…well, it just ain’t listening.