He was standing at the sink, washing up.
I swear I didn’t touch a dish the entire time he was here. Lovely.
I watched him for a moment or two. He was wearing longish shorts and a t-shirt, his body moving slightly as he scrubbed.
I stepped in behind him, pressing gently against his back. My face resting against his shoulder blade. His height always a kind of quiet thrill for me.
I slipped a hand under his t-shirt. I could almost feel his smile as I touched him. I felt the small movements of his body against me, perhaps a little slower now.
I slid my hand up his tight abdomen, slight ridges undulating under my fingers, until I came to his pecs. Solid, well defined, flexing slightly as he moved.
The rise to his pecs was razor sharp, incongruous to the surrounding flesh. His muscled chest unyielding under my fingers, hard, solid, fascinating to the touch. I drifted fingertips over his nipples, brushing them. I knew they were sensitive, but I had also learnt that they only became so with his arousal. A slight pinch made him twitch.
I leaned into him and felt his body making practical movements over the sink, twisting slightly to grab the next item, rhythmically shifting as he washed. My hand travelled his warm skin under his t-shirt.
Someone asked whether receiving non-sexual service can be a turn on. Hell yes it can.