"I'm getting wood," he announces.

My eyes flick south. Tongue traverses in a half moon caress across my bottom lip as my fingers flutter amongst fabric confines to release his nascent bulge. The weight of his swollen shaft presses against my mount of venus as my cuticles wriggle their way to cup his engorged, pulsing plums.

Hair tickles beneath my touch, the sweated heat of confinement coating my skin, lust and need and want and desire all responsive to my finger's insistent demands.

"Yesss," I agree. "Yes, you are."

"Gas has got so expensive, I'm getting wood," he repeats.