She could /smell/ him — it was strange. Not a bad smell, at all, but she wasn’t used to being so close to someone that she could smell them. She stroked, slowly, thinking about the way he fit into the palm of her hand, about the size of him and the length of him. She kept checking his face, hoping the sounds he was making were good and not pain. Finally she got frustrated with the interference of the fabric and pulled his pants down.
Not being able to recall the last time that he had been so close to another person, Isaac whimpered with delight and rocked his hips upwards, shamelessly rutting against her hand as he sought more friction. And then finally, she removed the offending fabric of his boxer shorts, and he blushed scarlet as he sprung free, the sensation only causing him to harden further.
Carefully, she fitted her hand around him, closing her fingers tightly. Warm, velvety — the softness of skin that was always protected. Idly she wondered if that was what Victorian girls were going for, that sensation. She pumped, once, twice, found a rhythm. The way he moved under her hand was fascinating, so she began to experiment, twisting, rubbing her thumb or fingertips over the head, tracing her nails along the shaft.