When I walk in, kiss me and ask how my day was. Help me take my jacket off as we talk. Offer me a cup of tea, which I will decline. Let me notice that the lights are slightly dimmed, intended to set me at ease. Keep talking to me as you sit me down and help me take my shoes off, your hands running up my legs ever so often. When I've been divested of the pesky things, stand me up and lead me by the hand to the bedroom, where I notice that you've set the temperature a little warmer than usual, again for my comfort. Kiss me, slowly, again. Ask me to stand quietly by the bedside, then unbutton my shirt slowly and carefully, your eyes watching mine, my eyes following your hands. Take it off, fold it and set it aside, then make me turn around, facing away from you. Ask me if I'm ready. Wait for my silent nod before unsnapping my bra and laying it atop my folded shirt.
Sit down on the bed and beckon me over to stand beside you with my hands extended in front of me, and bind them together to reinforce that I have no control over the events that follow. Bend me over your lap, adjusting my limbs until you're happy with my position. Make me stretch my arms out above my head so that they're out of the way.
Run your hand over my ass, taking your time to enjoy it, squeezing and gripping it as you please, until my back loses its stiffness and I begin to accept the situation I'm in. Rebuke me gently for enjoying this; force me to acknowledge that I am at your mercy and then, to really rub it in, make me say out loud just how much that turns me on. Right in the middle of my halting words, start to spank me - slowly and playfully at first. Take your time to make me twitch a little before establishing a rhythm, distributing your blows so that you don't hit the same spot twice in a row. Keep your other hand firmly resting on my back so that you can feel it every time I jerk in response to your strokes, and use it to make me stay still so that I am reminded again that I have no option but to take the punishment being meted out to me - and to take it well.
When you've warmed up my behind and I am squirming silently in your lap, yank my pants down partway down my thighs, leaving nothing between your palm and my bare ass but my thin panties. After a few moments of running your hands over the hot skin, resume your ministrations, this time laying your palm flat against my ass, outlining your target before you hit it. When I start to cry out, growl a warning at me, demanding silence, with the threat of further punishment hanging over my head if I disobey. We both know that you enjoy every little twitch and jump, every moment of tension in my muscles just before your hand comes down, every little sigh as the sting makes itself felt across my aching flesh. We both know that this is making me wet and ready, and you, hard.
Just when I think you're ready to give me a break, grab my hair and yank my face up to give it a sharp slap, just hard enough to sting and to make the fires smouldering behind my eyes roar to life. Watch me moan in response, my nipples stiffening even further, holding myself up on my bound hands, my crotch still draped over your lap, beginning to grind ever so slowly - and almost unconsciously - against your hardness. Slap my face lightly a few more times, back and forth, and feel my instinctive grinding pick up pace.
Make me get up, then, my hands still bound in front of me, and strip me down to nothing, carefully piling up my folded clothes. I will be breathing hard, eyes starting to glaze over, and you will see that I am wet. Smile as the smell of my wetness wafts up to your nostrils. Call me a dirty little whore, slapping my cunt lightly, making me jump and moan some more. On the pretext of tying my hair up, spin me around and blindfold me, making sure I can't see a thing. Let your hands roam over my body, my ragged breathing loud in the quiet room. Play with my nipples, my breasts, my neck, my back, stopping each time I squirm, resuming only when I hold still for you. Very slowly, and very delicately, pinch each of my nipples, then attach a weighted clamp to it, increasing the pressure till I gasp in pain. Step back to admire your work, then lead me out of the room by the throat, owning every inch of my body with that grip as I take one faltering step after another. Direct me to bend over, and feel me shiver as I realize that I'm being draped face-down over the back of your couch, my arms extended in front of me, my clamped nipples grazing the hard upholstery, my legs spread shoulder-width apart, my ass in the perfect position for a sound hiding.
Ask me, quietly, to open my mouth, then unceremoniously shove my wet panties in to muffle my cries. Hand me two pieces of cutlery - a spoon and a fork, I think - and tell me in careful, measured tones that if it gets too intense, all I have to do is throw them to the floor. Wait for my nod, whisper, "good girl," and give me a kiss on my neck before stepping away. Leave me there to contemplate my situation while you prepare the next instruments of my torment. Put on some low, rumbling music - the kind that you know will help me start to float through the pain to come - just loud enough to drown out sharp cries, but not loud enough that I can't hear your instructions.
As the strains of Massive Attack's Teardrop fill the room, ask me if I'm ready, your left hand resting at the small of my back. When I nod affirmation, remove your hand, and as I tense in expectation of pain, sink your teeth into the flesh of my ass, nipping at the tender spots and laving them with your tongue. Smile as I squeal, sharply smacking me to make me stop fidgeting - eliciting another, smaller squeal, followed by shuddering obedience. Spend a few moments running your hands up and down my legs, dipping your fingers into my warm cunt, letting me know that you plan to leave me dripping, bruised and used. Just as I start to buck against your fingers, withdraw them, then let me feel the bite of leather as you start to whip me with my own belt, at first taking short swipes at my ass, then letting the length of it whistle through the air to leave behind bright red imprints on impact. Remind me that my screams can't be heard by anyone, allowing me to unleash them without a thought. Alternate between the top of my butt and the sensitive flesh at the meeting of my ass and thighs, making me jump and almost dance at your will. I will yell in pain, but my grip on the spoon and fork will only tighten until my nails are digging into my palm. After a while, take the flogger that I had so mischievously brought with me the first time we played, and use it to raise welts across my tender skin, sharp stinging replacing the dull burning of the belt. Use it on my butt, my thighs, my legs, my back and my outstretched arms, merciless and consistent in your pace. Let the welts criss-cross my skin until the pattern pleases you. When my little screams have blended into one long wail, pause to gently massage some life back into my aching muscles, remarking over my noises on how my ass is glowing with heat and how hard it makes you to see that. Sit down, pour yourself a drink, and wait for the groans to subside to ragged gasps before stepping back up to me with an ice cube in each hand, running it over the now dearly sensitive flesh as I cry out in delirium through my gag, not sure if I want you to stop or keep going or fuck me or kill me. The choice will not be mine, in any case, as you remind me when your icy fingers reach down to play with my hot, steamy cunt. Talk to me as your fingers reach deep inside me, telling me how well I've taken my punishment, how beautifully I've been your little pain slut, your other hand stroking my hair. As I calm, give me one last surprise, your fingers tightening in my hair as you spear me with your hard cock and begin to fuck me from behind.
Make me scream into the gag as I quiver around you, the music just loud enough to cover the sound. Grant me no quarter, even as I begin to weep and clench and my legs start to shake from the pleasure and strain of holding myself up. Pull me up and tell me to place my weight on my hands, deftly removing the clamps that have made my nipples so sensitive that the slightest touch of your fingers on them feels like fire and ice. Hold me tight to yourself, one arm across my chest and the other grabbing at my hip, and fuck every last breath out of me until you finally explode with a roar, your hands twisting in my skin in that intensity, hard enough to bruise it.
As you collapse onto the couch to catch your breath, gently lay me down beside you, cradling my limp, exhausted body in your arms as you first take out the gag, then untie my hands and finally push the blindfold out of my eyes. I will still be coming down from the high that you transported me to, so I will clutch at you like a life-raft, my head against your shoulder, my parched lips tickling your neck. Stroke my hair and give me water in mouthfuls, whispering encouragements and praise, until I finally blink and smile at you, back in my own body and mind at last.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Cues
(This post was born out of a conversation with a Tinder match where the only requirement was to use the words provided to spin a story. My five words? recliner; darkness; strangers; nails; biting.)
I must say, movie halls are so full of potential. The darkness lends itself to all manner of misdeeds, from the mild and mundane to the heart-stoppingly outrageous. Sitting there, in the midst of a sea of strangers all of whom are conveniently distracted by moving images on a screen, it's all too easy to create your own parallel storyline that's often a lot...juicier...than anything Hollywood could dish up. And the thrill of being so close to discovery - any moment, your neighbour could sit up in his recliner to sip at his overpriced soft drink and notice that you're using yours for more conventional (and delicious) purposes - just adds to the excitement. Hands move with just a touch more urgency, nails digging in harder; mouths and lips and teeth find their mark with alacrity, biting down more sharply just because it's so much hotter to feel a moan being stifled lest discovery be risked. And half the time, you don't really care - let them see, let them be shocked, let them radiate jealousy and disapproval, because it only adds to the thrill (and who knows, it may just spur them on to give in to their own desires).
The best thing about a movie hall, though, is the moment when the lights come back on, and you stare at each other with barely leashed hunger, your clothes in disarray, and share an unspoken promise to finish what was started.
I must say, movie halls are so full of potential. The darkness lends itself to all manner of misdeeds, from the mild and mundane to the heart-stoppingly outrageous. Sitting there, in the midst of a sea of strangers all of whom are conveniently distracted by moving images on a screen, it's all too easy to create your own parallel storyline that's often a lot...juicier...than anything Hollywood could dish up. And the thrill of being so close to discovery - any moment, your neighbour could sit up in his recliner to sip at his overpriced soft drink and notice that you're using yours for more conventional (and delicious) purposes - just adds to the excitement. Hands move with just a touch more urgency, nails digging in harder; mouths and lips and teeth find their mark with alacrity, biting down more sharply just because it's so much hotter to feel a moan being stifled lest discovery be risked. And half the time, you don't really care - let them see, let them be shocked, let them radiate jealousy and disapproval, because it only adds to the thrill (and who knows, it may just spur them on to give in to their own desires).
The best thing about a movie hall, though, is the moment when the lights come back on, and you stare at each other with barely leashed hunger, your clothes in disarray, and share an unspoken promise to finish what was started.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Want, Circa 2014
When you have me at your disposal, I beg this one thing of you - don't touch my pussy. Ignore that part of me. Show not the least bit of interest in it.
Take the rest of my body and ravage it. Stand me in front of a mirror, your arm wrapped around my torso, holding me to yourself, my hair bunched in your fist as you tilt my neck back to take in a whiff of my perfume. Trace your possession of my body in minute detail, your hands and fingers claiming my eyes, my lips, my nose, my tongue as yours. Trace lines over my thighs, my hips, my stomach - but don't pay any attention to the valley 'twixt my legs. Bind my hands behind my back with your belt, making me shiver at the feel of leather on my skin. Only bother to run your fingers over my panties when you slide them off my ass to squeeze and fondle it.
Bend me over the couch with your hand at the small of my back, positioning me just so to receive the blows I deserve and crave - deliberate, unyielding smacks that turn my ass cheeks warm and red, my cries muffled by the gag you've casually shoved into my mouth. Don't stop until my upper thighs glow just as brightly, and all I can do is squeal unintelligible things as my legs tremble from the sensory overload.
Ignore my aching cunt because it's not time for it yet, but grab me by my restrained arms and pull me onto your lap, still just short of being able to grind against your erection. As you undo the belt, kiss me, consume me, own me; pull my hair, devour my breasts, whisper your intentions in my ear, and call me out on all my wicked behaviour - make me feel the burning river of shame and arousal trickle all the way down to add to that pool of damp heat.
Make me so wet, so desperate for you, that my sodden panties make a mess on your jeans. When you notice it, set about punishing me for being so needy, so lustful, by hauling me to the bed, tipping my head back over the edge, and giving me a throatful of cock to choke on. Tell me how wanton I look lying there with your hard shaft pumping balls-deep into my mouth. Tell me how you can hear my moans as I suck and slurp at you. Tell me how good it feels to feel my throat convulse around you. Watch me squirm, watch me try to touch myself, slap my hand away, and watch me buck against thin air, my whine making itself felt as a humming against your cock. And just when my throat is starting to feel raw, pull out and come on my breasts and my face, my gasps spurring you on.
Lie down beside me to catch your breath as I catch mine, one hand idly clutching my breast, absently pinching the nipple hard enough that my pleasure/pain receptors short-circuit. Even now, ignore my cunt and its stream of wetness, even as I futilely attempt to gain friction against the sheets, my hands, your body, anything. Hold me down as I struggle, denying me still. Describe how needy and desperate I look as I do this. Hear me moan in response, a continuous feedback loop to infinity. Make me beg for your fingers on my cunt before you even begin to consider it.
Take the rest of my body and ravage it. Stand me in front of a mirror, your arm wrapped around my torso, holding me to yourself, my hair bunched in your fist as you tilt my neck back to take in a whiff of my perfume. Trace your possession of my body in minute detail, your hands and fingers claiming my eyes, my lips, my nose, my tongue as yours. Trace lines over my thighs, my hips, my stomach - but don't pay any attention to the valley 'twixt my legs. Bind my hands behind my back with your belt, making me shiver at the feel of leather on my skin. Only bother to run your fingers over my panties when you slide them off my ass to squeeze and fondle it.
Bend me over the couch with your hand at the small of my back, positioning me just so to receive the blows I deserve and crave - deliberate, unyielding smacks that turn my ass cheeks warm and red, my cries muffled by the gag you've casually shoved into my mouth. Don't stop until my upper thighs glow just as brightly, and all I can do is squeal unintelligible things as my legs tremble from the sensory overload.
Ignore my aching cunt because it's not time for it yet, but grab me by my restrained arms and pull me onto your lap, still just short of being able to grind against your erection. As you undo the belt, kiss me, consume me, own me; pull my hair, devour my breasts, whisper your intentions in my ear, and call me out on all my wicked behaviour - make me feel the burning river of shame and arousal trickle all the way down to add to that pool of damp heat.
Make me so wet, so desperate for you, that my sodden panties make a mess on your jeans. When you notice it, set about punishing me for being so needy, so lustful, by hauling me to the bed, tipping my head back over the edge, and giving me a throatful of cock to choke on. Tell me how wanton I look lying there with your hard shaft pumping balls-deep into my mouth. Tell me how you can hear my moans as I suck and slurp at you. Tell me how good it feels to feel my throat convulse around you. Watch me squirm, watch me try to touch myself, slap my hand away, and watch me buck against thin air, my whine making itself felt as a humming against your cock. And just when my throat is starting to feel raw, pull out and come on my breasts and my face, my gasps spurring you on.
Lie down beside me to catch your breath as I catch mine, one hand idly clutching my breast, absently pinching the nipple hard enough that my pleasure/pain receptors short-circuit. Even now, ignore my cunt and its stream of wetness, even as I futilely attempt to gain friction against the sheets, my hands, your body, anything. Hold me down as I struggle, denying me still. Describe how needy and desperate I look as I do this. Hear me moan in response, a continuous feedback loop to infinity. Make me beg for your fingers on my cunt before you even begin to consider it.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Some Like It Rough
There is a fierceness to desire that I love. The burning heat, the urgency, the moaned excitement, the little noises of arousal and intensity - all these markers of want drive it up for me a few notches and make an already good scene superlative.
I want to drive a man so mad with want that he leaves impressions of that madness on my skin, in bruises where his thumbs dig in while we writhe together, our bodies feeding off each other's reactions. To hear a shuddering breath and feel my own pulse quicken in response, to bring his hand to my throat and let my racing heart reveal itself in veins quivering against his grip. To let my fingers speak my intentions, let my nails graze sensitive flesh, let my palm curl around hardness and heat in ways so intense and so demanding that incoherent cries are all that he can give me as I give him deliverance. To moan into sheets as I feel hot drops splash onto my breasts, to feel marked and owned by the hands that rub that seed into my skin, leaving me with reminders that I can wash off but never let go of. To be held hard and tight, arms wrapped around me, holding me in place, to be fucked with an appetite so large that I am sated and begging before he comes on my face.
I want to drive a man so mad with want that he leaves impressions of that madness on my skin, in bruises where his thumbs dig in while we writhe together, our bodies feeding off each other's reactions. To hear a shuddering breath and feel my own pulse quicken in response, to bring his hand to my throat and let my racing heart reveal itself in veins quivering against his grip. To let my fingers speak my intentions, let my nails graze sensitive flesh, let my palm curl around hardness and heat in ways so intense and so demanding that incoherent cries are all that he can give me as I give him deliverance. To moan into sheets as I feel hot drops splash onto my breasts, to feel marked and owned by the hands that rub that seed into my skin, leaving me with reminders that I can wash off but never let go of. To be held hard and tight, arms wrapped around me, holding me in place, to be fucked with an appetite so large that I am sated and begging before he comes on my face.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Scene: Into Temptation
I ring your doorbell.
You open the door, we say hello. You're all in black, sleeves rolled partway up your forearms, clothes crisp and neat. I walk in, lingering just inside the doorway, a little hesitant. The house is dimly lit, so I can't make out much. You look at me, ask me if I'm ready. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, a bundle of nervous words sure to bubble forth if I tried. You invite me to sit, ask me to take off my shoes and coat, set my bag down, and then close my eyes and wait. You move away, busy with something as I do as you say. First the bag, then the coat, then my heels are discarded. I choose a seat, and with a deep breath, shut my eyes.
Losing my sight makes me that much more aware of my other senses. The slight chill in the air makes goosebumps run down my arms and under my dress - a woven, low-cut, wide-necked dark grey affair which I've chosen with your instructions (and tendencies) in mind. As I brush the pinpricks away, I strain to distinguish the sounds of what you're doing without much success. You make me wait a while. I'm terribly aware of how my body looks, so I shift often, trying to find a posture that I think might look okay. I'm so caught up in figuring out where to put my hands that I don't notice that you're back.
"Can you please stop fidgeting?"
I go very still at that, my hands sinking into my lap and staying there.
"That's better. Now, I want you to do something for me."
My head is turned towards your voice. I'm listening intently.
"Keep your eyes closed, please. I want you to take off your bra and underwear. Leave the dress on. I'm going to watch. You can stand up if you need to. Please don't waste any time."
This last line, I know, is because of my tendency to freeze as I consider the implications of your words. This time, I don't pause. I get to my feet, hand on the wall for support. My panties come off first, black hipsters drawn down and shimmied out of in no time. I carefully step out of them, bend over to pick them up and place them on the seat behind me, orienting myself by feel. The bra, in matching black, is a slightly more difficult proposition, since my dress has long sleeves. I start with the clasp, reaching under the back of my dress to undo it. I know the kind of view this gives you, and ordinarily would pause at this point to let the import of that hit me, but I'm trying, really trying to follow instructions properly this time. So once it's unhooked, I reach around to carefully work the straps down my shoulders and out from under my elbows. It's tricky, but I pull each sleeve up and reach for the bra strap, eventually getting both done. It's a simple matter to then reach into my cleavage to pull the bra out, but as I move to do so, I find your hand has already made its way between my breasts, my bra caught between your fingers, the operation soon complete, even as you take the chance to tug my dress a little lower and heft my left breast in your hand. Perhaps I've wasted time despite trying not to. Or maybe you just felt like sampling the goods. I hold still, hands at my sides, eyes shut as you fondle me, only breathing out when you pinch my nipple and withdraw, leaving me exposed.
"Mmm, that was very nice. Turn around and put your hands behind your back, please."
I comply, biting my lip as you take my wrists and bind them together with what feels like a leather belt. It's a comfortable bind, enough to keep me restrained but not enough to cause pain. It feels....right, like it belongs. And I know I can't undo it myself, no matter how hard I try. This is the beginning, where the feeling of letting go can start. I let it wash over me. You know what's going through my mind at this point, so you don't bother with words to interrupt, simply placing a blindfold around my head to obscure my vision completely and once again, taking choice away from me. Now, even if I choose to open my eyes, I'll be blind until you decide otherwise. I fall a little further into my surrender.
Once the blindfold is in place, you turn me around for a kiss, gentle but warm, before steering me further into the house, your hand at the small of my back. You don't know it, but I take great comfort from having your hand resting there - the warmth caresses my sensitive skin, and your touch calms the beginnings of nerves. I'm a little unsteady on my feet, but your guidance is firm and sure, and we get there without incident.
"Take a step forward, please. Then get down on your knees - I want your legs spread, though - and wait."
Instead of cold floor, I find something soft beneath my feet and then my knees as I comply. Kneeling there, I wait patiently for you.
You open the door, we say hello. You're all in black, sleeves rolled partway up your forearms, clothes crisp and neat. I walk in, lingering just inside the doorway, a little hesitant. The house is dimly lit, so I can't make out much. You look at me, ask me if I'm ready. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, a bundle of nervous words sure to bubble forth if I tried. You invite me to sit, ask me to take off my shoes and coat, set my bag down, and then close my eyes and wait. You move away, busy with something as I do as you say. First the bag, then the coat, then my heels are discarded. I choose a seat, and with a deep breath, shut my eyes.
Losing my sight makes me that much more aware of my other senses. The slight chill in the air makes goosebumps run down my arms and under my dress - a woven, low-cut, wide-necked dark grey affair which I've chosen with your instructions (and tendencies) in mind. As I brush the pinpricks away, I strain to distinguish the sounds of what you're doing without much success. You make me wait a while. I'm terribly aware of how my body looks, so I shift often, trying to find a posture that I think might look okay. I'm so caught up in figuring out where to put my hands that I don't notice that you're back.
"Can you please stop fidgeting?"
I go very still at that, my hands sinking into my lap and staying there.
"That's better. Now, I want you to do something for me."
My head is turned towards your voice. I'm listening intently.
"Keep your eyes closed, please. I want you to take off your bra and underwear. Leave the dress on. I'm going to watch. You can stand up if you need to. Please don't waste any time."
This last line, I know, is because of my tendency to freeze as I consider the implications of your words. This time, I don't pause. I get to my feet, hand on the wall for support. My panties come off first, black hipsters drawn down and shimmied out of in no time. I carefully step out of them, bend over to pick them up and place them on the seat behind me, orienting myself by feel. The bra, in matching black, is a slightly more difficult proposition, since my dress has long sleeves. I start with the clasp, reaching under the back of my dress to undo it. I know the kind of view this gives you, and ordinarily would pause at this point to let the import of that hit me, but I'm trying, really trying to follow instructions properly this time. So once it's unhooked, I reach around to carefully work the straps down my shoulders and out from under my elbows. It's tricky, but I pull each sleeve up and reach for the bra strap, eventually getting both done. It's a simple matter to then reach into my cleavage to pull the bra out, but as I move to do so, I find your hand has already made its way between my breasts, my bra caught between your fingers, the operation soon complete, even as you take the chance to tug my dress a little lower and heft my left breast in your hand. Perhaps I've wasted time despite trying not to. Or maybe you just felt like sampling the goods. I hold still, hands at my sides, eyes shut as you fondle me, only breathing out when you pinch my nipple and withdraw, leaving me exposed.
"Mmm, that was very nice. Turn around and put your hands behind your back, please."
I comply, biting my lip as you take my wrists and bind them together with what feels like a leather belt. It's a comfortable bind, enough to keep me restrained but not enough to cause pain. It feels....right, like it belongs. And I know I can't undo it myself, no matter how hard I try. This is the beginning, where the feeling of letting go can start. I let it wash over me. You know what's going through my mind at this point, so you don't bother with words to interrupt, simply placing a blindfold around my head to obscure my vision completely and once again, taking choice away from me. Now, even if I choose to open my eyes, I'll be blind until you decide otherwise. I fall a little further into my surrender.
Once the blindfold is in place, you turn me around for a kiss, gentle but warm, before steering me further into the house, your hand at the small of my back. You don't know it, but I take great comfort from having your hand resting there - the warmth caresses my sensitive skin, and your touch calms the beginnings of nerves. I'm a little unsteady on my feet, but your guidance is firm and sure, and we get there without incident.
"Take a step forward, please. Then get down on your knees - I want your legs spread, though - and wait."
Instead of cold floor, I find something soft beneath my feet and then my knees as I comply. Kneeling there, I wait patiently for you.
Monday, January 27, 2014
One More Night
That night keeps running through my head in flashes. It gives me little shivers, jolts I can't quite handle, causing sharp intakes of breath as I recall in vivid detail the things we did, the things You did to Me.
I want more. More of that.
More of your body, which I can't get enough of - I want to run my hands all over you, just feeling the skin and muscle and heat, feeling all of you alive under my fingertips.
More of your cock, warm in my hands, rubbing gently over my lips, my cheeks, my closed eyelids.
More of your hands, running down my sides, dancing along my back, the feather-light touch making me gasp and arch for you.
More of your fingers, slipping into my slick pussy, the heel of your palm grinding against my clit, your hand laying claim to my wetness, my arousal.
More of your lips, thickly meshing with mine, then lazily meandering down my throat, your tongue wreaking havoc on my self-control as you envelop my neck in wet heat.
I want more of you all the time.
When we're out getting coffee. When we're singing. In your car, going somewhere. Talking (sometimes I stop paying attention to what you're saying, lost in miniature fantasies). Walking down the street, my eyes drinking you in as you make your way ahead of me.
You say I have no shame. I say I can't make myself hold back. I can't. I won't.
I want to turn to you to say something, only to find you looking at me with naked want in your eyes. As we hug hello, murmur into my ear that I look eminently fuckable. Grin at how I involuntarily stiffen at that, my eyes widening slightly. Leave a promise in that grin, a promise to follow through on your words.
Pull me into a kiss that leaves me breathless and biting my lip - you know that look well. Turn me on by words, by your clear intent, by your lips on mine, by your hands winding into my hair, then sharply tugging it back so you can nip at my neck; turn me on steadily, deliberately, painfully; until I beg, shamefacedly inarticulate, cheeks hot with need, for you to take me.
Deny me still, as I squirm and writhe beneath your touch, until, finally, you give me a taste of what I'm craving. Dispense with the preliminaries and just reach for my nipples, tug at them, pinch them until I moan and ask you to fuck me. I will. I'll bite my lip and hiss it, spit it out, mean it with all my soul. Don't listen to me. Instead, hold me down, ignoring my frustrated struggling, and bring your lips to my aching cunt.
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