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I stroke a finger around the dimmer switch, dowsing the lights to a subtle glow and stroll to you slowly, pausing once to let my robe fall, again to slip off my nightie … once more to drop my panties, leaving a trail of crumpled pajamas on the floor.
You watch me from the center of the bed, already naked, resting on a dozen soft blankets, propped up by a hundred supple pillows, contemplating a thousand different ways a promise might be fulfilled, wondering when the hell our room got so huge it took eight hours to cross it.
Um, wait.
Sorry. I need to back up a bit here. What I should say is that you’re probably naked. Maybe the silk scarves that criss-cross your wrists and lash them to the phallic symbol that adorns the headboard and calls itself a finial make you feel decently covered—but somehow, I suspect they don’t.
We’re agreed then?
Good.
You glance to the right, at the little nightstand who’s contents were all you could look at until I walked through the door—waiting for me, already tethered, very aware of that table, wondering what you heard in the shower, if you even heard anything at all, and if what you think you heard—excuse me—think you may have heard meant what you believe it does, confusing yourself with tenses and thinking heard is a funny sounding kind of a word. And staring at that table. Your glance now shows you the same things occupy it since your last scrutiny. The lamp and book that normally sit there like a cozy old married couple have some very racy house guests.
Clustered near the center, on top of the book, are three small bottles. There’s a bottle of lube and two of the antique perfume bottles we have collected over the years—and filled whenever we found something worthy of their artistry—two of the sultan’s most sumptuous houris flanking a plain, boring, everyday, opaque bottle of lube looking even shabbier for the teeth marks in it’s blue flick-top. Lube serves it’s purpose, and does so commendably, but the oils—now there’s something to appreciate, to splurge on, to covet. You’re exhilarated by the sight of the mother of pearl bottle, with it’s beautiful teardrop shape and rose quartz stopper; the vanilla oil you know it holds. But the other one … the other one is ruby red waterglass with so many facets on it’s surface it seems to ripple like the real thing, shaped like a bud vase and looking like a bottle of sex. And til now had stood empty—at least you thought it was empty—on the bathroom shelf. A new one, you can’t wait, your jaw tightens, your cock throbs.
Behind the bottles, on the far corner of the table, the one opposite the lamp, lies a strap-on—you’ve never seen it before—with a skin-colored cock sticking straight up and demonstrating exactly what it means to say the devil in the details—sticking straight up from a tangled free-for-all of bullhide straps that are only a slim inch yet look strong enough to harness an ox, and brassy metal D-rings that wink the light back at you from somewhere amid the many loops. And no, it’s not a stretch to imagine this strap-on has a brassy side.
Nearest you is a jeweled silver hair-clip that holds at least a dozen colorful feathers in its many rounded teeth and tries, unsuccessfully, to conceal itself under a strip of black cloth—some sort of glossy fabric, synthetic and stretchy looking.
A little to the right is a battery powered vibrator about four inches long or so—sexy, slim and creamy white—lying on wrinkles of purple terrycloth. Such a nimble little funfaerie … and so naughty, too.
And behind that naughty little funfaerie sits a tumbler, and a heavy glass pitcher half-full of icy water and half fogged over, sweating driblets, cocooning a neon-green glass dildo.
You look back at me, an eyebrow raised. Planning a marathon are we?
Ignoring your wit, wearing only an impish smile, I climb on the bed and lick your right foot. From your heel to your instep, swirling up to your ankle—a bite—a lazy, wet trail over your calf … your knee, bending it to create that crease behind, licking it like it’s pussy—probing, stroking, lapping … up your thigh … your balls … your navel. Your cock bumps along my body as I move onward … my chin … my throat … my breasts … my ribs—I hesitate, back-up, cut my teeth on a nipple—bumpity-bump back over my ribs … my stomach … my hip. I lick your neck and the swirls of your ears and check on the restraints. They’re fine, of course—only a friendly reminder—and I lie right on top of you; pressing my weight … into you. Your cock is… well, you could say it’s trapped … right against my thigh and I kiss your mouth; a long, deep kiss. Lots of tongue. Head titling, lip licking. It goes on for days and I shift and wiggle, grinding against you. Nipples tangle with the hair on your chest. Fingers play with the sensitive curls at your nape and go slip-slip-slipping behind your ear and down, riding the curve of your shoulder, skimming up your arm soft as a cat’s tail, over bound wrists, curling to a fist between the palms of your hands. You close your fingers, giving it a quick squeeze and I slither down your body—an inch … three … eight—tilt my hips forward so I can press my clit to your thigh, press my lips to your neck. My knee prods between your legs, opening folds of wet pussy with a slurp and I rock slick bud to prickly skin. I drag my mouth to your cheek, leave a damp trail on your thigh, breathe muddled words in your ear—hhhiii’mmmmwhhhhe’rrrgoinngggtoooomahhhkyhhoooucum mt’nighhht. azhardazyoucan. azmanytimezzazyoucan … bhhhuut …
… I look at your face and reach between us—even though you didn’t catch more than three words(cum,hard…..butt?)they felt so goddamn good huffing into your head that your cock is swollen almost beyond bearing regardless. My palm and fingers feel so cold against the hot blood your heart is pumping to your aching cock … my knuckles dig into your stomach, your hips move reflexively, craving friction. Your eyes roll back …
… but you’ll have to trust me. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? You shake your head—Not a word.—and fuck my hand. I laugh. Alright then, I’ll rephrase: what would you say if I told you someone incredibly sexy … namely me … has arranged for you, us, to fulfill a fantasy—a previously thought to be entirely quixotic fantasy— without exactly … checking with you first? Would you be willing?
You ponder this cryptic query, feel me sliding over your thigh in a most. sleazy. manner… exaggerated, slow … ‘round and ‘round and ‘round … windmilling. Waiting for an answer.
It sinks in and you roll your eyes. I can’t help a nerdy snort.
Scrutinizing me now—which fantasy?. I shake my head with a secret smile. You smile back. Good. Stop moving.
No friction anymore, just pressure and pressure and pressure … and my hair tickles your face as I lean closer and lick your neck. I lick all of it; pulse points and throat and chin and larynx and jawbone and tendon and hollow. My body is so relaxed, even the parts I am moving against you—my fingers, my mouth, my hand, my pussy—relaxed and heavy and sensual and on top of you and lulling you with smooth pressure … pressure on your cock, pressure on your body. Give over. Close your eyes. Sink deeper into the rumpled blanket and soft pillows. Bobbing along on a warm sea of mattress … sailing the waves of pleasure … so relaxed … boneless, weightless … my hand begins to move and pressure mingles with friction and you’re embraced front and back, head to toe.
Getting a hand-job.
What could be finer than this?
Not much, I tell you.
I shift to angle my head and you notice a gooey spot on your stomach. The throbbing distended head of your cock is poking out from my fist and you can feel my abdomen compressing it, squeezing out thick, sticky drops. Anticipation tightens your balls. Skin slides, the pressure on your chest lifts; you open your eyes. You see me reach for one of the oils—the new bottle. Throwing a leg over your waist, I sit on my shins to straddle you, hips gripped in my legs, cock nestled in the warm cleft of my ass, abdomen suctioned to my dripping sex. My cunt weaves a string to the pit of your stomach, tugging hard on your solar plexus every time I mouth your abs with my slick pussy, making your stomach flip-flop. I could cum right now. Just like this. Doing nothing but this—this erotic soul kiss, this raw contact—as I have before, leaving the taste of me in your navel and the aftershocks of my undoing in your gut. But right now I arch my back deeply, tickling your thighs with my hair, exposing my throat and stretching my stomach. I slide the stopper from the long neck of the bottle and place it between my breasts and draw it down, down, angling it, slipping it between us. It disappears to the round red top, and, oh fuck, you are so jealous of that slender piece of frosted glass, want to take its place, to be the one who’s slipping into that dark wet, stroking, and coaxing breathy moans. I straighten up and slide it out one small millimeter at a time, noticing the tight set of your jaw with no small amount of wicked satisfaction. I put the stopper on the towel so I can pour a short stream of the oil into my cupped palm. Returning the bottle to the table so I can finger the little pool I created … watching you watch me … stirring it around and around, releasing it’s fragrance. Mint … you sniff … subtle but there. My finger emerges, saturated, and hovers high above your nipple. A fat, trembling drop takes forever to fall—warmth spreading, rippling out, intensifying. You were expecting cold; instead it’s just this side of fire.
You ask me where i got this.
I smirk—At a store.—and stick out my tongue. I’m such a minx.
Your eyes follow my fingers to my own nipple, watching them roll and pinch and pleasure. I lean forward, careful not to tip my palm and spill my stash of liquid heat, and press my nipple to your lips. Bite me. Your tongue slithers out on reconnaissance, gets coated in a tasteless slick. Warm. Tingly … a little too tingly, almost like licking a nine volt. Altogether not the best of sensations; you’ll stick with teeth thankyouverymuch, and avoid using your eyes at all costs.
I. Said. Bite! Your teeth close over the peak. Harder! The little bud is firm and tight. You move your head from side to side, stretching, pulling on me like taffy. Damnit! I. Said. Harder! You thrash your head, yanking and wrenching and twisting and tugging and anything else you can think of. God, how I love this. It hurts and I fucking love it. And I’m scream-moaning dirty half-words and gasps of pleasure/pain. Your own nipple buzzes and tingles in empathy, you can feel it tugging for fucks’ sake. There’s a rhythm to the pulling on your belly now and more and more my moans sing in harmony with the contractions slurping at it. You want me to cum, want to watch my face, the shivers and body jerks, feel the wet against your skin, the convulsions drinking you up, but I’ll tell you a secret here—here, like this, but not there, in the room—I’m not going to cum. Not this time. I want to prolong that before-it’s-too-late moment. See how close I can get to it. How many times. Deny it. Suspend it. For as long as I can I want to savor the continuing pulsing ache of anticipation that comes with it. Until tears prick the backs of my eyes and the pain of waiting is more than I can bear. And I’ll tell you another secret—when you finally ease that pain with a smooth thrust, filling me slowly, taking up all the space until the ache has nowhere left, it feels like … like heaven. Like absolution. Like completion. Deliverance. Salvation. A symphony. Perfection. Like all the clichés you can think of rolled into one. Like touching life.
That’s enough.—I sit back abruptly—thank you,—I smile— that was nice.
Nice!?, you think, affronted. Until you notice how I’m afraid to move, struggling to keep in check—a smug sense of payback for the captive to know that the only thing between his tormentor and an orgasm is a ripple of his stomach or a bucking of his hips.
I drizzle the rest of the oil on your chest, massaging the warmth into bunched muscles, my fingers chasing after zings of sensation, leading around electric caresses and so careful for the moment to keep my pussy away from your skin. Leaning down, I blow on a nipple, graze it, blow on it, graze it, blow on it. Bend your knees. I reach behind my back and press my palm against your butt, spreading the last of the oil on your ass and right on up to the tip of your cock. My middle finger slips back down, riding the crease. My palm presses your sac up … up … over, lifting, cupping, almost, almost but not quite touching(cock, cock, there, righthere;soclose, justabit-ohpleasehigher, touchit-squeezeit, nowtouchitnow)rests back down … disappears, my finger rides back again, slipping deeper, creeping closer. It starts all over. And over. And over. And goddamnit! you wish I would touch your cock already. And fuck me that oil—inflaming, thrilling, breath-stealing oil. You pull your hand down to touch where I won’t, where the oil will … is … finally—whoops!—you swear in frustration. A string of utterly vile nonsense punctuated by yanks and twists.
Your little tantrum makes me giggle. Oh, this’ll be fun.
I release you and reach for that little black strip of cloth—Sometimes, I whisper as I slip it over your head, there can be surprises within a surprise and promise means possibility.—and it fashions itself to the concave shape of your eyes, snug, pressurized, densely dark. Sounds, taste, touch, fragrance. They are your guides now. And me.
Your right wrist is loosed; your body dips as I move off you to sit on the edge of the bed.
A dull clink. Water and ice tumble over glass.
You can come in now.
thump.
thump.
thump.
Even though it's what you more-than-half expected, suddenly you feel very vulnerable. |