Feel… the wetness.
Feel… the crushing of his lips against mine, his desperation after a whole day and evening, entertaining, playing host and hostess. The tinge of alcohol on his breath, not much, just enough to remove any lack of self belief, lack of self confidence. The edges of his teeth nipping at my tongue as we swirl together.
Feel… suspender straps straining up my thighs, as I am stretched out, his hand clamping both my wrists high up against the wall.
Feel… the crisp white starched cotton of his shirt against my exposed cleavage as he presses in against me, our hearts beating so loudly, so fiercely, the blood pumping and adding to the overwhelming, dizzying rush of lust
Feel… his fingertips parting me with ease, slipping between my velvet ruffles that surely glisten with the slick, shimmering wetness that has been pooling there for so long. Permission not granted to wear knickers this evening. To be accessible, available, all night … but made to wait… until now.
Feel… my hope, my need, his want, his filthy and depraved plans, the door has closed on the last guest and the time is now ours…
Feel… the rough masculine jawline with the faintest roughness of bristles, promising a rash against my porcelain, soft skin
Feel… the cool wall against my shoulder blades, leaning against it, a balancing act of tottering high heels, his hand around my wrists and legs that threaten to buckle at any moment
Feel… that much awaited instant when his vice clamp around my wrist suddenly lessens and it is time to be thrown down and utterly taken
Feel… wanted. Needed. Lusted after.
Used. Sated. Sore.