I’m begging you. Bend me naked over the dining table as the centrepiece to your evening with friends. Tie my wrists and kick my feet apart. Force me to show it all, to everyone. Keep those spiked, soft leather gloves on, as you slide your hand up my inner thigh, daring me to soil them. Pinch my clit, let the spikes graze the lips. Punish me for it, pin prick spanking and a public fucking. Show who owns me.
Oh yes, I will tease. I will be the reason you find it so hard.
Concentration, of course. Think back to the colourful phrases, the snippets of a perverted imagination with a cruel little cock tease. Be drawn into the web, allow yourself to be seduced. Tell me how you can’t help yourself, you can’t help being weak. I’m making it hard. Hard for you to breathe. Hard for you to think. Hard for you to stand. Hard for you to forget.
I’m not getting your attention. I slip out of my dress. Sidling up where you’re sat, engrossed in your work. Arms around your neck from behind. Kissing your neck and easing the chair out, so I can sit astride your lap. Damp G-string and barely covered breasts.
Little girl giggles belying lack of innocence as I grind against your stiff jeans. A wet patch forms, framing the growing bulge underneath the thick material.
Thick denim manipulates my ready lips and encourages a downpour, while my nails dig into your neck. You wince, finally deigning to acknowledge. There’s that look. A hand snaking up in a flash, fingers to my face, cupping my chin, holding me firmly. Silencing the smile. The other just as lightening fast, sweeping my hands behind my back to hold my wrists together with a painful grip. Caught in a vice.
There’s no escape now, just adventure. Your choice. Bitten lips first on the menu. It’s not a kiss, it’s devouring with love.
So your appetite was whet, I think, as you crash me down to the floor, lovingly cushioning my fall with a fist in my hair. Thinking I’ll be naked soon. Thinking I’ll be satisfied soon. Hoping.
Pinned to the floor by my hair, your fingers trace collar bone, cleavage, floral lace bra cups. Soft tummy flesh and a tweak to the jewelled navel.
Sliding a finger underneath the thin elastic of the G-string, grazing long nails over my hip, moving slowly, deliberately, much to my heart’s disturbance.
Your breathing changes slightly when your fingers almost accidentally discover the fresh smoothness which awaits. Is anything ever really an accident?
I discover the limit to the G-string’s absorbency.
Your fingers depart and I cry on the inside.
You tell me I need to be taught a lesson. You tell me other things too. Your fingers pinch and pull, tease and probe.
I cry on the outside.
So it came to be that I sat between your legs, under your desk. Breasts still in underwired bondage, G-string continuing my wet, unsated appetite.
Punishment for a tease: wrists bound in the small of my back, kneeling on the floor, ankles crossed beneath me. A bullet vibrator inconsiderately placed, whispering cruel nothings from its intimate location.
He looks down and tells me I look pretty with my mouth full.