Why pretend he is forcing me when I desperately want to do it?
I kick off my shoes, grasp the edges of my sweatshirt, lift it upwards, and tug it over my head. Shivering in the chill of cold air touching my skin I let the sweatshirt fall to the ground. His eyes roam my exposed skin hungrily. The chill I felt goes away and a familiar warmth
I unzip my jeans, push them down my legs, and take off my socks. There are sock marks around my ankles, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I undo the clasp on my bra and let my breasts pop out of them. Unconsciously, I sigh with relief that the restrains are gone. I feel the lace scrape my skin as it travels down my arm. With a whisper it touches the ground.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of my panties and drag them down my legs. Then I am standing there naked, my back straight, my bare toes gripping the carpet and my breasts aching for him.
He takes his feet away from the table he has been resting them on.
‘Sit,’ he invites softly.
I draw in a shuddering breath and walk to the table. Going around it I sit facing him, my palms flat on either side of me, my knees close together. The glass is cold under my bottom and thighs and goose bumps scatter my skin.
I lift my head and look at him.
Without saying a word he gets up, goes to the bathroom, and comes back with a hairbrush. He holds it out to me. I take it and he resumes his position on the sofa. I turn my head to the side and looking at a point on the curtain, drag the brush through my hair, the downward sweep slow and rhythmic. When all my hair swings straight and shiny I put the brush down on the table beside me and look up at him.
His eyes are veiled, but something raw throbs between us. His eyes slide down to the tips of my breasts. I feel his gaze like fingers, full of warmth and texture. The invisible fingers slide lower.
‘Spread your legs,’ he says, his voice thick.
I open my legs and expose my swollen wet sex to him.
‘Do you know your pussy is … quivering. It’s all soft and pink and ripe and quivering for me?’
I draw in a sharp breath as he reaches out a hand and lets his fingers slip into the opening between my legs. A finger rubs my swollen clit and I gasp.
‘Lean forward,’ he whispers.
I take a shuddering breath. I know what he wants me to do. He wants me to spread my sex on the glass.
‘Why do you want me to do these humiliating acts?’
‘I want to know that I have total control over you. If you can say no, then I am still not your master.’
To hunt the snake the eagle must fly into the undergrowth. I spread my legs and press my bare sex on the cold glass. My breasts hang forward.
He gets off the sofa and lies down under the table so he right under my spread open, slick flesh.
‘Now rub that naughty pussy until she comes,’ he says.
I close my eyes. Some part of me wants to obey. Wants to do these degrading things while he watches. So I allow him to lie under me while I shamelessly angle my dripping sex on the glass and rub myself on it until I climax. Even after I climax I don’t get up and walk away. I know its not over until his cock is buried deep inside me … and I am waiting for that.
He gets up off the floor and comes to stand in front of me. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes are full of lust and triumph. My deviant hands immediately start unbuckling his belt. His cock is so hard it jumps out into my hand. He stuffs it into my mouth and I suck until an animal sound emanates from his throat and he explodes deep inside my throat.
I keep him inside my mouth. I don’t know what he will do next. Is he going to turn away again? For a moment we are both frozen in an act of master and sexual slave. Can he never love me back? Will my love remain forever hopeless and unreciprocated? Then he does this one thing. It’s an unconscious thing, and it is only a tiny thing and perhaps it will mean nothing to anybody else, but it is a big thing to me.
He strokes my hair.
Just once.
But it is enough for me. He cares. Maybe just a little, but he cares. My grandmother used to say, everyman, even the most hardened criminal, has a soft spot in his heart. Maybe, just maybe I can be that soft spot in this man’s heart.
I lift my feet up on the table and get into a crouching position. Reeking of sex I drag my breasts up along his body until my erect nipples brush his face and I am standing a head taller than him. Bracing my hands on the planes of his hard chest our faces loom, dangerously close, separately only by the cast iron bars of mutual distrust. His eyes, so radiant they are azure, stare back into mine.
Unnerving. Beautiful. What is he seeing, I wonder.
Feverishly, I cup his cheeks between my palms and press my mouth against his. A long trapped moan escapes. We kiss. Kiss? No, He opens his mouth, our tongues entangle and we hold on tight, and fucking drink. So deeply it is as if we are desert nomads who have travelled for weeks to find a vein of cold water in the ground. Succulent. Succulent. He is.