“Watch me.”

She stretches out on the cool cotton sheets, back arched, arms above her head, fingers extended toward the headboard. Her spine lengthens and her muscles shift, tightening her belly, raising her breasts. The movement draws his attention—with her head thrown back she can’t see him, but she knows him well enough to predict his responses. Better, perhaps, than he knows her. Her nipples, always prominent, harden into rigid beads that ache for stimulation.

Unlike him, she knows how to wait.

She holds the pose for long moments, giving him the chance to appreciate her taut nakedness, before letting go and sinking back into the mattress. Then she turns toward him, toward the chair next to the bed where he sits, equally naked. As she’d guessed, he’s focused on the lush hills and valleys of her body—but not completely. Though his eyes devour her, his hands are busy elsewhere, stroking the fat, eager erection that rears up from his lap.

“Stop that, darling. I want your full attention. Concentrate on what I’m doing. Imagine what I’m feeling.”

“You look so hot, I can’t help it,” he protests, though he releases his cock, at least for the moment. It’s a beautiful cock, smooth and straight, with a rosy crown that’s already slick with his anticipation. She wants to swallow it, to straddle it, to feel its solid bulk slide into her and fill her. Not yet, though.

“Do I have to tie your hands behind your back?” It’s a favorite joke. They’ve never done anything kinky, and if they did, he’d probably want to be in charge. Still, the notion amplifies the erotic charge crackling between them. “Come closer. Watch carefully. I’m revealing all my secrets.”

He obeys, his meekness kicking her own arousal into a higher gear. Of course, she doesn’t really want him as her slave. Indeed, often she loves to be taken, to be fucked, to be used, a mere receptacle for his lust. Tonight, though, she wants control. She’s trying to teach him a lesson he needs to learn.

On her back, she bends her knees and spreads her thighs. Her labia peel apart. A breeze from the open window wafts over her exposed flesh, like the brush of ghostly fingers. Delicate pleasure shimmers through her. She tilts her pelvis, showing him the glistening pink folds of her cunt.

“What do you see?” she asks, her voice low and husky.

“Your pussy,” he says.

“What about my pussy?”

“You’re wet—really wet. You’re turned on.”

“I am. Very. I love having you watch me. It feels incredible.”

“Let me fuck you.” He stirs in his chair, leans closer. His body heat warms her skin. “That will feel even better.”

“Don’t touch me,” she warns. “Just watch. You promised, darling...”

He sighs, settling back into his seat. “It’s so hard.”

She doesn’t know if he means the discipline or his cock. Probably both.

“Can you see my clit?” she asks. To help him, she makes a V of her fingers and opens herself wider. Every touch kindles electric sparks. Her clit feels enormous, swollen. She grazes it with her thumb, ever so lightly. Her body shudders as sensation races through her.

“Yeah... It’s bright red. And your juices—you’re absolutely dripping, baby.”

She slips one finger into her vagina. He’s right. She’s soaked. There’s almost no friction, but that doesn’t matter. The penetration still thrills her, with its premonitions of what’s to come. Tendrils of pleasure twine through her, coiling into a knot deep in her pelvis.

She has to go slowly, though. She wants him to see the progression of desire, to understand the stages. Removing her finger, she brings it to her mouth, licking off the tangy secretions. He gasps but says nothing. He’s shocked; he’s never seen her feast on her own juices. Her clit pulses with new urgency at the realization.

Her pussy cries out for more, but first, she turns her attention to her breasts. The nipples are like granite pebbles now. They tingle with each small movement, each shift of orientation or position. She flattens her open hands above them and brushes the tips. Pleasure prickles across the skin of her palms, even more intense than the sweet ache in the nipples themselves. Her muscles clench, in her cunt and her ass, clamping down on emptiness. She repeats the movement, winding the tension tighter. She’ll be full soon enough.

It’s astonishing that such a minimal gesture has such profound effects. Indeed, her pussy tightens even when she doesn’t touch herself at all, just sweeps her palms over her breasts a fraction of an inch above the erect nubs.

“I thought you said your nipples liked rough stimulation,” he says. “Pinching. Twisting.”

“Sometimes,” she replies. “Not now.”  She runs her thumbs in circles around the nipples, barely touching darker the skin that surrounds them. Sensation spirals down to her sex. When she tugs lightly, it’s as though there are cords linking her nipples to her clit. Each pull evokes a new burst of heat, a new flood of moisture.

She tries a pinch, as he has suggested. Lightning streaks through her. Her cunt bursts into flame.

Her companion chuckles at her moan. “See?”

He thinks he knows her, but he doesn’t understand, not yet. She’s never done this before, not in front of him. He believes she’s just teasing him, that this is just foreplay. He still expects her to relent, to beg for his cock to complete her pleasure.

It’s true that she adores his cock. But she’s perfectly complete without it.

Her pussy screams for attention. She’s in no rush to answer. Cupping one breast, she kneads the firm, warm flesh. Her tits are on the small side, but she loves their roundness, their symmetry, the cheeky way the nipples stand out even when she’s not aroused.

She sweeps her other hand slowly down her torso, delighting in the satiny texture of her skin. She strokes the slight swell of her belly and circles her navel. Her palm brushes the kinky curls that cover her mound. More electricity. He’s never asked her to shave or wax; he likes the way her fur holds her scent. It’s one of the many reasons she loves him.

Her fingers burrow into her bush, hair tickling the sensitive skin between them. Hands are erogenous zones, as much as nipples and clit. She squeezes her mons and her breast simultaneously. The indirect pressure triggers a fuller, more profound kind of pleasure, laced with the first hint of an impending climax.

Blood beats heavy in her clit. Her soaked folds flutter, empty, hungry. She’s finally ready to surrender, to sink her fingers into her wet snatch when she catches the sound of his panting breath. His chair creaks rhythmically. Has he broken his promise?

Still massaging her pubis, she steals a peek.

Her lover rocks back and forth in his chair, his pelvis jerking. His cock strains toward the ceiling, red and angry, drooling pre-cum. He’s not touching it, though. Instead, he grips the seat of the chair on both sides, so tightly that his knuckles are white.

His eyes are fixed on her. His expression holds a desperate fascination.

A rush of affection floods her. For a moment she’s tempted to relent, to reach for him and invite him to take his customary place between her splayed thighs.

“Please, baby...” His pleading hardens her resolve.

“Be patient, love. This is for both of us.”

She has caught some of his urgency, though. Without further preliminaries, she pushes two fingers into her crevice. When that’s not enough, she adds a third. She pumps them in and out, frigging herself as fast as she can manage. At the same time, she uses the heel of her hand on her pubis to stimulate her clit. Her clit has always been too sensitive to be touched directly. Grinding herself against something hard works much better than stroking, flicking or rubbing.

With one hand busy in her pussy, she tortures her nipples with the other, tweaking them, twisting them, digging her nails into the rubbery flesh. Now she needs those intense, almost painful sensations, to balance the pleasure welling up in her cunt. She bucks against her own hand with each thrust, clenching around her invading digits, reaching for the orgasm she craves.

It’s not easy for her to come, even when she’s very aroused. When she masturbates alone, she’ll usually summon some extreme fantasy to help her over the top. Tonight, though, she has a reality at least as transgressive as any of her imaginings. Her lover is watching her every move. He can see her fingers disappearing into her hole and coming out dripping. He’s transfixed by her lewd writhing, her grunts, her jiggling tits and ass as she humps her hand.

She reveals herself to him, a slutty, insatiable sex goddess, reveling in her self-sufficient carnality. He can watch. He can worship her glorious femaleness with his eyes, his poor neglected cock ready to explode. But he cannot touch her, or touch himself. She alone has control over his satisfaction.

Indeed, she has imagined this scene many times, lying by herself on their bed on nights when he was away on business. It took her months to muster to courage to make it real.

His groans mingle with her own. He’s totally with her now, locked into her gradual but inevitable progress toward her climax. She’ll take him with her when she comes.

She’s not there yet, however. She fights the frustration that sometimes overwhelms her, the sense that she’s somehow inadequate because she does not have instant orgasms like the heroines in erotic romances. She reminds herself: the longer she stretches out the process, the more powerful the release.

Her fingers just aren’t enough, though. She knows that if she pauses to get the vibrator, that will break the spell. So she reaches above her head for the bolster. He won’t be able to see her pussy if she straddles it the way she wants to do, but that’s the surest way to make herself come.

“Anna...?”  He doesn’t know what she’s up to. The bolster is her dirty little secret.

“Hush. Watch me.”

Rolling onto her stomach, she thrusts the cylindrical pillow between her legs. The pressure on her clit makes her convulse with need. Immediately, she’s on the edge of coming. Pushing her hands into her crotch, underneath the pillow, she grinds her pussy against its firm bulk. The friction is perfect. She is almost there.

Most of the bolster sticks out behind her. As always, it makes her think of a huge, fat cock. What if that enormous cock were in her cunt, stretching her to the point of pain? What if...?

The pillow elevates her buttocks and spreads her legs wide. Her lover can’t see her pussy in this position, but surely he can discern the tight, dark hole between her rear cheeks. Does he know what’s she’s thinking? What if he finally loses control? What if he leaps up from his chair, grabs her from behind, and forces his swollen dick into her ass?

Her climax rises like a tidal wave, liquid and powerful, from someplace deep in her belly. There’s a breath-stopping instant when it crests, towering over her. Then it crashes down, drowning her in an irresistible flood of pleasure. She drifts, her body trembling and limp, in a sea of exquisite sensation.

Finally, the tide recedes. She rolls onto her back, off the soaked pillow. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears. Her pussy flesh still quivers with the aftershocks.

“Anna? Love?”

In his quiet voice, she hears respect and wonder.

She opens her eyes.

He’s still in the chair where she put him. His cock has subsided.

“I couldn’t help it,” he says, indicating his lap, which is a sticky mess of cum. “It happened by itself. I swear my hands were nowhere near my dick. I watched you come. Before I could do anything, I was coming too.”

She nods and smiles, sitting up among the tousled sheets. “I know,” she says. “I felt it.” Taking his hand, she gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you, lover.”

“No,” he says. “Thank you. That was amazing.”

She doesn’t answer, simply draws him to the bed and pulls him down next to her. Then she stretches out, hands above her head, her breasts elevated, her legs apart.

“Touch me.”

 

By Lisabet Sarai