Spill

I imagine playing with you, since you aren't here to play with me. My eyes close and I can almost feel your hand splayed over my collarbone, pushing me against the sheets. I feel your breath quicken slightly at the sight of me, how small I seem compared to your hand, which reaches nearly to my shoulders.

You push, ever so gently, experimenting, feeling the give of my bones beneath my skin. From there my heart is close, it thumps against your palm, quickening. I know what you love about me, what keeps you coming back – the vulnerability of me, the way I tremble at your touch and love it, the change that comes over me when you lower a blindfold over my eyes. It seems like I would take anything once you blindfold me – a change so blatant as to be totally mystical.

As the soft fabric brushes my cheek, my limbs lengthen and relax, and my lips soften, not imperceptibly as the stories would have it, but obviously, in an outpouring of my submissive nature. They part slightly, waiting, and you can tell that under the blindfold my eyes flicker slightly. My whole body shifts a little bit in anticipation, my hips writhing slightly against the sheets, my feet stretching to limber me.

I breathe, inhaling your scent above me, imagining what might come next, with anticipation and acceptance. Nothing else brings this languor over me so quickly – I am pliable and willing, utterly obedient. Even imagining right now, I can't quite put myself there. It's as though my deepest submission is reserved only for you. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, trying to be there anyway.

I can feel you staring at my lips, well aware of how they just changed. Your free hand creeps up so you can thumb my lower lip where it protrudes, and I'm so pliant I don't even try to suck it into my mouth. The feel of your rough skin over me sends a thrill through my body, but my desire isn't demanding – it begs and pleads like me.

I can tell you are just playing in the purest sense of the word- giving in to your whimsy on the willing toy you have before you. You explore me like you'd never seen me before, which, I suppose, in a way, you haven't. Your fingers grasp my earlobe gently, stroking its cool, soft surface, sending a tingle of electricity over my skin. You splay your fingers over my face, mirroring the hand on my collarbone, and my brain slows down.

I am beyond relaxed. Your hand on my collarbone strokes down, to touch my breasts. You lick your thumb and coat my nipples, the chill on the wet making them harden. You play with them in your palms, rubbing gently. I moan softly, making no protest as your grip squeezes one of them. Your thumb returns to my mouth, stroking gently and then pushing in, your fingers on my cheek encouraging me to suck. I do as you bid, because I can't do anything else, and stroke your thumb with my tongue. The taste makes me crave, but I don't ask you for anything in this ritual.

I know you're hard; I know the sight of me lying naked and prone has done this to you. I want to preserve the sanctity of this moment, so I don't say anything.

I feel you climb off the bed, and I lie, waiting, my eyes flickering as I try to predict what is coming next. At first I thought you had left the room, but I realize you were just still, watching me. Your gaze burns on the creamy velvet skin of my leashed neck and throat, and I tremble. I hear your hands working, I know what you're doing, and my body responds. I know you ache to spill yourself over my throat, that object of so much of your fascination. And I know that after that, you want to sleep. But I don't care; I only accept it, desirously. I want you to spill on me, to do only what you like. I hear your hands quickening, and I feel you, warm and creamy over my neck and throat, moving to drip the last few drops over my lips and brow. I murmur and sigh, and feel you lie beside me, and I sleep, pleased and delighted in your satiation.