AN: You all send me a lot of feedback wondering about my own various fantasies for whatever reason (don't get me wrong, I love it—I like your curiosity). And seeing as how one of the things that turns me on is telling people my fantasies and hearing other people's fantasies, here's a fairly vanilla one for you. Feel free to comment your own fantasies below, or describe them more fully in a private message. If this gets enough positive feedback or interest, I might start posting more of these.
The narrator, by the way, IS me. So if I describe something about myself, or how I respond to things ... I'm not being unrealistic or imaginative in the slightest. I'm being true to my own reactions. Do with that what you will.
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This is all very new to me.
The teasing. The quiet, growled demands that become more intense if I disobey. The punishments that, instead of deterring me, only seem to make me more needy. More wet. More unstable. More willing to do whatever it is he asks me to do.
I glance to my left, to where he sits on the opposite side of the taxi, his chin propped up in his hand as he watches the rainy cityscape flash by out the window. He scares me a little bit, I think, but in a good way. A way that makes me squirm in my own seat as I watch him bounce his knee up and down. A knee he draped me over last night.
To the outside eye, we're a completely unassuming couple. I'm wearing a sweater dress and overcoat, bright umbrella discarded near my rain boot clad feet. He's wearing jeans and a thermal shirt, his own leather jacket draped over his lap, shining with raindrops. As if he senses me watching him, he looks over and flashes a sweet smile, nothing of the dominant man I know in that expression at all. In fact, he looks like he did when I first met him—sweet and playful, if a bit rough around the edges.
I return the smile a bit more tightly than I had hoped, but he only laughs.
"You seem a little tense," he says.
I lift a shoulder in what I hope is a nonchalant half shrug. You know, the kind they do in books and movies. "I wouldn't say tense."
He lifts a brow. "Oh?"
"Anticipatory."
"Anticipatory," he repeats slowly. His eyes slide to the front, to the cab driver, before they come back to me. "And what, pray tell, do you think is going to happen tonight?"
My second shrug is a bit shakier.
"You know this is just a birthday party, right?" His lips curl up at the corners. "With decent people."
I snort under my breath and roll my eyes. "Well, you aren't 'decent people,' now, are you?"
He tips his head back and laughs out right at that, and I can't help my own smirk. I love surprising him like that. I love getting the best of him, beating him at his own game, doing the exact opposite of what he's used to.
"Smart ass," he says, grinning. He pats the middle seat, his eyes darkening a bit. "Come sit next to me. You're so far away."
"Is that a request, or—"
"It's an order."
I swallow, furrowing my brow at the mischievousness that has so quickly replaced the playfulness. A fine line with him, I learned. Before, it took effort for me to turn a conversation sexual. With him, it turns in half a second and I'm climbing on top of him before I have time to register what's happening.
I glance meaningly at the cab driver, who is clearly eavesdropping, clearly glancing periodically at us in his rearview mirror.
But his grin only darkens as he turns to the cab driver and says "You know, you've been such a good driver." He pats him on the shoulder. "Do you think you could take this as a thank you?"
I see the cab driver's eyes slide back to the road as a fifty flashes in his hand. "Thank you, sir."
"See?" My master sits back in his seat, the cool, domineering personality he takes on in our bedroom settling over him completely. "I don't think our cab driver will mind much if you unbuckle your seatbelt and slide over here for a bit."
Swallowing hard, my mouth suddenly dry, I unbuckle and scoot to the middle seat. He reaches over and grabs the seatbelt, his knuckles purposefully dragging across my breasts as he moves to click it back in its place.
"Perfect," he says in a low voice. He takes my hand, rubbing the back of it with a callused thumb, and pulls it down to rest over his crotch.
He's already half hard, which makes my heart skip a beat and plummet down into the pit of my stomach. My thighs clench involuntarily as he puts his hand over my knee. He doesn't even need to say anything. I've been with him long enough that I know exactly what he wants, but before I do anything, I remember my role. We aren't a couple right now. We are a master and his slave. I can't do anything without him ordering me to do it.
And he doesn't order me to do anything.
He just sits there, watching the window again, as though our hands weren't in each other's laps.
It's agonizing.
I don't know how he's so calm, so enduring, but I'm becoming more of a mess with each passing second. I'm burning, and I can feel myself growing wetter, can feel the slickness of my thighs as I squirm involuntarily, waiting, waiting, waiting. He senses this, still refusing to look at me or say anything, and slides his hand up under my dress until it's resting on top of my thigh, his fingers close enough to my sex that I can feel the heat of his skin mixing with my own.
I don't know how I manage not to moan.
After another agonizing minute, he turns to me and uses his free hand to grip my wrist, using my hand to massage himself. Then he lets go and I'm left massaging, kneading, groping until he becomes hard in his pants. I reach for his belt, shaking with how much I want this, how much I need him, but he slaps my hand out of the way.
