The First Date 8

You entertain me. The conversation has flowed as easily in person as it did when we were chatting online, and follows the same, random pattern. It's intriguingly odd at the same time though- I can't tell whether you're actually flirting with me or not. Sure, we have stumbled across the odd dirty topic during the time we've spent talking, but it's all seemed quite placid. You ask questions though, and you pick up on specific things that I often don't tell people very quickly.

I can't quite remember exactly what we're talking about when it happens, but whatever it was caused my long hair to fall across my face. Without hesitation, you raise your hand and softly sweep my hair out of my eyes, surprisingly tender. The atmosphere sparkles slightly, and then you drop your hand and the moment has passed. I'm still savouring it though- my heart beating a little faster, lips slightly parted, breathing a little heavier. Strange how such a little touch can do that.

Another round, some more chat, and nothing much more happens than some absolutely excellent conversation. I'm not confused, per se, but perhaps slightly bemused in trying to work you out. Your intentions aren't quite clear, but I'm enjoying myself. As we leave, you're the perfect gentleman, catching the door to let me through. You've said something as I go through that I don't quite catch, so I turn to face you and listen more carefully.

You're tantalisingly close as I turn around, our jackets touching, your skin mere millimetres from mine. You cup my face lightly, fingers catching wisps of my hair, and tilt my face to yours. Your kiss is gentle yet commanding, tentative yet assured. You've taken me completely by surprise and I succumb very willingly. You don't break the kiss off, sure of my response now, and your lithe body pins mine back against the wall. I can feel your hips pressing into mine, your body holding me in place as your hands entwine in my hair. My head spins, body breathless as you ravage me with a first kiss. My hips involuntarily grind against you, keen to bring your touch closer, and you bite my lip as you groan. Your hands trace the sides of my body as they head to my hips, catching me in place and holding me there as you regain your composure.

Voice low, you growl into my ear: "You, my princess, are not going home yet. You are coming to mine, where I can do deliciously devious things to you." You pull back and turn away, offering me your hand. I take it - of course, what else was I going to do? - and follow your lead.

It's not far, and you're perfectly composed by the time we get to your door. You take my coat as we enter, leaving me standing, waiting, as you hang it up. There's a poster on your wall that intrigues me, and I step closer to take a look.

You seem to materialise behind me, one hand curling around my waist and the other sweeping my hair back off my neck. Your hand, tangled,pulls my head sideways, giving you unrestricted access to the stretch of my neck, allowing your lips and teeth to nibble delightedly at the soft velvety skin. I react instantly, goosebumps rising and shivers running down my spine.

Tugging on my hair sharply, you guide me towards the bedroom, bringing me to my knees at the foot of your bed. You sit in front of me, gathering the length of my hair in one hand. With painstaking care and tortuous languidity, you twist my hair around and around, smoothing it into a coil. It's long enough to snake around your hand, and you hold it tightly enough that a slight tilt of your hand causes me to bow to your will.

You bend your wrist and pull me to rest my cheek on your inner thigh, head tipped towards your crotch. I try to raise my eyes to your face, and you return my gaze to where you want it, focused on your cock beneath your jeans. I acquiesce, briefly, breathing gently as I wait.

Your free hand slips underneath the silk of my top, scratching your nails across the rise of my breasts and catching my nipple between the pads of your fingers. You roll, gently at first, quickly building up to an excruciating pinch that makes me arch my back and push away from my resting place on your thigh. You prolong the pain and I squeal, writhing in an attempt to ease the pain that actually just makes it worse. You're still pinning my head in place on your thigh, but my eyes catch your mouth and can see the bemused grin spreading across your face...