This was the game. She knew that this was the moment they both looked forward to. His left hand on her neck pressing down and holding her in place. Crouched there on the edge of the bed, face forced into the mattress, legs folded under her, hands and arms stretched out in front of her. Her pussy aching to be touched.
The thin trickle of lube slipped down the cleft of her arse and a little crept its chill, slick way into her arsehole. Involuntarily she felt herself flutter there. Her boyfriend, poised over her, gave a shudder of held-in pleasure. His balls, she knew, would suddenly feel that bit heavier, their weight of spunk churning.
There would be no more lube. She knew that. This was their game. That fleeting touch of slickness was all she wanted.
This game was the one she alone could initiate. The need to be taken like this crept over her slowly and every once in a while he got a one word text that read 'shivering'. That made him hard wherever he was. In a meeting. At the football match. On a busy commuter train. His mouth would dry and his balls would feel like cold weights loaded with shot. He would reply with a time that he expected to be home.
She would be waiting. Not downstairs like usual with the TV on, curled on the sofa. But upstairs in this position; the room stinking of her sex. The toys discarded across the bed as she crouched there, sopping wet and shivering with anticipation. She would not look up. There would be no smile of welcome. Her hands would stretch out and her arse; so delicate, so supple, so beautifully full and round, would present itself.
Sometimes, he knew, she sneaked a look at him as he dropped his clothes to the floor. He didn't mind. It wasn't that sort of game after all.
She watched as he went to the toy box and recovered the lube bottle and the condoms. Watched out of the corner of her eye as he rolled one of the blunt ended sheaths over his pulsing cock (so very hard) and walked to her.
With one hand on her neck he squeezed out the one bead of silicone slipperiness she allowed herself for this from the pump dispenser bottle. Watched as it rolled down the cleft between her cheeks and moistened, no, kissed, her exposed, vulnerable ring.
The first time they'd played with this lube, her milking his cock, she'd used too much and he'd kept slipping away from her grasp. The session had lasted for what seemed like hours; them laughing as her hands flew across his cock unable to get a purchase; almost unable to get him off. His balls, also coated in a film of persistent slipperiness, had boiled by the time he came. The ache spent in a triumphant release that seemed to last an age.
Whether that was the moment when she decided a little went a long way, he couldn't say but soon after the rules of this game were explained to him in an email he still kept. An email that fuelled fantasies that sustained him through the nights spent in cheap hotels near motorway junctions.
