I strode towards her, my hard erection straining against the smooth satin of my boxers. I had not loosened my tie, nor removed my overcoat. I still was wearing my dark leather gloves.
She was naked, and her soft white skin gleamed in the flattering light. Her breasts were firm and soft, set high, and with perfect pink nipples, standing firm thanks to the winter chill. My gaze drifted down her flat stomach down to her perfect vagina. It was styled as a Brazilian, one line of soft golden fur guiding my eyes to the centre of her being. Her perfect face, with its high cheekbones and full pouty lips was exquisite, turned slightly upwards, the languid eyes half-closed, and expression of ecstasy highlighting her beauty even more. She was perfect.
The chains that held her upright were shielded from her ivory skin by soft silk scarves. They held her arms akimbo, slightly above her head, and her legs apart, opening her to me. She had doubtless had one of the servants display her so. It gave her such pleasure that any man would have been happy to, if but to watch. Once, when her fixation was but mild, I had handcuffed her to the bed. I had no idea what it would awaken.
She smiled at me. The ritual she lived for, doted on, was coming, just as she had planned it out, just as we had done it, a thousand times before.
She opened the pretty mouth. "Oh, you've..."
"Silence." I sounded hard and cold.
She obediently shut her mouth.
"Look at you. Shameless! You're shameless. Enticing me with your body."
I moved a step closer, ran my gloved hand down a smooth white flank.
"Your perfect, soft body."
My fingers slid in and out of her sex, seeking out her clitoris, my hand closed off to the warmth and moisture. I could hear a change in the pattern of her breathing. It came slowly and more heavily. Just as her pleasure became more intense, I stepped away again. When she began to breath normally, I would do so again. I felt the instances of tightening and writhing as the gloved fingers shoved deeper inside her.
Although I was, usually, a gentle lover, it was the roughness that she craved, the slight tingle of mild pain. Of course, I could never, truly, hurt her...but this masquerade? This dance that made her moan so, buck and climax at my touch, that made her so devoted...would she stay with me if I deprived her of the urge? As I slid the gloved hand in deeper, three fingers entirely in and out, I became more conscious of my own feelings, my body's own throbbing response...could *I* live without it?
I could tell by the raggedness of her breathing, by the flush of her face, and by the swelling and moistening of her womanhood, that she was ready for the next step. I ran the gloved hands across my lips. My tongue darted out to taste her, and then I let my hand fall to my side.
"See, there you are. Seeking your pleasure. Sly, manipulative, cruel."
"I..." she said.
