"You may begin."
You lean forward again, your heart pounding, stomach fluttering with anticipation, breath shallow and quick. All the months of viewing the pictures, of hearing my directions, of imagining it in your head: how it will feel when your lips touch the warmth of my smooth lips, how I will taste on your tongue, the timing of the licks and sucks and nibbles, the feel as you use the tip of your tongue to part my inner lips.
Your nose is filled with the intoxicating rich scent, sweet and slightly fruity, making your mouth water, and you take a deep breath, lean in with your tongue extended for that first long lick...
"Stop!" I command.
You hesitate, struggling to obey, every fibre in your body wanting to continue forward that last quarter inch, but you have been trained well and you hold yourself back. Your breathing is laboured, your balls aching with desire, hands balled into fists to will yourself to listen. You close your eyes for a moment to regain your balance and to try to calm your body down.
"Do you want to taste your mistress?" I ask softly.
"Yes, Mistress, I do!" you reply in a strained tone, the stress of the obedience unmasked.
"Tell me how much."
I sit up, placing my hand under your chin, lifting your face to look at me. You are still so close that I can feel your breath hitting my wet lips, cooling them, giving me shivers I suppress.
You pour out your desire, your tone heartfelt, earnest, your words freeing months of anticipation and of pentup lust for your mistress. I listen impassively until you are done, looking down into your pleading eyes, watching your face betray your anxiety and tension, the bound hands clenching and unclenching.
Your desire to please me is exposed magnificently in everything about you, from your body language to your tone, to the way you unconsciously lick your lips as my scent wafts into your nostrils.
I lean my face down into yours, so close our lips almost touch, my eyes never leaving yours, intently staring right into you. You are motionless, waiting, not flinching from my scrutiny. I run my fingers through your hair and pull your head forward, until your face is pressed against me, buried in my wetness.