She moved to her knees, facing down, shoulders back, those ample tits pushed forwards, tracing against the thin material of that button up shirt. Consuming thing, that, His shirt, His scent upon it. Position taken, facing the doorway, as she would tilt her head, the stolen glance from those eyes to the clock. Only a few minutes, and how she knew they would tick on for an eternity. Hips pushed back, that pert little ass of hers rested to her knees, as she would shift, hands smoothing the line of cotton to her tanned flesh, making sure it was perfectly aligned. Last instant touches, fingers rising to brush to collar locked into place after that shower. Those rituals Theirs, this time, Theirs.
Thighs pushed apart, the line of cunt, sweet little pussy all shaved. Another ritual, one she adored, the knowledge that He was aware of the time she did it, everyday devoted to tending to what was His, that sex of hers. Shaving off that hair, knowing well the very lines of what was His, every dirty little petal, every needy slick inch of the constricting tunnel. Claimed, property, not alone, because He owned her. It was those smaller things that bound, not just love or devotion, not just the words, but the actions of it. Each assuming roles, that to them expressed some heightened thing. Something bigger them themselves.
The clock chimed out those seconds, and as her eyes closed she could smell Him, feel His hands upon her. Anticipation itself making that little slit dampen, making those velvet petals, so dusky grow dewy with want. Shifted hips, that grinding a light thing to her own calves, as she would draw in breath. Strange how erotic it was, to kneel and wait. Every breath consuming His scent, forcing those sweeter memories of every other Time. Reminding her how He tasted on her lips, how his cock bruised that delicate mouth of hers. How His hand cracked against the line of her ass, as He gripped her hair, and commanded her to cum.
Ten more minutes, her eyes opened, already those little gasps, as her body trembled, that faint thing the way her hands clenched to the edge of the shirt, pulled it down, the motion of it making those hard buds press against the cotton, so dark those blooms were on those heavy globes of pillowy flesh, every breath making them rise and fall, dance. A curve of lips upwards, tongue ran out, picturing His lips there, knowing soon He would come and she could crawl to Him, beg for His fingers, for His taste, beg for what she needed. Wanted. Craved. Surprised to hear a sound, more surprised to realize it was her own whimper.
Eyes found themselves closed again, and she would lower her head. Trying not to think about that ache inside her, that molten steamed core, that burned at the thought of His voice. Not to think about how her throat tensed wanting His load, needing to feel His jism running down her throat, like liquid pleasure, like praise that needed no words, for her attentions done correctly. Teeth raked over those lips, light things those pants, for air, as if He were already there, stroking before her face. For an instant, if she thought hard enough, she could feel it, the thick plumed head of His cock rolled over her cheek. For an instant, if she closed those eyes, and held that whorish breath in, she could hear Him, asking her "Does Master's little whore need something?" as He rolled the thick throbbing meat over the side of her silken cheek, and made her beg for it in words.
