She wasn't used to wearing pantyhose anymore. It was an antique from another life, linked so closely with her teenaged memories of Sunday service, feeling the hard wooden pews through the thin nylon layer. And yet it clung to her every curve and rubbed so sensually against her shaved pussy that it turned those prim memories into something modern and almost deviantly sexual.
She lay in his bed, in the dark, and waited for him. "Wait for me at seven," he'd told her. Not, "I'll meet you at seven" or "I'll arrive at seven." Just "wait for me." His arrival was to be at a wholly separate time, perhaps a few minutes early, perhaps twenty minutes after.
She lay naked from the waist up and from the waist down painted in the sheer black pantyhose. The cool air lazily brushed her perk nipples as she kept her hands tucked behind her back, folded, like he liked. The waiting should have been boring, but the anticipation was like a pot set to boil.. Every minute of no reward built upon the anticipation, and as the time went on and the likelihood of his arrival grew, and with it, more anticipation.
Surely now,
she would think. And then after a moment,
surely now.
Her pussy was beginning to soak the bed underneath her.
She almost shuddered when she heard the door open. She felt herself tighten in anticipation, and she bit her lip softly to keep the hiss of delight silent.
Her eyes flicked over, saw something shiny in his hand. Something sharp.
"Did I say you could look?" His voice hit her low, inside.
She felt a flush of shame and a deeper flutter of something, something tied to and yet not directly arousal. She wanted to know what the shiny object was in his hand. It didn't worry her -- she trusted him not to permanently hurt her. But "permanent" was such a flexible word, and recently he'd been pushing her normal boundaries farther and farther. It scared her a little, in the back of her mind.
He knows I'm frightened,
she said,
and he's using it.
She felt her pussy clench.
"I didn't say you could look," he said. "Now..."
The moment hung, and even as she knew the words coming she felt the anxious thrill charging up her back...
"...I imagine we'll have to find some punishment."
He held the shiny object in front of her ceiling-focused eyes. It was a razor knife, the cheap kind you found at any hardware store. He clicked it twice -- in and out -- a sharp, metal sound full of internal gears and possibility.
"Do you know what I'm going to do with this?" he asked.
She realized she was shaking, and she wasn't sure from arousal or fear. "You're going to . . . to . . ."
He SNAPPED the razor knife open again, and she lost her train of thought.
Where is this going?
she thought.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson," he said. "About yourself. Do you know what really turns you on?"
The razor knife floated down toward her. She struggled not to move her eyes. "No, sir."
"It's my role to know," he said. "And I'll tell you, because in your case, telling doesn't spoil the magic. In fact, I think it adds."
She could feel the cold aura of the razor knife along her skin. Not touching, never touching, but chilling her nonetheless.
He paused, and then said finally, "Anticipation."
The knife was on the hose now, the cool metal handle bracing her. She knew the blade was there but she couldn't feel it, didn't know where it was in relation to the rest of her.
"The action is your release," he said, "but it's the anticipation that brings you there."
His warm hand suddenly palmed her vaginal lips, stroking, and she moaned. Then, suddenly, it was gone, and she fought the urge to stretch her hips up to find it again.
