The hot water splashes on your neck and drizzles down your breasts. The tips of your fingers tease your standing nipples, softening them with the perfumed shower gel. Your hands slide underneath your breasts, feeling the weight of them, still maternity-full. Imagining how they will feel to my hands. You're thinking about how it will be: my salty tongue caressing your clit, your legs spread wide like a whore, my hard maleness deep inside you. You slip a finger into your gathering wetness, tempted to take a little pleasure early. Save it for later. All the same, your finger doesn't want to leave. You force it to, with your mind.
Dressing for sex. Calculating. What will turn me on? The thin, transparent panties. The strappy dress which clings to the sheen on your skin. Too short to wear outside, it comes just to mid-thigh. Challenging my eyes to follow the lines of your inner legs to the hidden point of pleasure. No bra, just the rasp of taut nipples against cotton. Your neck and shoulders bare, gossamer straps which offer no defence against my raiding fingers and tongue. Dressing to be fucked. Slipping on the shoes, the strappy ones, enough heel to be slutty, slightly slutty. Checking the clock, anticipation burning in every nerve.
On your knees, your mouth full of cock. Hard cock. Hot cock. Pulsing cock. Your tongue working the slit, foraging for precum. Your dress riding up your thighs. Feeling whorish. One hand wrapped around the throbbing shaft, the other resting on my male-hard thigh. My voice, thick with lust. Directing you, the arousal flushing through you at the crude instructions. You're riding the wave, my wave, your wave. Fuck, you're wet. Your panties are soaked, your cunt liquid fire.
