His Turn

I look up, as I hear the door close, the quiet 'snick' of the lock engaging, and wonder how long you have been standing there. Half hidden by the boxes of files, looking for paperwork you sent me for; I didn't hear you come in. It's not a small room, but it is certainly not big, either.

Your normal, purposeful stride, changes to something more graceful, predatory, as you stalk across the room, weaving amongst the boxes. Now that I see you, I notice the slight smile, the darkening, feral glint that lights your eyes. You are between me and the only way out.

Nerves and tension cause me to push back the chair and stand to face you. The closer you come, the smaller the room seems, the harder to breathe normally. The only light comes from a weak fluorescent overhead.

You move closer and the scent of spice, a musky undertone and a cinnamon overtone, blend and surround me. I would know that scent anywhere. That dark, spicy scent is uniquely yours, and one that will always evoke a reaction, and memory. How can I forget? You are amazing. Salt and pepper hair, bright green eyes, tall, tan, muscled from working out doors...enough to make a woman melt.

While you have made it abundantly clear what you want -- and don't -- I can't imagine why you have followed me in here, then locked the door. It is out of character, and strangely arousing. I push that thought to the back of my brain, and smooth nervous hands down the front of my skirt. Your eyebrows raise, just a fraction, and your grin gets a little more wicked. You laugh, just a little -- my reaction amuses you. How could it not?

As you reach me, I am backed into the wall, with nowhere to go. Your hands span my ribs, thumbs and forefingers just under my chest, keeping me pinned to the wall. You lean forward, pushing me a little harder, enough to cause just a touch of pain along my ribs, and rub your cheek along mine. You nip my earlobe, causing me to gasp, and you chuckle in my ear.

A hint of five o'clock stubble runs along my jaw line, and goose bumps appear on my skin. My hands have somehow ended up on your forearms, and I feel you start to pull away.

I must make some sound of protest, because you murmur, "Don't move." Nimble fingers start to undo buttons, and I eagerly try to help.

You step back, and a strange look flickers across your face. "I told you not to move. Do not speak or move, unless I tell you to. Do you understand?" All I can do is nod, and lick suddenly dry lips.

"Perfect." Your voice is a purr against my skin. I stand very still as you go back to the buttons, taking your time.

My heart is pounding, and I can't help the sharp intake of breath as your knuckles skim along by breasts. You chuckle again, deep in your throat. Your eyes flicker back to mine, just long enough for me to see them darken to a rich, hungry hue. My own are dark sapphire, and just as hungry. I feel the air, cool on my skin, as you open my shirt, just enough to slide your hands over my ribs again. Calloused fingertips brush my skin, the roughness a delightful contrast to my own soft, smooth skin. You move higher, until your palms are warming nipples already standing at attention.

Again, you lean into me, this time nudging my head to one side as you nibble a line down the side of my neck, following my racing pulse. I can't hold back the tiny whimper that escapes my throat, as you bite down on the muscle between shoulder and neck. At the same time, you shift your left hand, pinching down on the nipple waiting for you. You hum a little, low in your throat -- or is that a growl? -- and I am terrified you will stop now.

I freeze, and you whisper, "I like that sound." The line between pain and pleasure, always close, blurs just a little as you lean back enough to accost both nipples at once, but instead assail the other side of my neck. Abruptly, you step back and sit down in the chair I abandoned earlier, pulling me close, keeping me off balance.

"Keep your hands at your sides." I tremble, trying hard to do just that. I want to run my hands through your hair!

You pull the cups of my bra down, just enough so my nipples spring free. Another whimper slips past my lips, as you take one, then the other, into your mouth. There is gentle suction, then a quick nip; one that makes me gasp out loud. Your mouth is soft, tongue like silk, sliding against my skin, nipping sharply every now and then, just to make sure my attention doesn't wander.

As you torment me, your hands run up my legs, under my skirt, to the tops of my thighs, where you stop for heartbeat. I feel you smile, and think you might have forgotten that I prefer thigh high stockings to pantyhose, until you encounter that bare skin. That split second fades, as you move your hands around to cup my rear. You stop again, and then move, as you don't encounter a barrier, no cloth of any kind, until you come to a thin string -- the only thing there.

I allow myself a small smirk, as you raise your eyes to mine, a question in them. I nod, and feel your hands tremble, just a touch, and you bury your face between my boobs. In retaliation for the smirk, you bite down the inner curve of my breast, bringing a sudden, sharp pain. Not enough to mark me, but enough to make me gasp. You return my smile, predatory and exciting.

You stand, unexpectedly, pushing me back against the wall with your body. I stumble back, unable to go farther. I can feel how excited you have gotten, and I wonder, fleetingly, what will happen next. Your face is next to mine, and both of us are breathing hard. I can't see your expression, and only know your hands are holding me to the unyielding wall behind me, your hips pressed against mine.

I feel the pressure ease, but only long enough for you to wind my hair in your hand. You push back away from me, using your grip to maneuver me around. I end up facing away from you, towards the wall, with the chair in front of me. One hand still tangled in my hair, controls, and the other cups my breast, pinching and releasing the nipple, kneading my breast, repeating that pain, pleasure you have figured out how much I enjoy.

Another soft moan bursts out of me when you release my nipple, and move your hand down my body. It skims my thigh as you move slowly over, then under, my skirt. You stop, and the anticipation is killing me! Tightening your grip in my hair, making me whimper, you move your other hand slowly over the triangle of fabric you find; the only thing separating me from your questing fingers. I feel, more than hear, the soft growl you release when you find what your torment has been doing to me. Wet, excited, I am trembling, waiting for you to take the next step, unable to stand except that you are holding me up...and you stop.

With an audible groan, and almost violent force, you push me forward, demanding I put my hands down on the seat of the chair before we both fall over. Your grip in my hair becomes painful, and in this position, I am helpless to do anything about it. I hear a sound: A zipper being moved, cloth rustling as it falls to the floor.

I feel your fingertips run under the thin black string bisecting my ass, and wonder why you don't simply rip it, to get it out of the way. With slightly malicious glee, I realize you are torturing yourself as much as you are me. This is going to be brutally quick, and that's how we both want it. This time.

Something firm, hard, hot, nudges me from behind. I spread my legs a little, to get balance, a better angle...and you stop. Using my hair as a handle, you pull my head back further, so it is painful and uncomfortable.

"Do you want me to stop?" I can't speak. "Well?" you demand. In answer, I lean back, forcing you to enter me, forcing you to push forward so we don't both tumble to the floor. Two harsh moans fill the room, and you keep moving forward until I gasp.

"Are you ok?" I hear the gentleness, nervousness, beneath the frustration and desperation. I make the only answer I can -- I push backwards, making you lean forward to keep us on our feet. You use my hair and hip to keep us together, upright, pushing in further, until a sharp edge of pain becomes the softer edge of pleasure. Our hips meet, and the sheer size of you sends me over the edge the first time. Slow steady strokes keep me there. You pause, allowing me to catch my breath, and I, regaining a small measure of control, flex. You groan, and it is almost enough to send you over.

I give a little cry, as your hand leaves my hair. In the next instant, I feel both hands settle on my hips. As the speed and depth of each thrust increases, I can feel you hitting that certain spot, where pain is pleasure. As I come again, I feel you come with me. Unable to stop, we are both lost to the sensations around us. As we slow our pace, I feel you slip out, breathing hard, and, hopefully, as weak kneed as I.

You turn to the boxes, and pick up a rag I hadn't notice you drop there, and clean yourself off. You hand me another one, to clean up the mess we have made. A languor has infused my muscles, and I can hardly move, perched on the edge of the chair. I re-button my shirt, readjust my clothing, and look up to see that strange expression on your face again. It is quickly gone, and if I hadn't seen it earlier, I would have missed it. I wonder what it is I have seen. I still can't stand, as my legs are trembling.

You turn to leave, then come back to me. Leaning over, planting a soft kiss on my cheek you whisper, "Your turn." Grinning, you saunter out of the room.