The Slow Tease

Two highball glasses sweated on the side table, because first things first: their lips on each other, him still standing behind the sofa, having just brought in the drinks from the kitchen, and her seated, as he bent down over her upturned face and tasted those lips at last.

After a few weeks of appreciative looks, then flirtation, then out for drinks, then dinner, he had her home. She liked the slow pace, the game of it, the little bit of nervousness she read in the way he seemed to deliberate over his every move. It flattered her that he wanted to make a good impression. And the way his mouth now savored hers -- lingering on her lower lip, tracing her cupid's bow, grazing her teeth with his tongue -- was making a good impression indeed. She loved to be kissed, and loved when a man took his time with it.

She patted the sofa next to her. "Come around and sit down," she said, "so we can get to know each other better."

He reached for their drinks. "First, a toast. To getting to know each other better."

She raised the glass toward him, keeping his eyes as she sipped. It was strong. Bourbon and ... she couldn't quite tell, and sipped again. She nearly asked him what he'd made for them, then decided to file that question away for later in favor of kissing him again.

His fingers stroked her jawline as his mouth memorized hers. He didn't break the kiss as his hands went to the buttons on her white shirt.

Then he leaned back for a first look at her low-cut black bra. Its lace trim framed her breasts and collarbone, the half-cup forms serving as much to display her curves as to cover them.

It was clear he liked what he saw. "I could spend an hour on these," he murmured.

"I hope you do," she said with a teasing flick of her tongue. "Guys always say that, and then after a few minutes of pawing and licking, they're unbuckling their belt. Nobody takes it slow."

She was smiling, playing with him, and though he smiled back he raised an eyebrow. "Challenge accepted." He kissed her again, and she felt the desire in his lips, but when he spoke again his voice had an edge to it.

"And the side benefit is that before I'm done you'll be begging me to fuck you."

She smiled. "I'll beg you now if you want," she purred.

"No. I'm going to wait until you mean it."

"I mean it! I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"I know. But just wait till the hour is up and you'll see what I mean."

He reached for their drinks again, and checked his watch as they sipped. It was 8 o'clock.

Brushing back her open shirt from her collarbone, he leaned back again to take in the view. "A black bra under a white shirt. You're a bit of a tease."

"I am." She arched her back a little, pushing her chest forward, but he made no move to touch her.

His eyes, however, never wandered. They seemed to be tracing the lines of her flesh, creamy smooth, where it lay against the black eyelash lace. Then two fingertips reached out to do the same. With a light touch he followed the top edge of the balconette bra, up the strap to her collarbone, her shoulder, into the hollow at the base of the neck. The exploring touch made her aware of her every breath, how her chest rose and fell, how her lips parted, how the smallest motion felt under his fingers.

He leaned in to plant kisses along her collarbone and slid her blouse off her shoulders. Then he followed the path again, with lips this time, inching along her decolletage with feathery kisses and puffs of breath.

His fingers found a nipple and squeezed it through the fabric, as if he was reaching out to pluck a berry and testing it first for ripeness. Then he pulled down the front of her bra and tilted the nipple up to his mouth.

His tongue circled it, then his teeth grazed against it, then his lips widened to take in more, each move slow and deliberate. He pulled back and puckered his lips; a stream of cool breath teased the hardening nipple, an effect he accelerated with a flick of a tongue. He moved to the other breast. But instead of tasting the nipple, he lifted the band of her bra and traced the underside of her breast with the tip of his tongue. Her skin flushed: The sight and the feel of him tasting her curves felt like prickles of electricity.

His arms encircled her briefly. A quick motion of his fingers along her back, and the bra was loose and discarded. He sat back again to study his new playthings.

They were glorious. Round and full, tipped upwards a bit at the nipples, like they were offering themselves. Dusky blush-colored areolae surrounded dark nipples that were made to be licked, already hard from his attentions and almost trembling with the rise and fall of her breath.

His hand claimed one breast and his mouth claimed the other. He rolled one of those perfect nipples against his tongue while his fingers tested the other, listening to the shivers of her breathing as he squeezed, then twisted, then squeezed again. She was mesmerized by the sensations, gasping when he pinched her gently, and gasping when he stopped.

"Take your skirt off," he said.

She shook her head a little to clear it, then checked the clock. A shadow of a smirk crossed her face. "8:14," she said. "That was 14 minutes."

She stood up and stepped out of her black skirt, then started to remove her underwear.

"No, leave those," he said. "And those stirrup stockings, nice. Leave those on too. And put your shirt back on."

"What?"

He stood, adjusting a large and distracting bulge in his pants, and moved to sit in a side chair, the upholstered kind with no arms. He beckoned.

"Straddle me."

"I'm wet," she said. "If I do that I might mark your lap."

"You'll be even wetter soon."

She settled onto his lap. The shape of the chair pushed her legs wide, and the tilt of the seat pressed their bodies together.

"Shirt," he said.

She'd put it on her arms; it was hanging from her shoulders. She reluctantly buttoned it over her bare breasts.

He smiled. With one hand, he tested the weight and feel of each breast through the white fabric. He ran two fingers over a nipple, then pulled the cloth taut to admire its hardness poking through.

She was lewdly spread on him, her pubes pressed onto his crotch, and their mouths were nearly level. Reaching into the ice bucket next to their drinks, he brought out a piece of ice. She jumped and gasped a little when it made contact with her shirt, and he gave her a look. "Shhh," he said.

He ran the ice cube slowly over her clothed breasts. Slow strokes toward the center, coaxing her hard nipples to become even harder. When the ice melted, he fished out another piece and started again, running above and below, spiraling in toward the nipple, first one side, then the other.

When it melted away he pulled her upwards, bent down, and encircled the areola with his lips. His hot breath pulled her back from the ice, and she fingered the buttons, ready to remove her wet shirt.

"Don't touch those," he said. "I'll do it when I want to." He tongued her other nipple -- the dulled sensation through the fabric was maddening, but that, she surmised, was the point. He fished out another piece of ice and ran it along the curves of her neck and collarbone, and she closed her eyes as he painted her skin with the meltwater. The next piece of ice he held in his fist and squeezed, decorating her shirt with drips and drops till the front of it was nearly sheer. A fresh piece of ice hardened her nipples to full effect, and then he bent back to admire his work.

"I may send you out like this," he said. "Send you to the store, let everyone see those sexy tits and see how much you want to be fucked."

"Like hell you will," she stiffened. "These are for you, not for everyone."

"If these are for me," he said quietly but firmly, "then I'll decide what to do with them." He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. "And you get saucy with me and I'll have to stop up that pretty mouth."

He moved the finger up to her lips as his other hand rolled a nipple slowly against his thumb. Her tongue darted out to try to pull the finger in, circle it and suck it, but he pulled it back, and a squeeze on the nipple let her know he meant business.

"If I have to gag you, you'll never get your lips around my cock, will you? And you want that. You're thinking about it right now." It was a statement of fact.

"I am," she breathed. "I can't wait to taste it. It turns me right the fuck on."

"I can tell. And I can't wait to see how your lips look after i've fucked your face." He traced her lips with his finger. "All swollen and glistening, your lipstick gone. A trace of my cum on your tongue, and a glazed look in your eyes."

"Let's go," she said, reaching for the bulge in his pants.

"No, let's learn some patience. Put your hands back on my shoulders."

He wet his finger in his own mouth and placed it heavy on her bottom lip.

"Maybe a ring gag," he mused, "to hold your mouth open, so you can't forget what you're not getting. I could even place the head of my cock right there on the edge of the ring where your tongue could reach for it. I'd like that, to see you squirm with desire, wanting what's just out of reach."

He tapped his finger on her lower lip and she sat there with her mouth open, trying to control her breathing, wanting a dozen things at once, but not making a move toward any of them.

"Now, are we done here?" he said. "Good. Back to those breasts."

He undid the top three buttons. Her breasts, clinging to the ice-damp fabric, swelled out of the unbuttoned shirt. He pushed her back a little, away from him, to admire the effect.

"Very sexy," he said, "with your glasses on and your hair starting to fall out of its clip. Like a school librarian all the boys jack off thinking about. I'm going to have to get a picture of you like this sometime."

She knew how she must look, straddling his lap, with her hair tumbled down and her breath catching in her chest. Not sexy in the way she usually liked to be sexy, poised and in control, inviting attention. She looked exposed, raw with desire, and she knew it. He could fuck her just like this, thrusting upwards and in total control, if they weren't still mostly clothed, and when she looked in his eyes she knew that he knew how much she wanted it.

He spoke again. "Kiss me."

She did, her mouth loose and hungry. He covered her lips with his, claiming them, then just as quickly pulled away.

"Lean back again."

She did, holding his shoulders for balance. He looked her up and down once more. Slipping a hand inside her unbuttoned shirt, he pawed a breast, felt its weight, then stroked the side of the nipple with a fingernail, slowly, over and over.

"I might pierce these," he said. "Think how good nipple rings would look showing through the fabric of a white shirt."

He looked in her eyes, and her lips parted involuntarily. She knew he was trying to keep her off balance, but it was working. Oh, was it working.

He brushed her shirt back, exposing her chest, and took a nipple between each thumb and forefinger.

"And then we could hook a chain here between the rings. Think of the way it would swing then you walk. I'd have to keep you here naked so I could watch it all the time."

He increased the pressure on her nipples while he talked, twisting slightly. Drunk on his hands and his voice, what zinged through her wasn't pain so much as urgency.

"Maybe with a jump ring here in the middle," he continued. "We could hook on another chain, clip it to your clit. Then I could play with your tits all I want to and you'll still get your orgasms, you greedy bitch."

He twisted his fingers hard and she pulled her face up to his, kissing him wildly, his lips, his neck, and grinding on the bulge in his pants. She knew she must be coating him with her juices and she didn't care, not with her swollen clit weeping for attention. But just as her breath became ragged, he took hold of her hips and lifted them.

"Not yet. Stand up and follow me."

He led her into the bedroom. The clock said 8:42.

He lay her down on the bed and told her to reach her arms above her head. "Rest your fingertips against the headboard, please," he said. "And keep them there. Just to remind you that you're not driving this train."

He reached into a basket beside the bed and brought up a black scarf, which he draped loosely over her eyes.

He left the room for a moment, then came back and sat next to her on the bed. That she was still only half naked made it more intense; somehow, it revealed more of her desire. The white shirt hung open at her sides, and her black panties and stocking-clad legs ground down into the mattress as she arched her back up toward -- anything, as long as he touched her.

He did, barely. One light, feathery pinpoint. It traced the outline of one breast, then the other, then moved in slow spirals toward the nipple. Then the other one. Then long, soft strokes down ribs, onto stomach, onto thighs. Her brain was doing somersaults. It was not enough and too much.

"It's a paintbrush, in case you're wondering," he said. "A feather works well, too. We'll have to do that another time. You won't believe how good a feather feels dancing off your clit. Or so I'm told."

The paintbrush ran along the inside of her right thigh. Her hips bucked up, and immediately it was gone. The brush was back at her nipples. then teasing the undersides of her breasts. The fragile point of contact made the rest of her tremble.

A sheen of sweat covered her skin. "Don't you want to fuck me?" she said breathlessly.

"Oh, I want to wreck you," he replied matter-of-factly. "I want you unable to fucking walk. And don't worry, I will. But," he said, running the brush along her collarbone, "I'm going to take my time getting there."

She wanted his cock, his hands, the weight of his body on hers, his mouth, all of it, any of it, and all she got was this teasing touch, a tiny point of yearning, tracing the curve of her breast. She thought she might cry.

Then even that touch was gone.

He was still sitting there -- she could feel his pressure on the bed beside her -- but he made no move. She waited for a clue to what he might do next, where his touch might land. And nothing happened. Her breath rose and fell, and her hands gripped the bottom of the headboard -- she wanted to reach for him but steadied herself to follow the rules. Her breathing grew shallower and her hips rolled involuntarily. She never would have thought it possible that emptiness could feed her desire, but she felt she could explode from just a touch.

And then it came. His mouth on a breast, warm and encircling, sucking gently on her skin, while inside his mouth his tongue pressed against her nipple again and again like he was working her clit to orgasm. All of her senses, no, all of her existence, all of her, was right there in the nerve endings of the breast he was fucking with his mouth. She groaned and her hips thrashed -- so close to orgasm, so fucking close, but not there, like a crescendo still building and the conductor's hands, shaping the swell of the music, holds it back.

"Oh jesus, you've got to fuck me. I need you to fuck me. Please. Don't stop. I can't stand it. Baby, please." She barely recognized her own hoarse voice but nothing mattered, nothing but getting him on top of her, inside her, claiming the rest of her for his own.

His mouth left her flesh, but his hand lingered there. He reached for something.

"Let's check the clock, shall we? ... Look at that, you're in luck."

His fingers brushed across her eyelids under the black silk, then he slid it off her eyes. She adjusted to the dim light to see him holding up his phone. It was 9:01.

He smiled. "Why don't we take these clothes off," he said, "and the real fun can begin?"