You were lying there, pretending to sleep as I went in the other room and pretended to slip into something a little sexier. I'm sure you were imagining lace in some combination of black and red- vampy vixen style, since I'd promised you bits of velvet. What I hadn't told you, is where the velvet would go.
Once, when I was trying out for the Vagina Monologues, I was asked the question: What would my vagina wear? The answer is: combat boots, my well-worn motorcycle leather, and a strap-on. I tucked the black, loose ends into my art-jeans, you know, the ones with holes, and paint splotches all over them? I tightened the clasps, tugged at my crotch hard and grinned as I heard you turn up the music. As if I was a bit loud when you and I were fucking... the nerve. I pulled my cyber-skin cock up and to the side, snug against my purple and velvet corset strap-on, and zipped myself up. My nipples harden underneath my gray t-shirt, and I walk out of the extra room and into the bedroom, where you are waiting for me.
This is part of the game. The waiting. Sitting there, or lying there anticipating how it's going to feel when I run my fingers across your skin. How it feels when I tease your nipples with your ridged a-frame, or barely wet them with my soft, moist tongue. Then, there's my anticipation and how I revel in how process feels. Often, before masturbating, before even beginning to touch myself, I'll close my eyes and imagine how it felt when you ran your hands across my body. How it feels to have you catch my nipples, gently with your thumbs, teasing them and then sliding your palms against my breasts. No one has yet to top the feelings you coax out of me, just by running your fingers across my skin. It is so easy for me sometimes to forget what feels good and what annoys me during sex. You slow me down. You remind me to relax and enjoy the build up, to enjoy anticipating where you'll touch me next. But this time, it's not about me. At least not yet. It's about you, and the way I know you're getting nervous in the next room, waiting for me to come back in, wearing something meant specifically to turn you on.
The door handle turns, and I open the door. Your eyes are closed and the TV is still flickering from whatever film we ended up distracted from. The music pumps, soft and low, Enigma, and I start to smile. You're learning me so quickly. My pussy is throbbing behind my jeans and I'm walking slow, stalking you, waiting for you to acknowledge my presence, acknowledge the effect I need to see on you. My boots stop at the edge of the bed. A rarity, after your surgery, you're turned on your side, facing my crotch directly and I wait... three beats. Five... ten heartbeats and I tap my foot and run my fingers across your face, tracing down under your chin, caressing your neck. I hear your breathe quicken and your eye lids flutter- a desperate attempt to stay quiet and focused. My nails catch your throat and I dig them in, tilting your head up, watching your face. I have been in this place.
This place is quiet, and just for a moment, I close my eyes with you, taking myself back to the struggle behind eyelids, and twisting fingers. The struggle I know well, of staying quiet and hoping, hoping, my lover will keep touching me... just ... a little... lower, just there. This bond of silence seems to add an edge of painful enjoyment to my fucking. As if through silence, I could will you on to touching me exactly where I want you too, speaking only body to body- a language of moans and hip thrusts. My eyes open and you're looking at me. You've caught me unawares and I thread my fingers gently into your hair, then pull your neck roughly back- hard. I've caught you on the sharp edges on myself, and my fingernails are digging into your scalp, a firm grip on your hair, your eyes watering and open, looking at me.
