The moonlight spills through the gauzy curtains, casting a silvery glow that dances across your body like a lover's caress. You lie sprawled on the bed, wrapped in black lacy silk that clings to your every curve like it was tailored for sin. The nightgown drapes over you like a secret too wicked to speak aloud--thin, sheer, shameless. Your nipples jut proudly through the fabric, hardened peaks straining for attention. The swell of your breasts, the bare curve of your thighs, the whisper of your breath--every inch of you is a fucking invitation.
You sleep on, blissfully unaware. Unprotected. Exposed.
I stand at the edge of the bed, cock aching, jaw clenched. The sight of you like this--so soft, so unaware--it's torture. It's heaven. It's mine. The sheets cover you like a lie, and I strip them away with reverence and hunger, exposing you inch by inch, until I can drink in the full masterpiece of your form. The air brushes your skin, your nipples tighten further, and a soft murmur escapes your lips. You shift slightly, thighs parting just enough to make me bite back a growl.
And then--fuck--my gaze falls to the tiny, black thong between your legs, soaked and clinging to your slit like it's begging to be ripped away. My control fractures.
I grip the velvet curtain ropes in my hands, feeling the plush texture tighten against my skin as darker urges flare. I loop them around your wrists, lifting them gently above your head, fastening them to the headboard with deliberate, slow intent. You sigh in your sleep--so trusting, so fucking perfect. Helpless. Spread for me. My prize. My plaything.
I kneel beside you, fingers brushing your throat, then down, skimming over your collarbone. Your skin is silk under my hands. I trail lower, fingers teasing the swell of your breasts, pinching your nipples through the lace until you whimper. My cock throbs with every sound you make. You shift, legs spreading a little wider, hips rolling as if your body already knows who owns it. Even in sleep, you crave me.
I push the nightgown up to your waist, exposing that barely-there thong, soaked through with your arousal. My breath hitches. I drag the material aside slowly, reverently, exposing your slick folds. Glimmering. Aching. So wet for me, it drives me mad.
I press my mouth to your heat, tongue flicking over your clit with a hunger that borders on savage. The taste of you--salty, sweet, intoxicating--makes my brain short-circuit. You moan, hips jerking, still lost in dreams, but your body arches, your thighs part, your cunt opens for me like a fucking flower in bloom.
I groan against you, tongue working slow, torturous circles before dragging down and pushing deep. You writhe, breath hitching into whimpers, and I don't stop. I don't give you time to think. I want you helpless, drowning in sensation.
Your eyes flutter open, hazy, confused--then wide with shock. Your lips part in a gasp, not sure whether to scream or moan. You expect him. But it's me. And the way my tongue devours you, the unrelenting pace, the raw fucking need--it could never be him.
Realization hits, your breath catches, and your body... betrays you.
You grind against my face, a filthy moan tearing from your throat. You test the ropes with a sharp tug, but there's no escape. Your thighs quiver, soaked and needy, and I add a finger, sliding into you, curling just right. The reaction is instant--your back arches, mouth open in a silent cry.
"Still want me to stop?" I ask against your dripping slit, voice a rough, taunting growl.
Your lips form the word "no," even as your mind struggles to catch up. "It's wrong," you whisper, breathless.
I slide another finger in, twisting, pumping, and your eyes roll back, jaw slack with surrender. "Then stop moaning like a whore," I growl, "and maybe I'll believe you."
