I could feel your eyes on me as I walked past you on the sofa, and couldn't help but put a little more bounce in my step. I couldn't help but give my bottom a little extra shake, causing my skirt to swish silkily against my thighs.
"Come here," you beckon, your voice tight with what I hope is desire.
"Why? I'm perfectly comfortable over here on the chair," I reply coyly, as I curl up in the armchair, careful not to expose the distracting absence of any panties. I lean forward to place my wineglass on the coffee table, pretending not to notice how my blouse drapes open in invitation, innocently, yet blatantly displaying my breasts swathed in the lacy push up bra purchased just for this occasion. I think I hear just the slightest groan escape your lips as your eyes devour the view.
It has been a long time; an achingly, insanely long time since I felt your skin on mine, since I felt your desire pressing into me. The force of my want, the ache of my emptiness is enough to make me want to scream; but I can't act. As much as I want to launch myself, straddle you on the couch, catch your lips with mine as I slowly stroke myself against the hardness I have fantasized about for weeks, I feel like I am bound in the chair.
"Come," you repeat. I sigh inwardly, hoping you understand the impact that your double entendre has on my already-simmering arousal. I peek at you through my lowered lashes, letting the smallest of shy smiles play across my tingling lips, silently calling to you, imploring you to act. I feel bound in place, needing you to be the aggressor, needing you to overwhelm me with your desire, needing you to conquer me, to claim me.
If I could escape my bounds, I would lose my hands in your hair, and draw you into me, deepen your kiss, taste your tongue, your lips, your cheek. I would lean my head back and guide you to taste me, to run your lips along my neck and then down to the swell of my breasts. Arching, I would press towards you, feeding you my lace-covered nipple, moaning as you drew it deep into your mouth and began to suck. Inflamed by your tongue, I would grind against you, my fingernails digging through your shirt to steady my rhythm, my thighs heated by the friction of riding you through your jeans.
However, still I am stoically seated on the chair, my breath shallow. Waiting. Wanting. You stare back at me, commanding my gaze; I hope it is lust that I see simmering behind the seemingly placid blue of your eyes. I involuntarily shift in the chair; my leg now directly under my dripping pussy, I feel my calf sharing in the slick wetness you have so easily elicited, by simply being nearby. Locked in your eyes, I draw my lower lip inward and hold it between my teeth, sucking its softness and sliding my tongue along its edge, hoping the action will somehow help me contain the pressure of my mounting passion.
If I could let go, I would swiftly rid you of your t-shirt and would slowly drag my hands across your chest, delighting in the feel of your skin, lightly grazing your nipples with my fingertips, savouring your throaty groan. Encouraged, I would softly pinch your left nipple and then your right, teasing and distracting you from my hungry mouth's intent path along the taut edge of your neck. You would jump in reaction to the feel of my wet tongue against your earlobe, in reaction to the feel of my hot mouth, in reaction to the sound of my arousal, a breathless whisper in your ear, "You're mine."
Yet I am unable to speak, to say how much I want you, to say that I am yours, to tell you that I need you to truly, simply and basely take me. Now. My breath catches with a gasp as you suddenly lean forward, hands on your knees, seemingly like a predator preparing to strike. Your gaze drops to my parted lips, the lower now glistening wet, released from its protective role. I tremble in anticipation, all my senses hyperaware, and a small seed of fear glowing inside. I am afraid that my lust will overwhelm me, afraid that your hunger for me has waned, afraid that you won't claim me, and afraid that you can't see that I crave your control.
"Am I going to have to come and get you?" you taunt, with an edge of warning in your voice. Your eyes sparkle with ... desire? With promise? Somehow I manage to hold your gaze, staring deeply into your eyes as you rise from the couch and walk towards me.
If I could command myself, I would draw your hands down my back, across the roundness of my ass, up and under my skirt. I would hear you exhale when you felt my skin, as you realise there is no underwear to hamper my goal. I would place your strong fingers against my wet pussy, laying bare the evidence of my desire. Holding your hand, I would rub my swollen clit against your palm, guiding your fingers, helping them dip inside, priming me for your cock. My hips would begin to unconsciously circle, revolving with the heat your hands so skilfully generate at my centre. My head would fall back and a low, deep moan would escape my lips.
But my mouth is dry, silent, my unvoiced desire trapped inside. My heart is pounding as you approach, now terrified that you may know, that you may be able to tell, that you may actually give me what I find it impossible to ask for. You stand staring down at me and without hesitating, you take my arm, pull me up from the chair and in a swift movement, you pin my arm tightly behind my back. As I instinctively tug to free my captured arm, you grab the side of my face and force your lips onto mine. Your deep, demanding kiss steals my wits, melts my resistance, and promises everything. I revel in the closeness, in my vulnerability, in your strength.
"Is this what you need?" you groan against my panting lips, now swollen from the force of your kiss.
