Wait for it
“Get down on your knees”
As ever, the instruction runs a lick of lava-tongued lust through my body, cunt to crown. There’s the words; naked, unambiguous directive. There’s the tone; firm, assured, slightly rough-edged. And then there’s the look in his eyes; focused and intent, with a dark hunger that owes as much to my appreciation of his tastes as the dilation of his pupils.
I kneel for him, leaning back on my haunches with my face upturned so I can watch his. I love to study these dear, familiar angles and planes arranging themselves in the fascinating configurations of desire. This expression I know; it says holy fuck I am so hot for you right now and I hope my own face is showing my total thrall; my burning need for him to claim me and take me; to dazzle and be devoured.
“Up. Kneel up. Keep your back straight. Hands behind your head.” He nudges gently with one foot. “Legs wide apart now.”
I pose for him, submissive and devotional. Baring myself in all ways; unclothed, unmasked, unselfconscious; wetter by the second. Good little fucktoy.
He unbuckles his belt, makes a production of sliding it from its loops and wrapping it around one fist – then casts it aside and grins at my crestfallen expression. “Later,” he promises, “if you’re a good girl. But first, I’m just going to admire you for a while. Enjoy the sight of my beautiful toy, so obedient and alluring, waiting patiently to be played with.”
He’s good with words, as good as he is with his hands; each touches me in places I had long thought numb and indifferent, bringing me body and mind to tingling, yearning receptivity.
I watch greedily as he sheds the last few pieces of clothing between us, his jeans and underwear. Lick my lips at the sight of his twitching, swelling cock; triggering sense memory of his taste, of running my tongue along the soft-over-hard skin of that sturdy shaft, cramming my mouth full of him until I choke, and opening wider for more, more, harder, deeper.
He knows exactly what I’m thinking. Now it’s a contest of will, an endurance race between us to see whose self-control will give way first. Will I beg, or will he pounce?
“Keep still. No moving until I give you permission. Understand?”
“Yes.” I remember not to nod, but lift my eyes to meet his in affirmation.
“That’s it. No, don’t look away, hold eye contact. I want to see your face.” He strokes himself with long, languorous movements, reaches out to trace my lips, muss my hair with the other hand. Moving closer, lightly trailing his darkening cock-head across my mouth. I battle not to look down, to keep my eyes locked with his, to keep my mouth closed and my head up.
A chuckle from above, he sees and appreciates my struggle. “H’mm, very good. Well done. Perhaps I should reward you,” and grips my jaw, pulling me towards him and holding his cock poised, ready to plunge into my willing mouth, but
“-No, not just yet. Wait.”
And I congratulate myself for suppressing the instinct to part my lips and open wide for him, though I want to, fiercely. Because this was a test and I do not yet have permission to move.
He steps back.
“Arms getting tired yet?”
“A little.” I admit.
“Good. Good girl. You’re doing so well. So hot, you look fucking gorgeous kneeling for me. Mmm, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold back-“
He spies the twitch at the corner of my lips, a smirk I don’t wholly manage to suppress in time-
“-but that would be letting you off easy, wouldn’t it? Can’t have that. Maybe I’ll just stay here pleasuring myself at the sight of you until I’m done. Leave you wanting.”
I can’t help a whimper of protest escaping, so I give him big pleading eyes to go with it in the hope that my surging need and desire for him will overtop the ramparts of his well-buttressed control. Foolish of me; of course my supplication will only spur him to greater heights – or should that be depths? – of recreational bastardry.
Behind him stands a tall, wing-backed leather chair, the sort that adorns the old-fashioned gentleman’s clubs of spy fiction, and spooky-deserted-house ghost stories. The leather creaks as he settles himself comfortably between its arms, slouching slightly with his thighs apart. With one hand, he clasps his hardened, bobbing cock, pulling and pushing slowly, gently, almost idly. With the other, he beckons me to move closer.
“On all fours. Come to me.”
I lower my numb arms and roll my shoulders. Wince, as the first tendrils of pins-and-needles start to prickle at my fingertips. In the few short shuffling paces between us, the prickling turns to fire, threatening to pitch me face-first to the floor. No. Sheer willpower holds me up long enough to reach the spot he indicated, at his feet; between his legs, beneath his gaze I kneel for him again.
“Look at me.”
“I am looking at you” and it’s true, I’m feasting my eyes on the slow movement of his hand, the way his fingers tighten then loosen around his shaft, the shifting creases in his skin as his balls tighten under my scrutiny.
He grabs a handful of my hair, tilts my head back, leans forward to nail me with his piercing blue stare. “Look me in the eyes. And don’t be cheeky.” Somewhere beneath my field of vision, his hand is moving faster now, more urgently, creating a tug-of-war for my attention, poised between the competing, compelling rhythms of demand and desire. I want to watch, imagine that thick shaft plunging inside me; lips or legs wide apart, I don’t care, I want him any way he chooses to take me. I want to drink him in, breathe him, taste him – but most of all, I want to please him with my devoted submission, so I don’t look down, not even once as he fucks his own fist and my mind, clenching me tight by the hair and eye contact, growling soft, admiring words into my face-
“You’re such a good girl. My girl. All mine. So hot, so sexy. So fucking delicious. Mine to toy with and use as I see fit. Mine to pleasure and cherish. You’re such a fucking goddess-“
-and it makes me so wet, so urgently in need of him, I moan, eyelids fluttering, melting and moulding myself to his will, hoping and wanting, on my parted lips an entreaty-
“Please”
“Please, what? What do you want?”
“You. I want you. Please, fuck me. Please.”
“No,” he gasps, and redoubles his efforts. “You. Just. Stay. Right there.”
And it might be the grace with which I accept his command, or it might be the gratifying rush of power successfully exercised, or it might just be the sight of me; naked, poised taut and wanting; that pushes him up to the blade-edge of almost-orgasm, and I catch my breath in anticipation-
He lets go of me and himself; leans back, breathes deeply.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not just yet”
Fucking sadist. I adore him.
