I love to make her wet, to fuck her wet and hard and open and feel her hands upon my cheeks as she pulls me in deeper.
It was the smallest movement of her toes, an almost imperceptible act, which first alerted me and drew my attention. As a feather barely touches the skin this seemingly insignificant moment became weighted with expectation. My thoughts up until this time had been hovering on the mundane but now deep down somewhere amongst the multitude of neurons and synapses my primeval instinct, my hand-clenching for dear life urge to feel real, enveloped me.
Her legs were bare and crossed upon the sofa and her feet pointed towards me. With her alabaster skin exposed I could barely think rationally as I began to play out in my mind the many possible scenarios which may soon transpire. We exchanged a glance that would have turned me to stone had she been Medusa but the portent of her look made for a much more powerful captivity. The die had been cast and we both knew the rules of our game.
She parted her lips and offered a smile of recognition. I reciprocated in kind. Still we sat upon the sofa motionless with no contact. The distance between us, however, counted for nothing as I allowed my eyes to fuel my imagination. Her hair was down and cascaded towards her breasts which were protected from my eyes only by the veiling of her top. I was a devotee of the highest order and she knew the power she had over me. I was a slave to their feel, their shape, their warmth and of the eventual hardening of her nipples as my tongue would flick gently over them. Her moans of pleasure would be my cue to tease with my teeth and draw them deeper into my mouth. I loved to make her wet, to fuck her wet and hard and open and feel her hands upon my cheeks as she pulls me in deeper.
She now drew her legs towards herself and whilst holding my gaze she paused momentarily before allowing them to open just enough for me to see what she knew I wanted to see. My breathing now became shorter as I felt my cock swelling in my jeans. Her rawness was exposed and open and beating my imagination into submission. I wanted to simultaneously reach out, to plough my cock, my fingers, my tongue deep into her. I wanted to taste her, to breathe her in, to feel her warm wetness on my face, to feel the gyrations of her hips as her muscles clamped tight around my thickness. I resisted. Not because of any sense of self-control, but because this game, this time of preparation, this pre-cursor to the act was too pleasurable to curtail prematurely.
She now slid her right hand slowly downwards allowing me one brief moment of recognition in her eyes before focussing solely on her fingers. She wanted me to watch as she began to pleasure herself but she was also making it clear that this was her game and she was in control. As her legs opened wider I watched and became lost in her exploration, lost in the art of her manipulation. A manipulation to which I willingly submitted.
She wanted me to watch as she began to pleasure herself but she was also making it clear that this was her game and she was in control.