The lead-up was bumpy. It was hot. Then it wasn’t. Then it was again.
Our relationship had become three-dimensional. No longer was she simply a toy for my pleasure. She had become a person. A person I like, care about, respect, admire. Aspects of our relationship troubled her, troubled me.
For reasons I won’t go into here, now, fucking was off the table. So were some of the virtual ways we had gotten one another off previously. But I was damned if I was going to let that stop me from taking what she had to give, which was, after all, considerable.
As I had directed, she stood by her door, facing it, in black heels, a black skirt, black scoop-neck top, black bra, black boyshorts, and black thigh-highs. I pushed open the door to see her, standing tall (in her heels, she’s taller than me), her fingers under her skirt, in her pussy.
I grabbed her blonde hair and pulled her pretty face to me, kissing it hard. “You look good,” I breathed in her ear. I grabbed a handful of her ass, under her skirt, and squeezed. Hard. I walked around behind her and set myself to marking that ass – that scrumptious, meaty, round, ass. I rained down blows on it, on her, taking out my frustration at her partial unavailability to me on her flesh.
Her winces were pronounced. My cock grew harder, under my jeans.
I lowered her to her knees and pressed her face against my painful bulge. And stepped away, to the armchair nearby. I lowered myself into it and stroked my cock through my jeans.
“Crawl to me,” I said, my voice low and deep. She raised her eyes to me, her mouth hungry, nodded, and began to crawl. “Tease my cock,” I whispered.
Her hands rested on my thighs, and slid up, toward my bulge. “I’m REALLY hard,” I said. Stating the (quite) obvious.
“Stand up, please.”
She gets this look on her face sometimes. She had it then. It’s hunger, yes. But also sadness: it’s as if my depriving her of my cock for even a moment longer is a deep unfairness. Were she to speak, it would be in a childish, whining, beg: “I want it.”
But she wasn’t to speak, and she knew this. So she communicated only with her eyes.
“Take off your dress,” I commanded.
“It’s a skirt,” she said.
Of course it was. I was distracted. Hungry. I wanted to see it all at once, her small breasts, her thighs, her cunt.
“Right,” I laughed. “Take off your skirt.”
She wriggled out of it, and the skirt fell to the floor.
“Now the top,” I said. And she lifted it over her shoulders.
She stood before me, her pale flesh in contrast to the black lingerie and heels.
“Crawl down the hall for me.”
She did. Slowly. Deliberately. Her ass shifted up and down with each forward drag of her knee on the wooden floor. She played it up, moving her legs not just forward, but crossing them in front of her body as she crawled, accentuating the movement of her ass as she slid forward. Away from me.
I licked my lips. My eyes were fixed on her ass, swaying as she crawled.
She reached the end of the hallway. “Now stand, and face me.”
“I want to see you touch yourself,” I said.
She stood, silhouetted by the bright sunlight streaming from the room at the end of the hall. Her finger found her pussy. Then her mouth. Then her pussy.
“Crawl back to me,” I said, after a moment.
She repeated her performance, this time fixing her eyes on mine as she approached. The distance was twenty or thirty feet. A lifetime to crawl.
Again, now, she was kneeling between my legs. Looking up at me. Licking her lips.
“Good girl,” I said. “Good girl.”
“I want it,” she said.
“I need it?”
“Your cock,” she said. “I need your cock.”
“I see,” I said.