The following has not happened. Yet.
She stands before me, posed demurely, in her tiny black dress. Her legs, slender, are in black thigh-highs.
I walk up to her, slowly. I hike her dress up, slowly. Above the top of her thigh-highs. Exposing her thighs. Exposing the garters that hold the stockings up. I press my hand, gently, against her creamy-pink-colored panties. They are silky. They are hot. They are soaking.
I reach around and grab a handful of her ass, over the panties, no, under the panties. I snake my hand up, and grab, firmly. I guide her around 180 degrees, until she’s facing away from me, until she faces the wall, and I sidle up behind her, pressing my cock – it’s so fucking hard – into her ass, into her dress, through my jeans, through my boxers. I pull her around, toward me. I hike her dress up a little higher. I expose several inches of her thigh to me, and give her ass a gentle slap. She looks up at me, and I push her, hard, down onto the bed.
She looks serious. Her legs are squeezed tightly together. I move her around, manipulating her body like a rag-doll. It exists for my pleasure. She knows this. It gives her pleasure to exist for my pleasure. I pose her for my visual fulfillment. On her knees, standing facing me, standing facing away. In each position, I tease her a bit more. I press her panties into her cunt, I slide my fingers along the length of the elastic of her panties, I feel the liquid dripping down her thighs. And it is. It’s dripping down her thighs. And as she lies back on the bed, as she rolls over, pointing her magnificent ass at me, I can almost feel her thighs sliding, slickly, against one another.
I grab her, roughly, by the throat, and I lift her, again, like a rag doll. I yank her dress all the way up around her neck. She’s exposed for me. Her panties, her black garter, her tiny black bra. She hooks her thumbs under the garters, almost defiantly, proudly. She knows she looks good, and she’s showing me, even as I hold her up by her throat and admire her. I spin her around again. I tear the dress off of her.
My cock is painfully hard, now.
I love this moment – I have a toy in front of me, a toy with which I can do precisely as I please. I know that my toy wants to be used, wants me to fuck her face. I know that she wants me to collect orgasms from her, to fill her cunt with my cock, with my fingers, with my tongue, with my breath. And, of course, I want all those things, too. But in this moment, what I want more than to do those things is to enjoy the sensation of their impending-ness. I know what’s coming. I know what awaits. And I’m drinking it in, insatiably.
Just as there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to bring this fucking tease to an end, to throw her back on the bed and simply fuck her face ruthlessly, fuck her pussy ruthlessly, or command her to minister to my cock for hours, there’s another part – a part that wants never to do those things.
This is the nature of good things. Once enjoyed, they are done. There’s the anticipation. The enjoyment. And the memory. And in my experience, for me? The best part is, far and away, the anticipation. For this reason, I let this portion of our little dance go on, longer, longer. (The experience is one step closer to the memory, and memory is a poor cousin of anticipation.)
I tear her dress off, roughly. I lower her bra straps, gently. I push her back on the bed. I spread her thighs, roughly. I breathe, hotly, on her cunt. (I can smell her juices through her soaking panties.) I flip her over. I smack her. My pace is accelerating here, moving more quickly through each pose, each position.
“Play with yourself for me,” I say. “Don’t come.” (As if she needed me to say this: she never comes without my permission.) She takes her bra off. Her nipples are hard, her breasts covered with goose bumps. She teases herself. But just for a moment. She squeezes her ass, her breasts. She traces a line along her panties. And she quickly resorts to the position that, we both know, can bring her off most quickly: with one hand, she rubs her clit, violently, furiously. With the other, she shoves one (or is it two?) fingers as deep into her pussy as she can.
Quickly, too quickly, she’s bucking. She’s coming close.
“Stop,” I say.
And she does.