To Q, Isn’t it pure tragic that this version of you now only exists in my wet dreams?
Not a word, not a sound.
I’m about to turn the page when your shadow alerts me to your presence, feeble footsteps absorbed into the thick pile chenille rug.
You’re standing in front of me, an unspoken question on your lips, tapping your foot silently. Your face shows no expression, doesn’t need any.
I know what you want.
Tap, tap, tap.
Okay, I am game. But we’re gonna play this my way.
I flick my eyes from the page to you, then back to my book. Sorry, honey, I’m enjoying this story too much.
Tap, tap, tap.
I do love the cheeky wiggle of your bare toes on the fluffy rug. It’s tempting to tickle them with my tongue. I smile into the page at that thought but decide to toy with you a bit more.
I set my narrowed eyes on you. Make me! my smirk whispers.
You snatch my book out of my hand roughly and chuck it aside. How dare you! You’ve just made me lose the page now.
You pull my T-shirt over my head. I’m being undressed like our three-year-old (minus the screaming tantrum) yet it feels strangely erotic. You seize my chin and part your lips, ready to attack with a hungry kiss.
But it never comes.
The sorrow void churns the nothingness in the pit of my stomach, like an ice cream maker running empty. Disturbing. Wrong.
I’m here; hanging, waiting – for something that I’m conditioned to expect. Something, that always comes, always has before.
Not this time.
The worst thing is, there’s no triumphant look on your face. Just a glazed, wooden stare. Nothing. Like seeing a ghost. You’re here, yet not truly present.
I want to beg, sob for what’s due, what’s mine, always has been. But my lips birth no words.
You draw a downward line on my leg with your fingertips, a definite suggestion to get out of my leggings. You’re watching closely as I obey reluctantly. Still silent, still expressionless. I stay upright, somehow; I know that you wouldn’t approve of any further movement.
I feel exposed, naked with only my knickers on, unsure of your plans. You’re so close, mere inches from me. I can feel your snug body heat, I can smell your citrus shower gel. Wearing a pair of faded, washed-out jeans and a simple black tee. How can something so plain be so mouthwatering?
Is it a damn muscle fit? Why does it show the outline of your muscles so perfectly? You know that I’m in love with those pecs and those robust shoulders, the way they always pin me down. The one thing more arousing than that is that this time they choose not to.
Your big toe resumes tapping an impatient rhythm on the grey luxurious rug, soft like the fur of a hundred Persian kittens.
My nipples are blown erect by the night chill in the room and the frost in your eyes. You circle my areolas with a single, barely there fingertip. I’m mesmerized by your perfect nails – cut short and neat, yet capable to draw red marks on my body. Speaking from experience.
It scrapes the side of my painfully hard nipple so lightly that I question whether it really happened or I just imagined it. I watch you like a wounded animal awaiting its fate. Waiting for the inevitable, that always comes. Always has, before. I’m yours. To release or to have.
Touch me my nipples scream.
When nothing comes, I scrunch my face into a sulk. I reach out for your hand and steer it the right way. The way it has to go. The way it always has gone.
You pull away and eyes erupt into tiny shards of molten hatred, like a Christmas sparkler, just less merry.
The spoiled little brat revolts in me. I always get what I want. Always have, before.
There is a giant clog in this system; one push, one shove and the machine could chug on. But I’m clueless as to what the clog is and how to get rid of it.
Your sideway glance at my black cotton panties is telling me I’m still considered overdressed.
But if I take them off, my moist state will be revealed and show how not getting my way turns me on. It is a path I’m not sure I want to walk down.
Again, the tap, tap, tap of your foot. No other sound, no words, no expression. Yet, of course I know exactly what you want.
No impatient demands or gestures, just a barely there simmering haste in your eyes, flickering like the light in a petroleum lamp on a cold winter’s night, confined in a safe glass bauble that you created.
I want to smash the fucking glass, even if it sends the house up in flames.
But before I can act on the crazy you grab hold of my hand, as if it was a piece of lifeless chunk of wood. You’re too rough, it hurts and I hiss. You tighten your grip even more as a punishment for that disturbing sound that broke your perfect silence.
You maneuver my arm to touch the hem of my panties. ‘Take them off’ – I see your lips move and I hear the words in my head but not in the sleepy silence of real life.
I bend over and slide them off. You’re holding your hand out as a clear request. When I hand them over, you lock them in your fist and keep them as a token. A token for what exactly, I’m not sure.
Using my arm as a string of a marionette doll, you lay me down on the sofa onto my back and pull my legs apart. My arousal is undeniable, yet you foolishly choose to ignore it.
You cock your head; your gaze lingers on the hand that you are still controlling, and, sliding it down my stomach, you make me touch my most private parts. My fingertips brush against my silk folds. You force me to stroke myself gently, up and down, up and down like I smooth that super soft velvet cushion I bought a week ago. I just can’t keep my hands off it. No one can.
I close my eyes and enjoy the waves. It’s like riding a lazy river in an amusement park or rolling down a hill, if that hill were covered with a crushed velvet carpet. I breathe out deeply with every stroke, moaning softly without breaking the silence.
You curl my middle finger and slide it inside my well of pleasure.
I involuntarily pull my knees up, grunt audibly with suppressed lust as I try to seek out your eyes. They are met with disapproval, followed by my knickers being shoved into my mouth.
I let out a muffled ‘fo fuck’s ssake’, which again is met with a thunderous disapproving look.
Your attention is on my hand all over again and you’re making me pleasure myself. My body is burning with lust, anger and shame. I do not enjoy masturbating in front of anyone and you know it. You never requested it before, so why now?
You make me dip my finger into my honeypot again and temporarily remove the panties from my mouth. You coerce me to taste myself.
I know the rules by now and try to suppress my soft moans but it’s all in vain. This is new and exciting and… my lips tremble as I feast my eyes on you.
Fuck it. Okay, you’ve won this one.
Your victorious smirk and gentle stroke of my cheek is worth a thousand ‘good girl’s.
Before you draw my hand back to my pussy you open my legs wider and touch me for the first time. Brushing your fingertips against my labia, you’re opening me up like peeling off an expensive hotel napkin from your still warm, freshly baked croissant. Just a gentle touch, a master stroke of lust, leaving both of us on edge.
I grunt noisily, clasping my teeth on my knickers. For heaven’s sake please don’t stop. But too soon you replace your hand with mine again.
Under your washed-out jeans, your cock is stirring. I can see the bulge and my eyes are pleading with you to open your fly and give me what’s mine, what always has been mine.
I want to feel your silky-smooth flesh between my swollen lips. I want to inhale your intoxicating musky scent. You adjust it right in front of my eyes. You’re not even teasing, just trying to be comfortable. Then nothing.
Even if your cock tells a different tale, your still expressionless face assures me that you don’t need me, you don’t want me, you’re just playing with me. Then I suddenly remember what I said in the afternoon and how you looked at me with your ‘you will pay for this’ eyes yet said nothing. This is your revenge. And I made it so easy for you…
You kneel down in front of me and relax onto your heels like in your bad boy days when you used to roll your ciggie sitting on the floor. It used to turn me on so much – you fiddling with the tobacco, licking the paper, then rolling it into a joint. While I was lying on your bed, naked, out of breath, still wanting more. I miss that image, but I’m glad you don’t smoke anymore
We’re responsible, model parents now, at least on the outside.
Inside you’re still that perverted bad boy I fell in love with and I’m still that impatient, insatiable little slut who can’t get enough of you. So, give me more, I plead without a sound. Please. I reach out to seize your hand, but you are reluctant to give me even this tiny gravel of control. You can’t say no to the desperation in my eyes, you never could.
I gratefully lick your fingers, temporarily satisfied. I seem to taste the tobacco on your digits even after all these years. I greedily suck them, leaving no mistake what I want as the main course.
Your scoff and your evil smirk tells me I won’t be getting what I want this time.
You direct my hand back onto my velvet folds and lean back to watch me play with myself.
I stroke and finger myself but it… is… doing… nothing.
I want YOU. YOU.
You silently chuckle at my emptiness and visible distress.
You stand up and walk away only to return with my favourite glass dildo
You hold it out for me to take, but I refuse. I want you to do it. I want you to do me because I prefer it that way and because, as perverted as we are or not, I’ve never done that in front of you. You shake your head and hold it till I have no choice but to take it.
The coldness of the glass and its girth opens my labia as I move the dildo in and out of my pussy with my left hand. With my right I seek out my puffed up sensitive clit. I close my eyes and pretend that you are not here. I pretend that I’m pleasuring myself alone in the safe haven of my bedroom, thinking of how you like to slide the colourful glass beads slowly in and out of my pussy and rub them against my clit. Watching me writhe to the rhythm of your efforts, always edging me for hours. I can’t do that to myself because I know what works. I’m too impatient and always so quick to bring myself to a much needed orgasm. This time is no different; my body shudders, reaching the peak, but my mind is still restless and screaming for more.
I feel as I often feel after playing on my own, that it was just fuel to the fire. I am done, yet undone. This is not right.
Adding to the image of you right in front of me, is the sight of you gently stroking yourself through the rough denim. You are so hard, your cock is bulging through those washed out jeans. It was a hot foreplay but we need a more serious game now.
You give me a silent ‘good girl’ praise, then raise to your feet and walk away. Feeble footsteps absorbed into the thick pile chenille rug. You’re so fit and striking, glass dildo in hand, slick with my juices.
I wake fully dressed, my book right beside me, face down, open. As I turn it over, I recognize the last story I’ve been reading, the one about the silent submissive doll.
Special thanks to cbears52 for the final edit
and to leftlingula for his notes and research material
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