It started with me combing your hair. You were seated, looking at both of us in a mirror. Your eyes met mine as the comb went up and down, teeth gliding between your platinum locks and sliding down with a silky whisper. And then again.
You were dressed in evening wear with a choker on, placing a small precious stone right at your throat. The dress was black, off the shoulder, displaying a civilized hint of cleavage. I had on a white shirt and tie and could see my jacket and pants laid out on the bed in the mirror behind me.
The comb went up and down, vanishing partially into your hair and teasing out any lingering imperfections. With each stroke unseen your pulse flutter under the choker, hear your breath catch. Your chest starts to rise up and down as you're breathing harder. You start to twitch slightly in your seat as the strokes get longer and slower, starting at your scalp and running the whole length of your hair, which slips free of the teeth at the end and falls gently back across the bare skin of your shoulder.
One hundred strokes. As I finish you let out a low contented sigh, then direct me to get your shoes. I do so, the black strappy heels, and kneel before you. The dress has a wraparound front, clasped at the waist, and the wrap part is open, creating a wide slit in the dress that shows off your legs in their subtly patterned nylons up to the garter belt.
The air is filled with the rich scent of your arousal mingled with your perfume as I lift one leg, massage your foot for a moment and slide on the straps of the shoe. It slips into place after a brief resistance, wrapping around you as if it was meant to be there. I let my hand linger up your calf and you smile. I can see just enough of the space between your thighs to see the matching part of the garter set.
I pick up the other shoe and fit it into place. There's a moan from your lips at the moment of resistance before the straps lock around you. From this angle I can see all the straps and belts and clasps and collars restraining you for the evening. You writhe against this symbolic bondage while I stand up and walk to finish getting dressed.
You stop me, fishing my cock out from my boxers, and give it a long kiss that leaves a bright red lipstick mark on me. You then take a length of black ribbon and tie it around me with a complex knot before putting me back, struggling, into my boxers.
I own you. You own me. For tonight.
I pull on my slacks, slip into my jacket and you tie my tie. When your fingers brought the Windsor to my throat our faces were inches apart.
Then I woke, aching.
No comments:
Post a Comment