I shower with the lights off, my eyes adjust quickly to the deep darkness and the water is hot enough to make the mirrors across from my shower steam and cloud and swirl, making my reflection nothing but a featureless specter in the night. The water beats against my back and I tilt my head back to soak my long locks till they melt against my skin, reaching past my hips. My body aches. My muscles are stiff. My skin is bruised. I can be satisfied, but never sated, and I feel the stirrings of desire rising up from my toes, climbing my thighs, beating in my chest; I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Continue reading
It is 4 am and I feel the warm cascades of sleep threatening to envelop me, but so too do I feel aroused, in need. We’ve talked all night and it’s miraculous that I’ve kept my hands to myself until now. I am feeling pliant–no, more than pliant, I am feeling subservient, submissive. How strange the subtle difference between being willing to be used and wanting to be of use. Not just to be of use. I want… pleasure. Of a kind that only he can bring. Like reading my thoughts, maybe reading the tension, reading me, suddenly warm and fidgety and doe-eyed, he speaks up first.
“What do you want, baby? Anything your sweet little heart desires.” Continue reading
“There’s a certain decadence,” he opined. “In reading something and listening to your woman pleasure herself, just… enjoying the noises she makes.”
I suppose this is especially true when you’re doing it for the sake of his pleasure, and he knows it. You could be doing it anywhere else: in the shower, in the next room, not in ear shot, not right beside him, not so close he could smell your pussy. But you chose for him to hear you, to listen to you come while you touch yourself.
Then you come.
“Did that feel good, baby?”
“Yesss… yes,” you pant.
“But I think you need another, because you got my dick hard,” he murmurs. Continue reading
“You see, I’ve had something on my mind, and I simply can’t… finish this conversation till I alleviate my poor brain.”
“Oh? Go for it,” he says, and I can see the hint of a smirk at the corners of his lips.
But I know he doesn’t know what I’m about to do, what’s been on my mind for days now. I fall to my knees in a kneeling position and push my way between his legs, my open palms stroke the tops of his thighs and I look up at him with a cheshire cat grin.
His eyes grow dark.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
I’m the only person I know that fantasizes about being a “little woman.”