Risqué Abstracts #42

OTKI don’t know why, and this is terrible, but I actually quite like the thought of infuriating you. Is that dreadful?

~No. Since if you infuriated me sufficiently, I would have to put you over my knee and properly rebuke you.

I think that’s probably why I’d like to do it.

~You mean you like the idea of being across my lap, with one of my hands holding your wrists behind your back, while the other hand pulled up the hem of your dress, and then slowly drew down your panties until they were around the middle of your thighs, baring your arse to my gaze … and my palm?

Oh, yes. I would love that. Completely love it. Do you think you’d like that too?

~My stiffening cock tells me that I would.

Mmmm, how lovely.

~Beginning with a light smack on each cheek, slowly alternating back and forth, the slaps becoming a little harder each time, just warming your skin, making it glow. Each smack making your arse jiggle fetchingly, the movement transmitting itself to the tops of your thighs, and the lips of your cunt.

Yes, exactly like that. And of course I’d wriggle a little, perhaps push my bottom up a little, arch my back, maybe open my legs a little too.

~So that I could slip my hand between your thighs and lightly stroke your sex with my fingertips?

Yes, in between spanks.

~How many strokes do you think it would take to make you wet?

I think that just laying across your lap, just the mere fact of being over your thighs, knowing what was to come, would make me ever so wet.

~Do you think I would be able to feel you trembling as you lay over my thighs?

I think so, yes. I think I would be incredibly aroused.

~And if I were to cup your cunt with my hand … would you feel hot against my palm?

Oh, yes, I would feel hot. And I would have to press myself to your hand. I wouldn’t be able to help myself.

~And what if I lightly smacked my fingers against your full lips?

Then I would gasp and moan.

~You’d take pleasure from feeling my hand smacking your cheeks first, and then your hot, moist cunt?

Yes, I would. I would feel so aroused, I think it would make me come quite quickly.

~Tell me how much pleasure thinking about it is giving you.

Right now? It’s making me squirm a little in my seat. I can tell my panties will already be a little damp because I have a lovely aching feeling in my cunt.

~I’d love to be able to smell the scent of your arousal right now, as it’s beginning to bloom. I’d love to be able to look at you as I explored you with my fingertips, opening you so that I can see just how wet you are, tracing your lust.

Oh, yes. I love the thought of you looking at me like that, telling me how wet I am.

~Wetting my finger inside you, and then tracing the edge of your mouth so you can see how wet you are for yourself, so that you can taste your own lust?

Yes. Sucking your finger, looking into your eyes as you touch me. Oh fuck!

~Easing two fingers deep inside you, curling them up so that I can caress your G-spot, my thumb against your clitoris.

You know I’d just push and grind against you.

~Yes. That’s what I want. For you to abandon yourself to the pleasure you’re feeling, to surrender yourself to me.

I’d love that … to let go completely….

 

Sweet To Taste

She telephones him at work. He knows it’s her as the LCD panel on his phone displays their home number. He contemplates not answering, and then winces as he reaches out for the handset.

“What time will you be home tonight?” He can hear the tension behind her words. He’s been late home most nights for more than a month. After a week, he could see that it was trying her patience. After three weeks, she’d asked him if he was having an affair, braced him across the breakfast table on one of those rare occasions they’d managed to sat down to eat together.

He wasn’t cheating on her, though. He didn’t have the energy to think about being unfaithful, let alone perform the actual deed. He wasn’t even masturbating. No, his work is incessant, draining him for twelve or fourteen hours a day, a mere ten if he is fortunate. He can’t recall the last time he’s even thought about sex. Diana had tried inspiring his interest, on both sides of her breakfast fidelity challenge, but his responses had been perfunctory at best, and Diana had fortunately had the good taste not to press the matter and humiliate them both.

He checks his wristwatch. “I’ll be home for seven.”

“You promised that last night.”

He closes his eyes. “I know I did. I really will be home for seven tonight, though.”

There’s a heavy silence. “You’d better be. I’m going to a lot of trouble for dinner.”

“I’ll be there on time. I promise.”

“I hope so.”

“Love you.” She doesn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he only hears the click as she replaces the handset on the cradle.

He closes his eyes again and sighs.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The drive home is better than usual. The road flirts with gridlock, but the traffic keeps moving. He finds that perpetual motion, even when it’s little more than a crawl, is far less exhausting than the stop-start alternative. When he pulls onto the driveway, it’s five after seven, and he still has a residual amount of bounce in his gait as he approaches the front door. He considers that a victory.

“I’m home,” he calls from the hallway. He drops his briefcase on the floor and hangs his jacket from the tall coat stand. He listens for the telltale sounds of pots and plates from the kitchen. There’s no aroma of food cooking either.

“Diana?”

“In here.” Her voice comes from the dining room. He begins to loosen his tie as he walks to the door. It swings open silently on its brass hinges. He stares, his fingers still locked about the knot.

“Hello, darling,” Diana says.

She’s lying on her back across the dining table. She’s dressed in black lingerie: brassiere, panties, sheer nylon stockings with wide bands of lace at the top. The soles of her black stiletto heels are pressed down against the polished wood. He sees that the brassieres cups aren’t full, that they’re only demi cups, and that much of her breasts are therefore revealed to his gaze. Her perfectly round nipples are a deep pink, their peaks already drawn upwards by excitement.

Diana turns her head to look at him. Her eyes glitter.

“I’m dinner tonight,” she breathes. “So don’t let me get cold before you start feasting.”

He realises that he has an erection, the first genuine hard-on he’s had in weeks. He walks quickly to the foot of the table, so that he’s looking up the length of her body. She looks back at him, her gaze relentless, demanding, imploring.

He watches her as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties. She presses down with her feet to assist him, and he draws the flimsy material down her legs, slowly but irresistibly. He sees that her mound is completely hairless, that it has been waxed bare. The soft, plump skin gleams with moisturiser. Now he hooks his fingers around her calves and draws her across the highly polished wood, until her bottom is at the edge of the table. He squats down on his haunches, and as he does so, his gaze transfers from her face to her naked sex. Her labia are already parting with her desire, the normally shy inner folds presenting themselves to be sampled.

He kisses the inside of her calves, first one, then the other, enjoying the static bristle of the nylon against his face. He works his way upwards, past her knees, onto her inner thighs. He can feel her trembling already. He kisses a path across the lacy bands and onto the warmth of her bare thighs. He runs his hands up and down the slender limbs as he kisses higher, higher. He can smell the musk of her excitement now, and it makes his cock even harder.

As he reaches her sex, he looks up her body and sees her watching him intently.

“Oh, please!” she whispers. “Please, please, please!”

His tongue lashes out, dragging a lecherous path across her swollen labia, along her cleft, already moistened by her lust. Diana gasps and her head falls back, hitting the table with a dull thud. Overcome with greed for the viscous taste of her desire, he slips his hands beneath her naked buttocks, cradling her like a bowl as he presses his tongue as deeply inside her as he possibly can. He can’t remember ever wishing before that his tongue were longer and wider.

He withdraws, his tongue assailing her full clitoris as he slips two fingers inside her, curling them against the front wall of her cunt until he finds the raised knurl that nestles there. The tip of his tongue flickers against her clit as he fingers her, and when she comes, her buries his tongue inside her once more so that he can feel the velvet walls quivering. She has barely begun to recover when he starts to lick her again. He knows that her clitoris can be hypersensitive for a few minutes after she orgasms, yet he attacks her with an intensity that borders on the sadistic. She reaches for his head, tries to entwine her fingers in his hair and pull his mouth away from her, but he seizes her wrists, grips them hard and forces them down on to the varnished tabletop. He holds her there, helpless, and then he licks her and licks her until she writhes and screams with a pleasure that is overwhelming.

Quickly, his mouth and his chin shining with her lust, he gets to his feet and begins to undress. He is naked in no time. He moves back between her thighs and brings the swollen, burnished head of his cock against her sex. He half-expects to hear his flesh sizzle against her copious moistness.

“Fuck me,” she groans.

He thrusts his way inside her, his usual desire to be subtle and teasing with his entry forsaken. He is desperate to be engulfed by her, to feel his cock cosseted within her oiled silk, to be sheathed by her ephemeral strength. He fucks her with a passionate fury he hasn’t felt in an age, even though he knows that this pace means that it will be over in minutes. The knowledge of her two orgasms comforts him.

He reaches down for her ankles, raises her legs high so that they rest against his shoulders. Then he reaches for her full arse once more, cradling it as he thrusts into her wetness, watching her breasts bounce deliciously within their semi-cradles, watching her glittering eyes, the tension and the resentment washed away by her bliss.

“Let me feel you,” she cries out.

He spills himself into the eye of her climax, hot and fervent and guiltless. Then, even as they’re still both trembling from their orgasms, he slips out of her, picks her up from the table and carries her through to the sitting room. He gently lays her on the thick rug in front of the fireplace and then stretches out beside her.

“How was dinner?” she asks rather breathlessly.

“Delicious.” He looks into her eyes. “But if you have any, I think I could manage seconds.”

She strokes his face and smiles wantonly. “Don’t eat too much of the main, darling. I want you to leave some room for your dessert.”

 

My thanks to the lovely Dara for her most generous indulgence….

 

Risqué Abstracts #41

I can’t stay long. I’ve only just got out of the shower, and I’m sitting here in just a silky shirt and with soaking wet hair.

~Well, thank you for leaving me with a beguiling image. I have to admit, the wet hair look on a woman always quickens my pulse.

I feel sexy when my hair is tousled and wet.

~It’s hardly surprising that you feel that way. You’re a sexy woman – full stop.

Thank you, kind sir.

~Are you going to tell me where you’re in a rush to get to?

I’m being taken out for drinks. Cocktails, actually.

~Nice. And what’s your cocktail of choice.

Well, Pina Coladas are lovely, but they’re so calorific.

~I know lots of pleasurable ways to work those calories back off you.

Don’t try distracting me. I can’t be late. I’m rather partial to a Moscow Mule as well.

~I’ll bear that in mind, Comrade.

Apparently, whisky, Amaretto and Red Bull makes a Wet Pussy.

~Sounds delicious. I’ve been rather looking forward to making one of those myself, only without the alcohol.

That would be a Virgin Wet Pussy, you fiend!

~What do they call it if you make one by slowly thrusting your hard cock back and forth along the valley of a woman’s cunt?

You’re making me really horny now. Thank you so much.

~You’re not alone in feeling that way.

I ought to tell you all about how hard my nipples have become, and how obvious they are when I’m wearing this top, but I won’t do that to you.

~It’s so thoughtful of you to withhold that information. Please allow me to return the courtesy by not mentioning how hard my cock is, and by not describing how it’s straining the front of my trousers in its eagerness to be released.

Very kind of you, sir. I’m not sure if I’ll have much opportunity to stay in touch over the weekend. We’re doing some redecorating, and there’s an awful lot of wallpaper that needs stripping.

~Don’t worry. I’ll amuse myself by thinking about stripping you, and then sinking my cock all the way inside you.

You are so bad. I love it.

~Right now, I want to taste how wet you are … and to make you wetter. So yes, you’re right: I’m bad. Very bad.

And I’m very wet.

~Ready to accept a hard, thick cock then?

Oh, yes! So much so that I want to touch myself now.

~Why don’t you, then? I am.

Oh, fuck. All I seem able to think out is you fucking me hard from behind, and my face buried in Samantha’s cunt.

~That’s a lovely thought. I’ve been thinking of slipping my cock from your cunt to Samantha’s and back again as I orgasm, spurting my come into both of you.

Christ, I’m soaking already.

~And I’ve been thinking of fucking you while her tongue is flickering wildly against your clitoris.

God, yes! I want to do that.

~Than you shall. I promise.

You should feel me now.

~I want to. I want to cup your cunt in my palm and feel your heat, your fullness, your wetness, while my tongue paints your nipples, and my cock thrusts against the outside of your thigh.

It’s no good. I’m going to have to make myself come.

~Good. Think of my cock erupting deep inside you as you climax. Think of my heavy balls against the cheeks of your arse, and my wife’s wet cunt smeared against your mouth.

You should be watching me now.

~I wish I were.

Fuck, that was wonderful. I have absolutely no self-control.

~One of the many reasons I enjoy you so much.

Thank you … I think. Now I really do have to leave. Stop seducing me with your filthy tongue.

~I make no promises, Madame….

 

Contrasts

He telephones her to give her precise instructions on what lingerie she is to wear when she comes to his hotel room the next day: brilliant white brassiere and suspender belt, sheer black nylon stockings, and no panties. Each item is to be purchased especially for the occasion. She won’t have to account for their purchase; he has already decided that he will be keeping each garment for himself.

He hears the breath catch in her throat as he describes the menu to her.

“Why white lingerie and black stockings?” she asks.

He could tell her that it’s the visual aesthetic of the two conflicting colours colliding which appeals to him. He could explain that he finds something wanton, even sluttish, in the combination. He could even reveal to her how – as a younger man – an older woman he used to work with seduced him whilst attired in the very same ensemble, which she employed to devastating effect. Whenever he permits himself to explore his memories of that night, he always ends up shivering from his recollections of the delights to which she opened his eyes and his senses.

In the end, he simply says, “Because that’s what I want. Questioning my decision has already earned you a rebuke. Would you like to find out what happens if you choose to disobey me?”

He smiles as he listens to her breathing at the other end of the line. He knows that the wilful streak within her is tempted to ask another question, is tempted to turn up tomorrow wearing something in scarlet or black or navy blue, just to vex him and earn his displeasure. In the end, though, she simply says, “No” in a voice just shy of simpering. Her tone alone is enough to stiffen his cock.

* * * * * * *

The knock at his hotel door comes at 6.15pm. He opens the door. She stands a foot outside the threshold, dressed in a white blouse and charcoal grey pencil skirt. She’s almost as tall as he is in her stiletto heels.

He moves the cuff of his shirt away from the face of his watch. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

There’s a glimmer of defiance in her eyes. He wonders how long she waited in the lobby before she walked into the lift, just to be certain that she wouldn’t arrive on time.

He doesn’t call her on her lie, though. He steps back and extends his arm, inviting her inside, locking the door once she’s safely inside.

She looks around the room. Apparently satisfied, she drops her handbag onto the low coffee table and turns to face him. When he doesn’t say anything or move towards her, she folds her arms across her chest, raising her breasts invitingly.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“Not yet. Take off your blouse and your skirt.”

Again, there’s a hint of defiance in her expression and her demeanour. She’s a woman used to exerting control, not yielding to it, and that aspect of her nature is refusing to concede without a struggle. But he can see the excitement in her face too, and he knows that some of her exhilaration is due to the yin and yang conflict going on inside her. The rest of it is her desire to surrender control, to be relieved of any responsibility for her pleasure.

She begins to unbutton her blouse, elegantly flicking each pearly disc open. Peeling the cotton from her shoulders, she drops it casually on top of her handbag and then reaches behind her waist. She releases the single button and draws down the zip on her skirt with an electric crackle. The skirt slides down her nylon-sheathed legs with a delicious hiss.

“Like?” she asks.

He does like. The white lingerie gleams wonderfully against her lightly tanned skin, and the part-lace cups of her brassiere cradle her full breasts wonderfully. Her taut nipples are hardening already. The narrow strip of dark curls on her naked mound naturally invites his gaze towards her stockinged thighs. The contrast between her lingerie, white and black, light and dark, is as visually rewarding as he had planned.

But he speaks nothing of his satisfaction or his pleasure. Instead, he points to the expanse of bed. He’s already stripped it back to the tight white sheet across the king-sized mattress.

“Lie down just there.”

She does as instructed, walking deliberately to the edge of the bed. She kneels down slowly, her curvaceous buttocks offered to his eyes as she shuffles into the centre. She stretches out languidly on her belly. He’s pleased that she’s kept the stilettos on her feet.

“Now what?”

He walks to the head of the bed and retrieves a single pillow. “Raise your arse up,” he tells her.

After a few seconds, she complies. He slips the pillow into the space beneath her loins. “Lie back down.”

Again, she complies. Now her arse is lifted invitingly.

“Better,” he says. “Much better.”

He brings the palm of his hand down against her buttocks with a crack.

“Ow!” She spins her head to look at him, her eyes burning in spite of the gathering moistness.

“That’s for asking me questions you’re not entitled to.” He cracks the flat of his hand down again against her arse once more, bringing another gasp of surprised pain. “And that’s for being late when I told you what time I wanted you here by.”

He looks down at her skin, where the hand-shaped patches of red are already flowering across her milky skin. More contrast. He smiles.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. In spite of his actions, his even tone hasn’t deviated one note. “Just do as you’re told. And know your place.”

She turns to look back towards the headboard. He sees a glistening droplet fall against the pillowcase, leaving a small circle of dampness that slowly spreads across the cotton.

“Yes,” she says.

He raises his hand again until it’s level with his shoulder. “Yes what?”

“Yes … Master.”

“That’s better.”

He lowers his hand slowly, until his palm is just touching the warm flesh of her behind. He strokes the redness tenderly. He slips his hand lower, his fingers easing their way between the tops of her thighs. The lips of her sex feel distended, and when he finds the cleft that lies between them, it’s already slick with viscous lust. She gasps at his touch. His cock twitches lustfully at the sound. He wonders how much she is already enjoying the contrasts of sensation, how much she will enjoy the contrasts that are yet to come.

“Yes, that’s much, much better.”

 

Thoughts and Ends

couple drinking in a barHe selects a table with just two seats towards the rear of the hotel’s bar. He debates the wisdom of choosing one this far from the entrance, concerned that she might feel confined, even trapped, so far from the sanctuary of the street. In the end, he decides that having sufficient privacy to talk is worth the risk.

He places his wide tumbler of bourbon down on the table and watches the entrance. He’d wanted to meet her off her train at Kings Cross, but she rejected the offer. She had some things she needed to do first. She’d meet him somewhere in the city later on. Where? He’d thought about suggesting one of a dozen neutral bars or restaurants he knew. Instead, he’d given her the name of the hotel he’d chosen. There seemed little point in being coy.

When he looks up from checking his watch for the fifth time, she’s standing in the bar’s entrance, scrutinising the other customers, looking for him. She’s wearing a dark blue dress, buttoned along the length of its front, and black leather knee-high boots. She looks casual and very feminine. His heart beats a little faster.

She sees him. Her expression freezes. For a moment, he’s afraid that she’s about to turn tail, to show him her back and walk, no, run, from the hotel and back out into the neon-threaded light.

She doesn’t turn away, though. Her frozen expression melts as she smiles. She begins to walk towards him.

He gets to his feet.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello.” She smiles again. “Finally.”

“Finally.”

Her hand is small and soft and warm in his. She leans forward, turning her head slightly to offer him her cheek. He presses his lips chastely against her smooth skin. She smells of Chanel Allure. His pulse is a teenager’s again.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asks.

“A vodka and tonic, please.”

He returns to the bar and orders the drink. He’s greedy to refresh his memory of how she looks, but he doesn’t want her to catch him scrutinising her. He wonders if she’s looking at him. The urge to turn around feels like a million fire ants crawling around inside his skull.

He carries the drink back to the table and sits down directly opposite her. “Cheers.” The clink of the glasses meeting sounds louder than it ought to. He pulls deeply on his bourbon. She sips nervously at the vodka.

“How was the train journey?”

“Good, thanks.” She puts her glass down on the coaster and slides it an inch away from her. “Certainly better that I was expecting. I managed to get myself a cheap upgrade to first class.”

“Nice.”

“Well, I got a wider seat and more leg room. Oh, and complimentary coffee and a free copy of The Times.”

“That’s just Murdoch’s attempt to take over the rail network as well.”

They laugh, the sound full of genuine warmth on both sides of the table. She looks as relieved as he feels.

“When did you get here?” she asks.

“Just after midday. There’s a film season on at the BFI that I wanted to catch.”

She perks up noticeably. “Which film did you go to see?”

Les Diaboliques.”

Her smile is a trifle too thin for his liking. “Revenge and betrayal. Interesting choice.”

He shrugs easily. “I like noir cinema, and Les Diaboliques is a favourite of mine. I’ve always wanted a chance to watch it on a big screen.”

She peers at him. “Had you planned to take me with you?”

He laughs. “I wouldn’t have done that to you. I just decided to take advantage of the free time.” He swills some more bourbon and summons a nonchalant tone. “Did you manage to get done what you needed to?”

Her eyes flicker away. “Yes. Thank you.”

An awkward silence settles over them. More than a year has passed since they talked with any real intimacy, and the weight of that knowledge is pressing down on them both, hindering the conversation now that the initial burst of energy at the renewal of their acquaintance has ebbed.

Finally, the lengthening silence compels him to take a chance.

“You know, I consider the fact that I haven’t made love to you one of the great frustrations of my life.”

“Really?” She seems genuinely surprised. By the change of direction, or the choice of words? There’s a hint of scarlet in her cheeks as she glances down at her glass. “Better a great frustration than a huge disappointment.” Her eyes come back to his and she smiles. “I’m sorry. You probably want to admonish me for that.”

“I wasn’t even going to respond to it.”

They both laugh again.

“I thought you were bound to chastise me,” she says. “You always used to whenever I was negative about myself.”

“You’ve always doubted yourself too much.”

“I can’t help myself.” There’s a fresh bloom of scarlet in her cheeks, but this time when she speaks, her eyes don’t leave his. “But perhaps I just like being chastised?”

Is this the moment when things start to move forward? he wonders. Stick or twist?

“You’re still gripped by hesitation, aren’t you?” he asks.

She doesn’t speak. She just nods.

“I’d to sweep aside that hesitation with my lips, banish your doubts with the sensation of my hands in your clothes. I want to open each garment with measured force, revealing you layer by layer until you’re finally – finally – naked before me.”

She gasps. “Measured force sounds lovely.”

“The thought of being fully dressed while you’re lying naked before me … it’s making my pulse throb more deeply than anything has for what feels like an age.”

The tip of her tongue traces the centre of her upper lip. “I like the imbalance of that image. Very much.”

He looks around quickly to make sure that they’re still alone, that there’s no one close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.

When he speaks again, it’s in a low, measured voice.

“I want to lie over you, still fully dressed while I kiss your mouth, your neck, your shoulders … slowly working my way over your breasts and across your belly … down the inside of one thigh and then back along the other … parting the folds of your sex with my tongue and plunging it deep inside your cunt, coaxing your orgasm with the flicker of my tongue over your clitoris … feeling your thighs tightening on either side of my head, listening to your sighs and gasps of pleasure building to a crescendo. And then I’ll stand up so that you can watch me as I slowly undress.”

She raises her glass with a hand that trembles lightly and swallows half of the remaining liquid. “God, that’s lovely.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

She nods. “I’d love to watch you like that,” she says in a voice that’s mostly whisper. “I’d love to look into your eyes and then up and down your body as you undressed for me.”

“I want you to have that moment. I want to feel the heat of your gaze, to see the desire, the lust, the naked wanting in your eyes.”

Her gaze narrows fractionally as she looks at him. “I’d probably touch myself as I watched you.”

“Good. I want to see your fingers showing me where you want me, where you need me, as you watch me approaching you. Steadily, relentlessly, unstoppable in my burning desire, my cock hard and thick, eager to take you, to claim you, to leave its mark within the wet mystery of your cunt.”

“Oh God,” she whispers. Her eyes dart left and right. “I want you to watch my mouth as I tell you how wet I am, as I tell you how much I want you to fuck me.” She swallows some more of her vodka. “I love to say fuck. And cock. And cunt.”

“I remember.” He’s aware of just how hard he is already. He yearns to feel her hand gripping his length tightly, wantonly. He suppresses a shudder. “I want to hear you saying those words to me, gasping them to me.”

She looks back over her shoulder as she leans conspiratorially towards him.

“Do you still want to hear me begging for your cock too?”

He swallows with some difficulty. “You know that I do. I’m hard now, just from being near to you, just from talking to you. Just imagining hearing you saying those words to me … it sends the most delicious shivers coursing down my spine, all the way to my balls.”

She looks down at the tabletop. “That’s such a lovely thought: your cock all big and hard and only a couple of feet away from me.”

“It’s hardly the first time you’ve made me hard, is it?”

She smiles, a little wistfully he thinks. “No. But this is the first time that I’ve done it when I’m within touching distance.”

“Very true.”

Her eyes – the colour of crystal jade – hold his unwaveringly.

“I’m ever so wet.”

“I’ve always enjoyed making you wet,” he says. “Even though I was never there to enjoy you. I relish the thought of you being wet because of me. Because you want me, because you need me inside you, fucking you soft and slow, then hard and relentless, the two waxing and waning into each other until they become indivisible.”

He sees her swallow, sees her hands convulsing against the varnished tabletop. “Yes. Oh, yes.” She looks around herself again. “What I really want now is to sit in your lap, facing you, with your thigh between my legs.”

“So that you can slip back and forth against my leg? Coating my thigh with your lust?”

“Yes. So that I can say, ‘Feel how wet I am. Hot and wet and all because I’ve been thinking about your cock.’”

He smiles, overwhelmed by the thought of her words combining with the sensation of her soft wetness against his naked skin.

“You could rub yourself against any part of my body you desired. My chest … my abdomen … the small of my back.”

She grins shyly. “You would smell of me. I’d be all over you.”

“I know. I want that. I want to smell how excited you are. I want to bathe in the scent of your desire.”

She leans a little closer. “Perhaps I’d touch myself and then offer you my fingers.”

“I’d suckle on them like a hopeless drunk.”

She laughs. “Then I’d kiss you and taste myself from your lips.”

“And what if I finger you to a shuddering climax and slowly draw a dripping fingertip around the edges of your mouth?”

“That would be lovely too.” She licks the edges of her mouth, just as he has described doing with his fingertip. “Would you look into my eyes as you fingered me? As I came all over your fingers?”

“Yes. Yes.” He looks at her as earnestly as he knows. “Do you honestly have any doubts left about whether I still want to fuck you?”

She glances away, perhaps with a touch of embarrassment. “No. I know that you do. Thank you. Thank you for wanting to.”

He snorts. “You don’t have to thank me for anything.”

She nods. “You’ve given me something back. A little self-belief. I think I’ll be able to look at myself in a mirror and see myself as desirable again.”

“You never stopped being desirable.”

“It felt like I did.”

He looks pointedly over her shoulder, towards the lobby and the elevators that lead up to the residential floors. “Come with me now. I promise that you’ll never feel undesirable again.”

She follows his gaze.

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He sits back, bewildered. “I don’t understand … why are you here? Why did you come tonight, if-”

“I wanted to meet you in the flesh, finally. To know whether we would still want one another when we moved beyond the emails and the chat rooms and the web cams. To know if the attraction between us would still exist if we actually met face to face.”

“And it doesn’t?” He wants to shake his head to try and clear the confusion. How could he have read her so wrong?

“Yes, it does. As strong as I’d hoped it would. Stronger, in fact.”

“Then … come upstairs with me. Finally. Let this take us where it’s always been heading.”

Her expression is so sincere, it’s almost painful to behold. “I wish you knew just how badly I want to do that. How badly I want to take your hand and let you lead me to one of those lifts. But I can’t.”

“You’re not making any sense to me.”

She smiles. “I know. I’m barely making any sense to myself.” She drains her glass. “I’ve thought about this moment so often. And this is exactly what I’ve always feared: that when I did finally meet you, it would be everything that I wanted, everything that I’ve always promised to myself in every fantasy I’ve ever had.” She reaches out a hand towards his, and when their fingertips touch, he shivers violently. She does too. “That the connection between us would be so electric, so … alive.”

“I still don’t see the problem. There are people who would…” He shakes his head. “I was going to say that there are people who would die for this, but that’s too strong.” He holds her eyes with his. “But there are people who would do almost anything to experience feelings like this, moments like this.” He cups her hand with his and feels the naked energy running between them.

“I know. That’s why it’s so sad that it can never be.”

He sits back from her, breaking the physical connection between them. He has to fight to keep his irritation and his bitterness in check.

“Rachel, I don’t understand you at all.”

“I’m afraid that if I fuck you, if I make love to you, it will be just as electric as this moment. More so. And after that, I’ll want more. I’ll need more. I know I will.”

He leans forward. “Who said that you couldn’t have more? Have I said or done something to make you think that this is a one-time deal?”

“You don’t understand.” Her voice – still low – is full of resentment and pain. “If it was as good between us as I think it would be, then I could never go back to my life. I would have ruined it forever. Yes, it’s bland and it lacks passion and electricity, but right now, I can live with it. I can survive it. But if you help me to see just how good things could be, how good they should be…” Her eyes close resignedly. “Then I could never go back to that blandness and hope to survive.”

He slumps back in his chair. Finally, he sees the sanity in the midst of the madness. He wonders what he should say. In the end, he says nothing. There’s nothing to say. She’s said it all already.

She gets to her feet. “You won’t try and follow me, will you?”

He shakes his head.

“You always were chivalrous.” She smiles one last time. “Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

He watches her leave, feeling the ache growing inside him until the pain is almost overwhelming. There’s a part of him that wants to run after her, to catch her and kiss her and make her change her mind. But to do that would be utterly selfish, and therefore unforgivable, by either of them.

Only when he can’t see her any longer does he get up and return to the bar. He orders a double bourbon.

“And another for the lady?” the young bartender asks.

“No.” He hands over a twenty-pound note.

“Too bad. She looked really nice.”

“She was. Is.”

The bartender hands him his change. “You must be frustrated.”

He thinks for a moment before he speaks. “Sometimes, it’s better to experience a great frustration than a huge disappointment.”

The bartender cocks his head. “Is that a quote from Shakespeare or something?”

He smiles sadly as he turns away from the bar. “No. Just something that a friend said to me once.”

 

Risqué Abstracts #40

You made me laugh. A long, drawn-out evil cackle.

~Ah, yes. The one that goes with your cloak and pointy hat.

Exactly, my pretty.

~I must confess, I rather like the image of you naked except for said hat and robe. And knee-high boots, of course. I think I’d be easily bewitched by you in such an outfit. You wouldn’t have to exert yourself, magic-wise, to have me as your willing slave, that’s for certain. Would you like to be dressed in such garb, and to have me on my knees in front of you, waiting for your next command?

Oh my. I wasn’t expecting that.

~Isn’t that one of the reasons I still have appeal for you? Because I can still catch you off guard once in a while?

There are quite a few reasons you still have appeal. Your ability to make me purr, as you did just now, would be one of them.

~You know that I prefer to make you purr in the flesh.

I know. And I have a confession of my own. Sometimes, I think about you fucking your wife when I masturbate. Either that or a multitude of women pleasuring you at once, while I get to sit back and watch.

~It’s exciting to know that you’ve been thinking of me when you pleasure yourself. A multitude of women pleasuring me? How interesting. Am I bound and at their tender (or not so tender) mercies, or am I pleasuring them by return?

When I think about it, it’s all about your pleasure. But yes, you pleasure them back. It’s just one huge fucking orgy, really.

~You spoil me.

I’d like to spoil myself, right now. I’d love to be sliding myself down your shaft ever so slowly, until I’m wriggling and writhing in your lap with you embedded within me.

~And I’d love to offer myself up to your sweet, wet, succulent cunt, so that you could pleasure yourself on my hard flesh.

I can imagine fucking like that for hours, actually.

~Only hours?

Days?

~Days would be a good place to start. We wouldn’t want to push ourselves too hard, or be too greedy.

Is your cock hard now?

~It might be.

God, thinking about you with your cock out touching yourself is making me want to touch myself.

~Indulge yourself, then.

What are you thinking about?

~About how wonderful it would be to lick tiny beads of perspiration from your breasts as you slowly rose and fell over my cock.

That sounds delicious. Having my nipples licked sometimes pushes me over the edge.

~You know that I adore your nipples. I want to kiss them chastely, and run the tip of my tongue around them until your areolae glisten, and then draw them into my mouth, suckling on them greedily and insistently.

You’re being wicked, now.

~You think? I didn’t think I was being that bad. I was planning to tell you how I’d shaved myself the other day, and then liberally coated my flesh with Boss body lotion, leaving my balls and my cock soft and smooth. I was going to ask if you would like to smell its scent on my flesh. I thought that might be being wicked. Perhaps I was wrong.

What I would give to be close enough to inhale your scent. The thought is electrifying. To be on my knees in front of you, inhaling you, paying homage to that beautiful cock … that imagery is very much alive in my head right now.

~I want to make long, exquisitely slow love to you.

I think about you doing that more times than I should admit. That’s when I become greedy. I think about you coming … and I want your come everywhere.

~Everywhere?

On my face, on my back, in my cunt, on my thighs, on my arse, in my arse, in my mouth… Everywhere.

~You always know just what to say to make me burn…

 

Silk

dressNot for the first time that evening, he opens the brown envelope and draws out the photograph that she’s mailed to him. He lets his eyes flow across the curves of her body, sheathed in clinging scarlet silk.

The accompanying note tells him that the gown was purchased for a ball she’s due to attend the following weekend. She’ll be on her husband’s arm, at least as far as the end of the reception line. He strokes a fingertip across the glossy surface, wondering if her husband will truly see the woman beside him, even when she’s dressed to devastate.

He studies her, and as he does so, he imagines himself amongst the party-goers, anonymous in black tuxedo and bow tie. He imagines the other men watching her, unable to drag their gazes away from her. He knows what they’ll be thinking. They’ll be wondering what it would be like to slip their hand inside the long slit on her dress and onto the warmth of her thigh. They’ll be wondering what it would be like to be alone with her, to take hold of the gown’s zip and draw it slowly downwards until the dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.

He holds the photograph at arm’s length. She’s naked under the silk, and he’s certain she’ll be dressed the same come the night of the ball. She’ll want to achieve that same seamless blending of silk and skin. He can picture the men watching her rear whenever she glides by, trying to discern whether – if they were fortunate enough to be allowed to undress her – they would see her utterly naked except for her stockings when her gown reached the floor.

And what would he be thinking if he were there? He’d be wondering what she was thinking when their eyes locked across the room, whether she was impatiently waiting for the opportunity to slip away somewhere private, so that he could undress her, so that she could release his hard cock from his trousers and guide it inside the soft, wet folds of her greedy-to-be-pleasured cunt.

He pictures himself escorting her to the hotel lift, knowing with absolute certainty that before the doors slide open on her floor, he will have kissed her and slipped his hand through that alluring slit to stroke her thigh – and maybe higher. He also knows that he will have guided her hand to his loins, so that she can experience how hard she’s made him.

He closes his eyes, experiencing the thrill of locking the door to her suite, knowing that a few floors below them, her husband and the rest of the partygoers were still drinking and carousing, completely unaware that he was undressing her, making her naked, making her wet, making her come with his lips and his tongue and his fingers, and then sliding his thick cock inside her.

He draws a sheet of rich cream paper towards him, undoes the cap of his Mont Blanc Starwalker fountain pen, thinks for a few seconds with the rhodium-plated nib paused above the paper, and then he begins to write.

 
Will the thought of making me hard bring a smile to your lips? Smile then, because I’m as hard as steel right now, thinking of you at your ball, striding past all those hungry eyes. You’re too astute not to see them. Will their hunger make you moist, or will they merely make you conceited?

How’s that smile of yours? Wanton? Desirous? Lustful? Carnal? I find myself hoping that it is all of those things, and more.

What if I were to come to your precious ball? How would you feel if you saw me across the room, talking to another woman, perhaps to one of your friends? Would you feel a ripple of jealousy? Would you quickly find an excuse to interrupt, to somehow lead me away from the throng towards the lift upstairs?

What if we were inside the lift, the vibration of distant machinery raising us towards the stars? Would you be content to see my erection pressing against the front of my trousers, or would you be too eager to feel it in your hand? Would you grasp me through the material, measure my thickness, my firmness? How long would you be able to resist unzipping me? And then what would you do? Simply slip your hand inside my trousers and grip me through my shorts? Or would you be too greedy, too frantic to settle for that? Would you want to feel my naked cock against your palm, to wrap your fingers around my bare, aroused flesh?

And once you’d led me to your room and locked the door … what then? You told me once that you wanted me to take you firmly over a bed or a chair … to thrust into you while I held you about your waist, holding you where I wanted you, fucking you hard. Would you want that? To slowly undress yourself while I watched, and then lean over the end of the bed, your palms against the counterpane and your buttocks offered towards me? Would you cup and caress your own breasts while you waited for me to enter you, while you waited to feel my cock pressing against the cheeks of your arse, thrusting slowly against your taut skin? Would you reach down between your parted thighs and finger yourself slowly, strumming your clitoris as your teeth bit down into your lip? Would you hold the lips of your sex open for me as you looked back over your shoulders into my eyes, as you quietly asked me to fuck you long and hard? Would you tell me what you were feeling, what you wanted to feel? Would you guide my hands onto your breasts so that I could hold you, cup you, squeeze you, pinching your hard nipples between my fingers and thumbs? Would you press my hand against your mound, show my fingers the way to your clitoris so that I could pleasure you as I fucked you? Would you show me how you like to be stroked and caressed, how to make you come so that your body trembles uncontrollably, so that you can’t contain your cries of pleasure? Would you press your own fingers against the underside of my shaft as I climaxed inside you, so that you could feel every pulse, every throb? And after I’d withdrawn … would you press your fingers inside yourself so that you could feel my warm seed, so that you could rub it over your clitoris and the lips of your sex, bringing yourself to another orgasm as I watched, panting?

 
He scans his words and, satisfied, signs his name. He addresses a matching envelope to her workplace and slips the folded letter inside. As he moistens the envelope’s seal with his tongue, his eyes settle upon the engraved ball ticket that sits upon his desk…