You called and we spoke candidly about nothing, but your inflection speaks for itself. You deny me of salacious words for your own entertainment. I grow increasingly frustrated as the conversation slows, and to my dismay, you announce that you should go. All self-control and self-awareness escapes me. I try to articulate my frustration, but my words are vague and amuse you less and less. One could call me coy, but in truth I am entirely ashamed of my desire.
You dislike my embarrassment but always revel in it. There’s no need to hear me moan as I touch myself, no, the knowledge that I’ll succumb to pleasure after you’re gone is more than sufficient. You neither suggest nor expect that I ask you to stay, but you’ll indulge me if I beg.
Lucky me.
Tonight, your voice drowns my sense of responsibility. You, the tantalizingly disinterested autocrat; me, the ostensibly innocent subject. This is your favorite game, and the final move is my surrender. I offer you my sincerest gratitude, for I am always grateful for the opportunity to please you. Perhaps dominance is of less interest to you than my submission. Power is inherent, the crown is superfluous. My supplication delights you.
I’ve grown accustomed to your silence and obscure erotic tendencies. The way your eyes dart across my face as I speak, the way your face twists into silly little expressions when you’re pleased with yourself (only for a moment, though). Narcissism and self-interest look good on you. But, pleasure betrays your stoicism. You’re far too entertained by the thought of your cock in my mouth.
Images return to me with devastating clarity: the floor of your bedroom, the gentle movement of your fingers as you tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my legs around your body as you kiss me. I’ve dreamt of your fingers and your tongue every night. It’s never enough.
Of course, it would be impossible to replicate your serpentine skills.
I had no control. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in this world that would have stopped me that night. Why can’t time move backwards?
I wish I could recall the moment when you first put your hands around my throat. Maybe you loved it, maybe you didn’t. I know where you stand, now, though.
You smother me. I feel like I’m on fire. Oh, and your spit tastes like cigarettes.
The inflection in your voice always changes when you want to tease me. That’s enough. I start to squirm, and you haven’t even danced your way across my body. You know, you know, you know, but you want to hear me say it. I shouldn’t say it, but I will. Please?
Strength? Obsolete. You’re the singularity. As if I could escape.
I used to have the same dream. It was far less vulgar than one would imagine, but it entertained me for years.
As of late, though, I’ve been distracted by a rather heinous fantasy. (I’m joking. Why would you fucking my ass be heinous?)
It’s actually a rather beautiful scene.
You: Black boots, black jeans, grey shirt, black belt (buckled), video camera in hand.
Me: Wrists cuffed behind my back, legs open, ankles restrained, mouth gagged (your choice of object). I’m propped over your couch, which you’ve conveniently angled for me to face the windows. Maybe your neighbors will walk by and see me in nothing but metal and Louboutins.
You circle me to ensure a shot is captured at every angle, then you place the camera on the table so I’m in full view. I begin to whimper, which only insights laughter. To ensure that I’m wet enough to your liking, you approach me from behind and place your hand between my legs. Oh yes, you can feel it, I can feel it, but I can always do better. You smack my ass and my eyes begin to water, too.
Now you’re ready. You begin go take off your belt, slowly, so fucking slowly. You unbutton your pants and remove my gag. You know your way around my body as though I’m a figure of your own design.
Before you show me what I so desperately desire, you put your hand under my chin and lift my face to yours. I cannot avoid your gaze. I can barely think and I’ve probably begun to salivate. Oops. You have nothing to say to me, you just want me to see the maniacal smirk on your face as you shove your cock in my mouth. Sometimes I fear that you’ll kill me… only sometimes.
“Are you going to be a good girl?,” you ask, as you wrap your belt around my throat. The tightness always takes me by surprise. I’ve always wanted you to take my breath away (ha). My eyes begin to flutter. I gag and gasp for air and think about nothing but your pleasure. I can tell I’m doing a good job, too, because you groan and reach across my body to tease me with your fingers. What’s tighter, the belt or me?
You rub my clit and fuck my throat as deep as I can handle. Suddenly, to my disappointment, you stop. You take your cock out of my mouth and back away. For a moment I fear that you’ll leave me there, humiliated, tears and spit dripping from my face onto your white carpet. No. You just want to take another look at me before you place the gag back in my mouth and walk behind me.
I can no longer see your face, but I know you’re pleased. You stick your tongue in me, just to taste, just to make me hate you. I’m yours for the taking. Before I can prepare myself, you’ve shoved your cock so deep into my cunt that I almost fall off the couch. I’m so wet, I had no idea I could be this wet, but you always seem to teach me something new about myself. You fuck me hard, once, twice… I try to concentrate but, oddly enough, I’m quite distracted. Fuck, I hope you don’t stop again.
You introduce your fingers to my clit and I think I might come. Before I go any further, you slide your hand back and explore a new part of me. First one finger, then too. You’re still fucking me. I’m overwhelmed. You’re everywhere. Without hesitation, you slip out of my cunt and slowly begin to slide into my ass. My guttural groans are smothered by the gag. The belt tightens as you go deeper. My whimpers weaken and I feel your body grow tense. I want you to come inside me. Yes. Fuck yes.
As you finish, you grab my hair and yank my head towards your lips. “Say thank you.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/g543v2/dont_you_want_to_know_what_i_picture_when_im