I pull the scarf around your wrist, a simple but effective knot. Not tight, but firm. Arms outstretched, but comfortable. I’ve allowed you movement – a little, anyway. Nothing like enough to touch me. Your legs remain free. You tense your rear, nervous, but try to relax.
I take in your body, prone and outstretched, your eyes on my face. I’m kneeling beside you, more naked than you as your knickers remain on. I contemplate the moment, then reach out a hand to touch your arm – no. Perhaps your breasts – no. So much of you to choose. I am lost, my eyes trying to remember every portion of your skin, your body, how each part gently curves into another.
“Am I nice, Sir? Do you still like me?”
I look up to your face, see uncertainty tinged with desire. My gaze on yours, my hand moves across to a nipple. I calmly place a finger each side, and – slowly, slowly – pinch. And pinch harder. And harder still, looking only at your widening eyes and you gasp, then cry out as I strengthen the pressure. Back arched, your feet scrabble at the bed. As calmly as I began, gradually I let go.