Tense, twisting, yanking pull. Your wrists trapped in sportsheets and your arms with enough leeway that your biceps flex and your elbows flash from your tugs, all as your fingers pantomime and ball into fists. Hot sweat drips, breathless shudders from your lips, all as my oiled hands move up from the pelvic line, across your ribcage, finding a home at your breasts. I'm going to stay here for a while, careful kneads above and underneath, my thumbs circling and swirling across your nipples, hard as diamonds, yet so, so sensitive that just the faintest of touch causes your head to dig into your pillow, almost jostling your blindfold out of place.
It was dinner and you were in that black dress and those pumps and we had to maintain composure but your fingertips were tracing along my inner thighs underneath the table and your nylon covered toes snaked up my pant cuff and you were smiling and giggling and making sure my attention was on you, only you, and I couldn't help myself, you knew I couldn't help myself, and that's when your thumb circled around my bulge, right across my head, through all that fabric and you weren't stopping until you saw me break and you unzip and…you…you…temptress…as I am biting my lips and the freeze in my shoulders and my fists are balling up in napkins and silverware and you coo in ear as my pulse throbs in my ears and my lust is leaking all across my boxers and right then, then, THEN DAMMIT! DAMMIT! You stopped! Why did you stop?!