I sit astride the small wooden coffee table. I am naked.
In my fantasy you have tied me with my legs parted, helpless and vulnerable.
In reality I am in that exact pose but held only by my own desires.
I have moved the coffee table to the small cramped hallway facing my front door. My spread knees touch either side of the frame. The muscles of my inner thighs ache.
The door is locked. No one can see in but I can hear the street sounds outside. I can feel the cold draft from around the door like a ghostly hand caressing my warm wet sex. It makes me feel exposed, on show, makes every touch more intense. Makes control harder.
Fingers first, just my own hands. Practised movements across my labia and clitoris, stroking, teasing. Adding to the heat and wetness. Years of practice. I know exactly how much I can take. I’m cruel, ruthless, as I take myself to the brink. Touching and teasing until I have to change technique. Fingers sliding across the flesh around my clit unable to take direct contact there now.