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I’m waiting.
I sit on my comfortable chair; you know the one. The one with the pastel pink blanket that feels so wonderful after a day of soaking in the summer sun. I’ve moved the teddy bear to the other room. Somehow it didn’t feel right for the stuffed toy to watch me with its pupil-less gleaming black eyes. My knees remain gently closed, pressed very lightly together. I’m reading, for now. Something to keep me sane; I think it was a history book.
I glance at the slender thing next to me. I’m waiting.
My legs have been freshly shaven. I know you like that. I’m not wearing panties under my knee-length schoolgirl skirt. I remember you demand I not. I am wearing my bra, however. You said once how much you liked them. Black silk, you said. I bought it for you. Won’t you be so proud? I remembered.
Where are you? Did you forget? I’m waiting.
I can’t concentrate on the words before me. They remain a jumbled mass of black lines and circles to my distracted mind. The back of my right knee itches, so I reach down to scratch gently at it. The simple touch reminds me, and with a whimper I flick a glance over again.
Do you no longer want me? I’m waiting.
It buzzes. Finally, I think! Hastily I pick up the slender phone. I just got a cordless. I know you might want me to move. In my haste, the book slips from my lap and falls the few feet to the ground. No doubt later, when I pick it up, I’ll find the pages have been mangled, bent. Now, however, that does not matter. All that matters is you.
“Hello?” I whisper into the earpiece, perhaps a little breathlessly. Your voice is low, and cool. casino oyna Cool enough. It sends an anticipatory shiver down my spine. “Are you ready?” you ask. Of course I am. I’ve been waiting; it seemed like forever. I only give a low moan in response, pressing my knees tighter to try and control myself. I know you’ll be unhappy if I move too quickly.
I could almost see the smile that grows as I moan. I can feel it. It’s as pleasurable as the warmth rising into the core of me from the sun-kissed pink blanket. You love me in pink, don’t you? You no longer need to ask me what I wear, you know by now. I always wear this, for you. We’ve done this so many times, so many glorious, incredible times. I know what to do.
“Your legs,” you murmur. “So soft, heaven to touch.” I slowly bring my hand along their length, feather light touches with my (your) fingertips. I (you) bite my (your) nails, and it only adds to the faintly painful pleasure as I (you) bring them over my outer thigh. My head tilts slowly back, careful not to displace you from my ear. Your voice is the faintest whisper; I can feel the warm caress of your breath across my flesh.
“Your tits,” you lead. “So firm, so perfect for my hand.” My (your) hand slides up my side, lightly tugging on the tucked-in white button-up shirt. A corner free, I (you) move my (your) hand beneath and up my stomach. Finally, after what seems forever, I (you) close my (your) hand around my left breast, giving a gentle squeeze before slipping a finger underneath the black strip of silk that holds them. I (you, I can feel the difference in our hands) teasingly run that rough fingernail canlı casino over my nipple, bringing it to a hard stub. I give a little whimper again, such sweet torment you give to me.
My breathing comes a little heavier, now. “Touch me,” I plead. You give a soft laugh as I (you) continue to torture my nipples, first one, then the other. “All in good time, my pet,” is all you will say. “I want to smell you, first.” A tiny, sane part of my mind wonders how you can smell me, but in my haze I don’t reflect on this oddity as I hear you take a deep breath in. “You smell so good, Angel.” I moan. I can smell me now, it excites me more.
I can feel me. I want you, so badly. I want you to touch me; I want to touch myself. But I dare not. You urge me on, urge me to slide my (your) hand lower once more, under the band of my skirt. I (you) make little patterns with your fingers over my belly, playing with me. You know how excited I am. You know the sensitivity of my skin.
Finally, you allow me to dip my (your) hand lower. You know now by my little sounds I am nearly crying from frustration and anticipation. “Feel my calloused hand move over your hip. It moves down your outer thigh toward the knee, then slowly crosses to your inner and moves up,” you whisper. I am pleased, inwardly. Your breathing is a little more ragged, more rapid. My (your) hand moves in circles just below the junction, not yet willing to release me and touch the center of my being.
“Oh, please, touch me!” I can hardly bear this! Finally, you concede, and I (you) move my (your) hand up. “Oh, so wet,” you say, satisfied. “So hot, and tight.” My (your hand, kaçak casino not mine!) finger presses a moment against my clit, then begins a gentle rub. “Ohhh,” I say. My (your, oh it’s you) thumb moves to push that button, as two of my (your!) fingers slide across flesh before dipping into my cunt. You begin to work in a rhythm, teasing my clit as you finger-fuck me. Oh, I cannot stand this! With each thrust of your fingers, with each touch of your thumb, I whimper and squirm. Oh, fuck me!
Your hand moves faster, in and out of my pussy, over my clit. Such sweet hell I’ve never known. You bring me almost to the edge, then stop for a moment. You know how I hate it! I press my hips forward, into your hand. I want more. I want it now. So needy I am, now, I fuck your fingers with abandon, almost screaming as I again get close to my climax. Your own panting, your own moans, they spur me on. I’m flattered; you no longer can speak. I can see you as you pump your fist up and down over the thick, engorged dick of yours.
Ever faster and harder we go. I scream. I’m coming! Ohhhhh I cry, squeezing my cunt muscles tight around your fingers as the juices flow over them, onto that so-comforting pink blanket. I hold my position, your thumb continuing to move against my spot furiously. I come again!
Finally, after your own grunting cry, you cease this endless but oh so heavenly torture. Your hand moves from between my legs, spread as they are over the now-large wet spot on my blanket. I pant for several moments, coming back to earth, and you do the same. You whisper sweet things in my ear; I wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Finally, you regain composure, and quietly (and gently, oh gods please gently) say as you’ve said before. “I’ll call you next week.”
“I love you,” I murmur in return, but you’re already gone.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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