Desire

At what point does desire become compulsion and compulsion become necessity?

​

Flickering candles cast dancing shadows, and the scent of lavender fills the air. I stand nude in the middle of the room, my hair tied up, awaiting your command. You walk around me, not speaking, not touching. My eyes are cast down, not daring to meet yours, and my cheeks are flushed with aroused excitement. The dark wool of your pants fills my vision as you halt before me. I feel your gaze on me, my breasts, my thighs, and I long to see your face, your expression. But I know better.

​

You move to the side and pick up the glass of whiskey you had set there earlier. Then you cross to a large, winged chair in the corner and sit down. I peek beneath my lashes, tracing your movements, as you take a sip from the glass. I stand still, but the chill in the air brings my nipples to hard points, and the anticipation, the expectation, of what might happen next has wetness trickling down my thighs. Are you watching me? Surely you are. Do you like what you see? What are you thinking?

​

The tinkle of ice echoes in the still room as you take another drink. Then you speak. "Turn around." The stern tone of your voice enthralls me, and I obey quickly, turning slowly so that you can see my body from every side, every angle. "Raise your hands above your head." Another command. And eagerly I comply. Are my breasts pleasing to you? My waist? My hips?

Silence. Long moments pass. My desire builds slowly but surely. You do know all the right buttons to push, don't you, Sir? You know what this delay, this hesitation, does to me. Finally, you move. You set down your drink and stand, making your way toward where I await in a pretense of patience. You step behind me and a blackness engulfs me as you place a silken scarf over my eyes. The scent of your cologne fills my nostrils—spicy and all male.

​

I feel your body—its heat reaches for me across the inches that divide us. Your breath shivers across my neck and dances like tiny ghost fingers over my skin. The loud tick of the clock echoes the thudding beat of my heart. Anticipation. Expectation. They rise in me like a drug coursing through my veins.

​

My nipples tighten even further, reaching for a touch—a lick. Where are you? Touch me, I want to scream. Taste me, I want to beg. Instead I stand still and silent, wanting to please you.

There...there...I feel the softest stroke of a roughened fingertip in a lingering trail down my back, over the curve of my waist, probing gently the crevice between the cheeks of my ass. Baby Fine hairs lift in a chill trembling. It stops. I breathe in deeply. Release it slowly, wondering what you will do next. Then your hands grasp my shoulders. You guide me forward, step by step, until I feel the end of the bed bump against my knees. Your hands slide down my arms to my wrists, encircle them like soft manacles, and then you lift them, higher and higher, stretching them above my head. I feel the rough touch of rope as you bind my wrists tightly, the cold chill of the bedpost as my body rests against it.

​

A moment for me to adjust to this new position, and then I feel another touch—this time your tongue. It traces a wet path and I gasp, squeeze my thighs together, an exquisite pressure. I lean back, seeking your body. I moan. "Shh." Your whisper chastens me to stillness, to quiet.

​

Hands push my thighs apart as fingers, knowing and sure, gather the moisture that has trickled slowly down my leg. A probing finger enters my passage, dipping into the languid heat, and my head falls limply back. I lick my lips, bite them, to hold back the sounds of pleasure that ache to spew from my mouth as your finger pushes in and pulls back, over and over. Then another hand reaches around. It seeks and finds the tiny bud of sensitive nerve-endings at the center of my pleasure.

​

A moan escapes; I can't help it. You stop. Oh, please don't stop, I plead silently. I want this, want you. Want what you do to me. What you make me feel. The heat of your body lessens as you move back and to the side. What are you doing? What are you thinking?

​

And then you strike, your palm hot and hard against my buttock. I cry out. You pet the spot, rub across it, soothing. Your voice whispers in my ear. "That's a good girl." Then another strike on the opposite cheek. And another and another and another. My cries and moans fill the room as you continue until my ass is red and heated. But always, always, you pause to stroke the marks with tenderness to ease the pain and to murmur words of encouragement. To stroke between my thighs so that the pleasure and pain meld into one entity.

​

You finally stop. I'm moaning and almost mindless in my arousal. A soft kiss, a delicate brush against the fiery skin. A lick. Another. You cover the painful marks with sweet tenderness. I ache. My body arches against the post, presses to ease the need.

​

You stand. I feel you behind me, hear the hiss as your zipper slides down, then the hard probing pressure of your cock as it enters me. It glides smoothly in, aided by the slick wetness of my own juices.

​

Your hand steadies me, rocks me, a finger rubs my clit with each stroke. Faster and faster you push me. I pant. I moan. Harder and harder you stroke. Unable to see, all my senses are focused on this one thing. This one goal. No longer myself, I have become animalistic in my craving for release. I moan. I beg. It hovers around me in the air like a great, thick cloud. I need this release. Need it so badly I can't think. "Don't cum until I say," another command.

​

And I try. I try to hold back the pleasure that struggles to take control. I barely hold on. Barely. So close. I am so close. I ache with the need. Would do anything to attain it. Then...finally you shout in my ear as you explode inside me, "Cum now." And I follow you down, down into ecstasy.

​

​