I’m waiting for you to get back here – you said you wouldn’t be long. On the wall in front of me a clock ticks silently round, counting each second that you’re out of the room. You’re only metres away from me, but it might as well be miles; without your hands on my body – your low, soothing voice – I can’t shoo the butterflies out of my stomach, or pluck each thorny prick of anticipation from my skin.
I’m waiting because you told me to wait. No further instruction was necessary. We are simple and straightforward in this respect, if in few others. I will wait until you come for me, lithe and loose-limbed, hips swaying to music that plays only in your head. A chin-out fighter in a dancer’s body – and sometimes the other way round.
“Stay hard for me,” you said, and left the room without turning back to see my response. I could touch myself, but I know how much it would disappoint you to return and find my cock shiny and slick with saliva before you’ve had a chance to coat it in yours. It’s also not really what you were asking me to do. This is a test. Not of loyalty, nor of submission – those are conscious choices – but of desire.
Desire is a restless, fidgety creature, often at its most elusive when you actively seek it out. When the door closed, I gazed longingly at the toy box under your desk. You could have filled my arse with a dildo, or squeezed a cock ring all the way down to the base of the shaft and around my balls. Instead you left me with fading markers of your recent presence and trusted that they would be enough. Your perfume, and the fresh, clean scent of your hair. The glistening wetness you left on my thigh when you straddled me and ground your cunt against my skin. The stinging heat of your kisses.
The more I feel, the less I think, and the less I think, the easier it is to cling on to the erection I know I dare not lose. Meditation has seldom felt so brutal – so intentionally, casually cruel. You have lit fuses all over my body, and the gunpowder burns closer and closer to my brain with every thudding heartbeat, threatening to blow its crumbling palace of calm to ashes and dust.
I grip the bedframe behind me. Its solidity is reassuring, though even as I brace against it I know that the only anchor truly holding me in place is you. Without the promise – and veiled threat – of your return I’d drift out into deep, clear waters and drown in my own swelling lust.
My cock twitches at the sound of your footsteps, measured and precise somewhere in the corridor outside the room. For just a few greedy seconds, I allow myself to think about your cunt, warm and buttery as you slide it down my length, but that brings with it other dangers; like a climber on a narrow ridge, I am vulnerable to strong winds from both sides – to hang on to my erection and my orgasm, I must retain a perfect balance.
It isn’t easy – it isn’t meant to be. I settle down into the mattress one more time and glance up at the door. You said you wouldn’t be long.
I’m waiting for you to come back and claim me.
I’m waiting for you to get back here – I told you not to be long. On the wall in front of me a clock ticks silently round, counting each second that you’re out of the room. You’re only metres away from me, but it might as well be miles; my hands ache for your soft, eager body, and for the way it struggles against mine when I pin you to the bed or crush you hard against my chest.
I’m waiting because I know what you’re doing down the hallway, behind a door that I can picture but not see. You found it despite the blindfold – a barrier only to elegance – and its heavy latch was the last I heard of you, as it clicked shut and delivered your lithe, loose-limbed body to him.
“Get his cock hard for me,” I said when you left the room, and you nodded once in silent response. “Get his cock hard and make him come. That is what I want you to do.” I didn’t need to see your eyes to know how wet this instruction made you. Almost as wet as you’ll be with the solid heft of his dick in your hand; when he pushes it eagerly over your tongue and into your throat. This is not a test of loyalty or submission – this is the controlled release of fierce, hungry desire.
I gaze briefly at the toy box under my desk. You are never steady or composed after you’ve had a cock in your mouth, and I think about taking advantage of that. On your knees, it would be easy to rope both hands behind your back, the blindfold still in place, and flog your tits until you shimmer down into a puddle of curled-up lust. That would be the perfect time to fuck you: first with your favourite dildo, its wide head pushing into your cunt as you roll onto your knees for me – muscle memory overcoming disorientation. When the silicone shaft is slick with your juices, I could toss it aside and fill you with my cock instead, each thrust driving you into the carpet as your hands brace against it.
It can wait though, this box of treasures. Wait for you to finish kneeling on another man’s carpet, his fingers in your hair and his eyes on your flushed, naked body. What can he see right now? Your soft lips brushing over the tip of his cock? A long string of saliva as he pulls it out of your throat and leaves you gasping for breath, red lipstick smeared across your flushed, sweat-damp face? Does he know that you are mine, love?
I can still smell your perfume, and feel the glistening wetness you left on my thigh when you straddled me and ground your cunt against my skin. You begged me to make you come, just once, just to settle the butterflies in your stomach, but I moved you off my lap, onto the floor, and pulled up the stocking that fell down when you tried to squirm from my grasp.
I grip the bedframe behind me. I am an anchor, pulling you back towards me on an invisible chain. My cock twitches at the sound of your footsteps, clumsy and uneven somewhere in the corridor outside the room. For a few greedy seconds I allow myself to think of your warm, buttery cunt; of your tits, creamy white and deep red, covered in his jizz.
I settle down into the mattress one more time and glance up at the door. I told you not to be long.
I’m waiting for you to come back, so I can reclaim you.