I’m standing in the middle of the living room, panting and sweaty after a damp, windswept run. My knee aches, my face is flushed, and I’m conscious of how little time I have for a restorative shower before I need to leave the flat. I don’t feel sexy in any way.
Until she looks up from her phone.
Gets off the sofa.
Walks over and gives me a kiss.
Sometimes that’s all it takes.
10 seconds later, she’s on her knees in front of me, fumbling at the waistband of my shorts. I pull the drawstring open and she reaches inside for my cock, a broad, happy grin on her face.
I suppress a shiver as she touches me. Not because her hand is cold – because I am. The run has chilled my extremities, and my cock feels small and numb under her fingers. It doesn’t take them long to coax life back into it. She is warmth and love and desire; by the time she slides her lips over the head, I’ve forgotten all about that shower.
But it’s not easy to cede control with the blood pumping round my body like this – and she looks just a little too pleased with herself, especially when my cock twitches in her mouth and I let out an involuntary groan. She’s never been subtle about these things – it’s a trait I find both wildly attractive and periodically useful.
I curl a hand round the back of her head and tug at the hair pinned between my fingers. She looks up at me, her mouth moving off my cock with an audible pop. It’s slick and semi-erect, the head shiny with her spit; as she watches impatiently, I slowly add some of my own.
Sometimes I need to do it this way. If I’m jumpy and tense, or merely restless with unspent energy, there’s an unquantifiable value to the firm, staccato rhythm of fist on cock; it’s a world away from the slippery, supple pleasure of her mouth, and can never cut me in half in quite the same way, but I find a weird comfort in its earthy simplicity. It’s a connection to something deep inside myself.
We never frame it in D/S terms – I couldn’t tell you why. Standing there with one hand pumping the length of my dick and the other ensuring that she remains motionless in front of me, there’s no question that she is submissive and I am dominant. It’s organic and unspoken, but in that moment I have complete control of what happens next, and even the dim awareness of that fact is an instant turn-on. She hovers in a sweet spot: pliant and yielding, but still unmistakably present. I can feel her eyes on me as I stroke and squeeze, and we’re close enough for her breath to drift across my skin.
Close enough too that I don’t need to add saliva each time my palm dries out. Instead I just dip my cock back into her grateful mouth, holding it there long enough to elicit a gasp of protest – a wriggle, a squirm – when I pull away again. When I stay just out of reach. When I let her chase it for a bit. Where’s the fun in teasing if you don’t, y’know, tease?
My body is less willing to play a waiting game. In this, I am a victim of my own effectiveness; and of her unwavering gaze, pitched somewhere between expectation and barely-concealed glee. She loves watching and I really love being watched. It’s a dangerous combination. I can feel myself getting closer, and I briefly consider fucking her mouth till I come – but that’s not what we’re doing here.
Luckily there are other options available. She’s fully clothed, but her work dress is cut low around her tits, framing a deep cleavage and the generous expanse of soft, pale skin either side of it. My thighs are so tense that I know I’m only seconds away, and I tighten my grip on her hair, while aiming my dick directly at her chest.
My aim isn’t perfect, but the mess just makes it hotter. By the time the muscles in my legs and stomach unclench, there’s jizz all over her tits and the front of her dress. It’s on my fingers and the floor beneath us, though my view of the latter disappears when she closes the gap between our bodies in order to swipe a fat drop off the tip of my cock with her tongue.
I step back and watch her stand, smiling at the way she smooths down her dress. I’m shaky and weak, but I don’t care about either of those things.
We don’t talk much as we get ready – it’s one of those times when companionable silence says more than a thousand words could. I shower and change, and by the time we leave the flat I’m almost presentable again.
To my utter delight, she’s still wearing the dress.