White Gloves

You only touched me once. It happened after I had lowered my gaze in an attempt to please you: you slid a white-gloved hand under my chin and lifted it, forcing me to look into your big, brown eyes. I shivered then, and not just because the floor felt cold against my knees and shins; there was a depth and a playful cruelty to the way you studied me, as well as something I couldn’t quite read, dancing around the edges of the connection between us.

I was naked. You had made me strip for you, then just left me there, kneeling by your desk while you sipped wine and finished replying to your editor’s email. He was another man in search of the pay-off you weren’t going to give him: every night your leading lady entered the bedroom of her husband’s noble guest, to torment him with the sight of her beautiful body; and every night you had him send her back whence she came with nothing more than a single kiss to dampen the fire in her loins. You believe in the erotic power of delayed gratification, in writing and in life, which is why you ignored me for so long.

Finally, you stood up, tall and lithe in the black dress that clung to your body all the way down. You opened a drawer in your desk and pulled out your soft white gloves. You brought them close enough to my face that I could smell the perfume dabbed discreetly onto each wrist, then you tugged them onto your fingers, one after the other, with an unhurried grace. I looked at the ground, and that’s when you brought my face up to yours: you wanted me to see all of it, I think.

I watched as you leaned back against the desk and lifted the skirt of your dress. Even after just a short time together, we no longer needed words to communicate our desires to one another. I shuffled forward, till I was between your legs. I put my hands on the backs of your thighs and slowly moved them up, the strong muscles in your runner’s body flexing impatiently. When I kissed your clit, you ground onto my tongue; when I pulled away, even just for a second, you twisted my hair around your fingers and yanked at it savagely, unwilling to allow my mouth any distance from your cunt.

You came with my lips clamped against you, once, twice, before the biggest shudder of all arrived and you pushed the back of my head hard into your wetness. By the time I emerged, swimming with lust, you had regained your composure. With one gloved hand you gestured to me, a vague command that I knew meant public degradation of some kind. I half-stumbled to my feet, but you frowned and motioned me back down.

“Just touch yourself for now. I want to see you come.”

I licked my hand and twisted it up and over the head of my cock. Your dress was still hiked up around your waist, and I couldn’t stop staring at your plump, flushed cunt as I repeated that basic action: spit, grip, and jerk with short, white-knuckled strokes, each less controlled than the one before it. You bit down on your index finger in pleasure when you saw me come; I blushed at how eager I was, but secretly I already loved how slutty you could make me without even taking off your clothes. My cum puddled over my wrist and the floor beneath me; I extended one arm towards you, and traced my tongue up the inside, till I could taste myself on the soft, blue-veined skin at the base of my palm.

I looked up at you expectantly.

“Good boy”, you said, and sashayed past me to sit on the tiny sofa beneath the window. I turned in time to see you lift the dress over your head. I ached right then, desperate for you to offer me your hand and pull me inside you. Instead you raised one arm, till it formed a mirror image of mine. I understood immediately: while you wore the white gloves, I would not be allowed to touch you in that way. The realization that I was there merely to please you made me incredibly happy. It was my privilege to submit to your will; to entrust my body and mind to you.