This time of the year (2): Strip for me

Previous part here.

Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later.

The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look down, both a little awkward, then at each other, then away again.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial flare of lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging. 

''Turn round and face the wall. Place your hands flat on the wall at shoulder height,'' I repeat, elaborating.

''Yes, Ma'am,'' you reply, your voice suddenly slower, thicker, almost slurred in a way that the couple of drinks we've shared doesn't get close to justifying.

My hand moves to the lift's control panel, finger presses the ''stop'' button, the lift halts between the floors. I step closer to you, stand directly behind, slide my hands under your shirt, feel your skin all the way up to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait. 

For now, I merely dig my nails in and drag them down, two paralel tracks shivering down your back. I can feel you tense up, brace yourself, stifle a groan, then relax, my flat palms steady on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the pink marks before they fade, taste them. 

My mouth is dry, air thick and sharp in my throat. I'm not sure if I remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this, now, all of it, so much that I don't even know where to start.

I unblock the lift. You remain in position until we get to our floor, only moving when I indicate it's OK for you to do so. The logistic realities intervene in the meantime by means of keys and doors and room layouts until I'm sitting down, in the chair, my legs stretched out and crossed at my ankles, and you are standing in front of me, a few feet distant.

''Strip for me.''

You look at me, ours eyes meet and I smile a little, just one side of my mouth, your eyes dark and steady.

Your jacket drops on the chair to your left, your hands move to undo the buttons of your shirt, slowly but without hesitation, neither coy nor embarrassed.

I move my eyes down, to your fingers. You are taking your time, leaving your buttons undone one by one, a lighter strip of skin in the opening of the shirt, a glimpse of a smooth chest and a shadow of a fine trail of hair leading down. You lean down briefly, your eyes still on me, take off your shoes and socks, move them to the side, straighten up. 

Your gaze still on me, I can feel it somewhere around my forehead, top of my head, looking at me looking at you.

This is not a show, there is no teasing in the way you slide the shirt off your shoulders, fold it and place it on the coffee table, your movements slow, deliberate and precise in what feels more like a ritual than a seductive, gradual exposure. You undo your belt, pull out and roll it. 

A hand extends to the coffee table, the belt gets placed on top of the shirt, but you are still facing me, watching me watching you. It's hypnotic, and I am not sure who the subject and who the hypnotist is here.

Your fingers undo the button of your jeans and pull down the zip, your hands move smoothly to your hip bones and pull the trousers down, to your knees and lower, until you can step out of them, pick them up and roll loosely before placing on the coffee table next to the shirt and belt. You are standing straight now, your hands loose at your sides. 

I can see the lines left by the summer shorts, half way across your thighs and above the waistband of your boxers, your skin paler between the areas that retain the heat of the southern sun even at this time of the year. I can see the outline of your cock pressing against the checked red fabric, and I let another skewed smile creep on my face.

You have stopped moving. I give you few seconds, tempted to say something about the lengths a woman would go to if she's denied an online dick picture, quickly stifle an emerging giggle, let the invisible wire connecting us stay taut, the air thicken with anticipation.

"I said 'strip'."

I can hear a louder inhale, a slight hiss of air going in through your nose, then "Yes, Ma'am."

Your hands moving again, fingers hooking behind the waistband, pulling the boxers down, your feet lifting, stepping out of them, until you are standing in front of me completely naked, cock hard, grown fully erect between my repeated command and your compliance, your chest and midsection rising and falling in deep breaths that feel like you are trying to purposefully calm yourself down.

All the anxiety, all the nervousness, all the awkward that fluttered around me before are gone. And not because I don't feel awkward or nervous. Not because I grew in confidence or relaxed into a role, into the role even. Nothing about me, nothing about the essential situation has changed, yet everything has changed. What's gone is not the nervousness but a possibility of it. There is no room for nervous awkwardness in a true now. And now the now is all that is.

Now, I keep looking, first at your cock. My looking is silent and focused, grown from desire but, as for now, has pushed desire into the background. 

Now, my looking is as shameless as your display; now, your obedience is as bold as my demand. 

I shift my gaze to your face, for the first time since I told you to strip, direct, into your eyes, a smile of mine again, your lips ajar, dry even at the distance. 

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."


--- continued here.

Still: a lust letter

This is a VERY old one, slightly edited only, as it remains surprisingly on point. 

And now for tonight.

At your 7pm, which will be midnight here, or later -- but not before that time -- find yourself alone, and naked.

Have a shower. Wash thoroughly, everywhere.

Shave. The more, the better, you know that. All that excessive body hair is rather silly.

Particularly on the interesting bits, gets in the way. There is a reason why sex toys don't come with furry bits, and it's not just manufacturing difficulty.

So off it comes: your ass, your belly, your balls, the shaft of my cock, the thighs too. Yes, I did say the thighs.

What would people say? I don't care, darling. They probably don't give a monkey's, and if they do, well, you'll just have to face the music or refrain from wearing shorts for a wee while. 

So, get on with it. Razors, soap and a steady hand. I find that male razors work better, but if a pretty ladies' one called Venus or something silly like that puts you in a mood, go for it. The round, slightly bulbous handle end on that one comes handy if I want something small but noticeable in my ass when playing with myself after shaving, which always gets me rather wet. You may try that if the idea appeals. 

OK, enough.

Now feel your skin, touch and stroke yourself. Glide the soapy hands slowly down your sides, to your hips, then curve back towards the midline of your ass, then down. Close your eyes and just feel every inch of your body.

So clean, so slick. Perfect.

Think of it as a playground, a blank space to be filled with pleasure and pain, longing and desire.

Your whole skin, not just the few inches that cover the fairly insignificant body part that men seem so attached too.

That's mine now anyway, so don't focus on it. It's not important for you.

That's why I shave -- despite my feminist principles -- because nothing compares to the feeling of smooth silk satin against the bare skin of

my freshly shaven labia -- the skin so thin there, the blood pulsing so close to the surface. The droplets of water dripping down as I step out of the bath. The sensation of lips or fingers or a tongue there, feels like being touched under the skin rather than on the surface. But I'm digressing.

Dry yourself nicely. A big, fluffy, soft towel. All the folds and crevices.

You'll need some body lotion. Make sure you use it on all areas you can reach. Sadly my favourite scents don't come in lotion format, so I'll leave the choice to you, within reason. Nothing too floral or blossomy and by no means fruity. Smoke, musk, a touch of rose, some animalic notes, that kind of thing.

Pay particular attention to your hands, shoulders, ass, groin, pubis, balls. I want you smooth and altogether lovely.

I want to be able to imagine running my fingertips along your spine, all the way from the nape of your neck to the small of your back and lower, sliding between in the crack and down towards your asshole and the softer, sensitive area between that and my cock, pressing a little.

I want to be able to imagine you kneeling, bent over, your smooth back and ass exposed and vulnerable. Raising my hand, a loud smack and a pink mark on your skin. And another one, and a few more, your skin getting redder. 

Just because I can. And because it turns me on.

But I'm digressing again, wandering away to a different scenario.

Take a butt plug. I am sure you have one. Not a particularly big one, just so your slutty ass is filled and as a reminder of who owns it now. Lube it up. You can use your saliva, suck it and lick it a bit for me so it glides in easily. If it's not enough, apply some lube and in it goes.

Have a blindfold ready. Black silk scarf ideally, if you have one; but as it's all imaginary, anything will do, or even just a fantasy of one.

Now lie on the bed, on your back, legs spread out, knees slightly raised; hands away from your body. A warm room would help, but I am sure rooms in the US are pretty warm.

Put the blindfold on.

Lie still for a while. Become aware of your body, your skin, your muscles, the breath and the heartbeat.

**

The door opens.

Somebody comes into the room. Footsteps on the wood, then movement of air nearer you.

You can sesne me leaning over you, the slight shadow falling over the bed despite the blindfold, the warmth of a human body, the scent of my skin, some sweat, some sex, some perfume. Jasmine, rose, smoke, brine. 

I touch you.

My hands on your legs, moving slowly up to your groin. Thumbs in the groves, fingers spread out on the hips.

Do you want to move? Raise or sideways shift your hips towards my touch?

Don't. 
Stay still. 
Don't fucking move.

My hands moving up your sides. Tracing the curve of the soft flesh between the hipbone and the ribs.

Then along the bottom rib, towards the sternum and up again, towards the

nipples.

I tweak the nipples, you can feel my breath close to you, damp on your skin. 

My mouth on your nipples. A bite on each, then gone.

No touch for a few seconds. Wait. Stay still.

Are you hard yet?

Suddenly, the flat of my tongue on my cock, just licking up, from the base to the tip.

My lips around the cockhead. Nuzzling. The tongue running in the groove between the crown and the shaft, then the tip teasing the hole on top.

My hands on the shaft, guiding it, running the head around my lips, my tongue flicking out, licking up, now my teeth grazing the bottom side. Sucking the head in, my tongue in circles around it inside my mouth.

Then I'm gone.

You can hear a couple of steps towards the bedhead. I lean down.

A touch on your lips. Fingers, running along, opening them, running underneath between the inner lip surface and the teeth. Stopping in the corners, then moving again.

Taste them; stickily, salty, earthy. You know that I must have touched myself only seconds ago. 

You may lick my hand. Suck the fingers. Lick between them. Lick the inside of my palm. Lick every square inch of my hand. Kiss the inner surface of my wrist. Taste me. 

Don't move otherwise.

Don't touch me and don't touch yourself.

My fingers running down your chest. You can feel my nails, and as they move down, they curve, and I am scratching now, first gently, then harder, digging in, grazing, almost breaking the surface of your skin in some places.

I lean down and lick the marks on your chest while my fingers move to your sides, slide under your butt, dig in, pull it up, then scratch lines across the curves of your buttocks. Is it painful enough to make you groan?

Be quiet, slut. It isn't that bad.

Are you hard now?

Let me check.

My hand on my cock again, grasping, grabbing at the base. Stroking, fast, rough strokes. Close to painful, pulling hard. Harder.

Now I stop.

Imagine me climbing on top of you, my weight across your pelvis, my drenched cunt sliding onto my cock. 

Clenching but not moving though, just there.

I lean forward a little, my fingers tweak your nipples, pull harder, pinch.

Then I straighten up.

All you can feel is the weight on your hips, my cunt opening up, enveloping you; and my inner muscles contracting.

Stay still. If you want to thrust, control that desire.

Concentrate on feeling the heat and the slick wetness of my cunt.

Squeezing your hardness. Little contractions, fast, then slower, holding your cock for longer.

Now contracting harder, the whole sheath squeezing my cock inside, then releasing.

You can hear me breathe faster, shallower; moaning a little. Rocking my hips, rotating them, swirling even, riding you.

You can feel my hand move towards my clit, as I work myself towards the

orgasm, I touch the base of my cock with every stroke.

You can feel the sticky wetness running down, you realise how aroused I am because I'm so incredibly wet; my cunt is throbbing, my moaning louder and you realise I am hardly aware anymore that you are there. 

When I come, you disappear.

Hold this image in your mind, concentrate on it.

Feel me there.

Now, play the audio.

Hear me come.

**

When the file finishes, you may touch yourself.

Bring yourself as close as you can without an orgasm, then stop.

Now, tell me how it went.

Ask nicely, and I may say ''yes''.

---end