Waking You

I fantasize about ending my day by shoving you down onto my bed, tying your arms and legs, spread wide, bound tight. The cool slickness of the rope, the dueling concentration and mindlessness required of knots I tie with uncharacteristic grace. I shut my eyes and pace through the arrangement, the adjustments, the preparation of everything just so. The the ritual of it all organizes my thoughts and quiets my head back to peaceful working order.

I think of you stretched and bound, and I imagine kissing you into comfort, into submission, into the malleable shape of a man worth my hands and my direction, into the man who has given me his heart and mind, into the man who must now focus on giving me his body.

I dream of ending my day by indulging myself in touching your skin, skimming my fingertips over your collarbone, brushing my lips against your neck in the place where the blood is closest to the surface, where I can feel your heart impatient as it waits for the rest of you to fall in line, to give over, to give in.

I imagine curling my body into yours, resting my cheek against your chest, feeling the rise and fall–slower and slower and slower–until you succumb to sleep underneath me. It's not what you want, but it's what you get. I drift off too, knowing this is what you need.

I think of waking next to you hours later, you still deeply asleep, breathing steady, and oddly comfortable this way, stretched and bound and peaceful. This is what you need.

I am awake but very still. My heart races as I consider waking you. I want to wake you, but should I wake you? Or should I let you rest? My thoughts bounce as I imagine the ways I might rouse you from your dreams.

I could wake you sweet and slow with darling kisses. I could wake you sharp and fast with my palm to your jaw. I could wake you hard and angry by twisting your cock. You are mine, after all.

As I lay still, resting my head on your chest, considering my options for you, I grow shamelessly wet. I want to wake you. I want you.

I try to control my breathing–I don't want to wake you this way, with my panting. Despite my focus, I realize I am tensing and releasing the muscles in my thighs, squeezing your thigh between my own. I gently grind against you and feel my pulse hammer in my cunt, harder and faster. I try to shut my eyes against the urges but I'm far too lost in possibility, in fantasy, wet and swollen and throbbing, too far gone for self-control.

Fuck planning, fuck waking you up, fuck fantasy. I need to come. I need for you to make me come.

In one swift movement, I pull myself up and hold your head between my hands. You moan softly and pull against the restraints as I plant my knees on either side of your head. I lean down, not far enough to kiss you, but enough to slide my hands behind your head and pull your face up into my cunt, needy and wet and wanting. Your eyes open quickly and I let my weight fall onto your face, cutting off your breath.

For a moment, your eyes go wild, your lungs without air. I love your eyes when they are wild, and I smile down into your sweet stunned face and feel your body jerk under mine. At that moment, I'm very thankful that your arms are bound.

You finally calm and meet my gaze, and even with the sudden awakening, even without air, I swear I see the corners of your eyes tense. If I could see all of your face, I'm quite sure I'd see your egotistical, beautiful smile… the smile I love and hate.

Instead of rough gasping, the grappling for air that I anticipate, you seem calm and focused. As I allow you to take breath, I feel your lips part, opening to me, pulling at me. As I relax into the rhythm of your mouth, enjoying the heat of your tongue, I wonder which of us is more in control of the other.

The thought passes quickly.

It doesn't matter. This is what you need. This is what I need.
Republished with permission from Dumb Domme. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo via Romantic Pornography.