Gallery

“Do you want to fool around later?” he asked you when he got home, casually, as he pulled off his tie. You grinned at him a little and raised your eyebrows, playing saucy. He gave you a steady look and let it wait.

“Do you want to be touched now?” he said that evening, and something in his tone and the shift in language made things contract deep in your belly. He stood behind you and began to unbutton your dress, and you felt yourself go still, his hands tracing the curve of your spine as he carefully parted the sides and let it fall.

“Do you want to be touched?” he murmured, holding his hands so close to the skin of your bare flanks that it prickled. As you drew breath to answer, he grabbed you by the hair and lifted you, throwing you over the counter to yank your panties down your thighs. He got you crouched up on top of it, making you present yourself from behind, and started to grind against your pussy with clear and firm intent.

“Do you want to touch?” he chuckled after he’d worked you up to the point of stuttering gasps, your hands clenching helplessly where he held them at the small of your back. You were already desperate, but he’d barely even begun. He smacked you and made you yelp, he pushed two and then three fingers inside to fill you, he got you slick with your own sopping wetness and rubbed your aching clit in little circles until you were dizzy.

“Do you want?” You’re on the floor now, somehow, your ass squeaking as he makes you fuck his hand, sliding on the hardwood where you’ve dripped all over it. He presses against your breast while you struggle to keep your legs apart where he wants them. All you can do is try to fuck his strong, controlling hand, your whole being reduced to a very specific motion of your hips, the movement a girl-cunt makes when it wants, when it is want–no, when it’s a hungry little wet hole of need.

“Do you ever want me to stop?” he whispers in your ear, holding you close, but as with all his questions, he already knows the answer.