You got me some type o’ way.
Yes, you. You don’t know who you are, but I do. Not that I really know you, but I know some of what you’re about – and what I know, I like. I shouldn’t, but I do.
I know exactly what’s going on here, don’t worry. I’m bored. Affection-starved. In need of passion and excitement. I’m not going to do anything stupid, because I’m not stupid, but my mind is wandering. As are my hands. And it’s you I’m thinking about tonight.
You with the girlfriend. I bet she’s pretty. I imagine she has brown hair when you talk about her, although I don’t know why. You’re happy together, you’ve made that clear, but I think you might feel what I feel. I think you look forward to talking to me just as much as I look forward to talking to you. And I think you’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me. You’d never admit to that of course, but I think you have. I hope you have, and I hope it felt great.
I’ve touched myself thinking about you. That’s how I realised I’m crushing on you. Just a bit. Nothing dramatic. Nothing to cause me to partake in extra-curricular activity and ruin my relationship or anything. Just enough to make me bite my lip when no one’s watching, desperately trying to hold back all of the things I want to say to you. In case you’re interested, I want to say that you’re responsible for at least four of my most recent climaxes, and they were really good ones. Really, really good. You’d have been proud. I wouldn’t say that out loud, though. Not to you. Not to anyone.
I’ve thought about how your lips might feel when you kiss me, and what you’d smell like as we get up close. What you’d taste like. Whether your hair will be as soft and as touchable as I think it will be, and if your arms will be as strong as they look. I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t thought about those arms pinning me up against the wall, hands over my head, leaving me with no way to escape. Truth be told, I’m really missing that – being someone’s submissive. I have a need to be dominated. It’s more than a need; at this stage, it’s bordering on an obsession. I’m obsessed with the idea of being completely and utterly dominated … by you. Maybe it’s not even specifically you, but for tonight, it’s you.
I’ve thought about how you’d look at me if I wore my new white, lace body that didn’t do quite the trick on the man I’d initially intended it for. Would you like it? Would it make you want to touch me? How would you touch me? Would your fingers linger as they tip-toed across my nipples, bringing them to life beneath the soft, yet slightly-abrasive material? Would you stroke the fabric all over, admiring the way it stretched across the contours of my body? Or would you make a beeline for those poppers between my legs? I hope not. I want you to take your time with me, admiring me in that white lace for as long as you can. Don’t take it off; work with it. Unravel me, slowly. Make it last. Make me want it to last. I want you to drive me straight to the edge, dangle me over that precipice, forcing me to agree and admit that you have all the power.
That’s what I think about as my fingers explore the lace, following the texture of the pattern: power. Your power. Do you even know that you have it? I think about it a lot – how you’d use it, where you’d take it, which boundaries you’d politely ignore, knowing very well I’d want you to push my limits anyway.
How would you learn about my limits? What games would you play to figure them out? To figure me out? Would you take away my sense of sight with a soft, silk scarf, letting my mind play tricks as it tried to work out what you were going to do to me next? Would you tie me up with that scarf so I didn’t have much of a choice what you did, arms and legs bound and restricted, leaving me completely at your mercy? Or are you more of a rough-rope person than a soft-scarf person? Perhaps bondage isn’t your thing at all? What is your thing? I want to know. Tell me. Tell me all of your fantasies.
Maybe you’ll order me to get on my knees with my back against the wall so that you can push yourself into my mouth? I hope you do. I love that. Don’t you want to see what I can do? How much I can swallow? How good it looks to see my baby-blues looking back at you as you demand I do as I’m told? Or are you going to be more interested in my ass? I can’t help but wonder: what would you do if I let you? If you didn’t have a girlfriend? Where would you go if you had unfettered access? Which part of me would you want to treat yourself to first? Or would you command me to focus on you? Are you even the commanding type?
What if I let my hands slide down in between my thighs, pulling apart those poppers – one, two, three? Would you like that? Would you want to do it yourself? Slowly? Or are you the kind of man that would prefer to shove my panties to the side and fuck me quickly and forcefully? Because I don’t really mind that either. Do you even like white lingerie? Or lace? It’s not my usual preference, I must admit, but that’s why it feels so good to wear – and why I feel so good when I’m wearing it. It’s different. A little uncomfortable. Unusual. A taste of something new. Maybe even naughtier than when I wear anything else, because I know I’m about to do some very un-innocent things wearing that very innocent colour.
I like imagining how our bodies might fit together and react to each other, and pretending that it’s your fingers buried between my legs instead of mine. As I throw myself over the edge thinking of you, I wonder what you’d look and sound like as you found your release. How long would it take? Which position would get you there? And where would you want to let go? In my mouth? Across my ass? Over my face? A fucked-up frenzy of the three combined – and then some? I’d let you let go anywhere – wherever you wanted. I’d pretend I was doing it because you commanded me to, but really, honestly, I’d be doing it because I wanted to.
You’re responsible for six of my most recent climaxes now, by the way. This obsession might be getting a little out of hand.
Break up with your girlfriend, I’m bored.