3 comments/ 22402 views/ 5 favorites Waiting for Him By: fromsirwithlove It was a dry darkness. The air was neither cool nor warm, and only dry in that it was not humid. It was simply the air of the room. But to her, it felt like hands stroking her in the dark. There was no real light to see by, and only the quiet hum of an air conditioner buried somewhere beyond the room. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. The simple room smelled of linen and that offered her no comfort. If she dared open her mouth she might taste the air but she did not. He would know if she did. That left her only the sense of touch, and left in that sensory deprivation her skin racing with activity. The simple current of air making rounds through the room felt like a teasing lover - touching enough to tantalize but not enough to satisfy. She lay on the bed, the bed not her own, in a Y-shape: head at the top, arms at her sides, and legs spread wide. There was no hiding: she was completely, utterly exposed. Open to the seductive touch of every passing shift of air. It would have been easier if she'd be clothed. Even something small: panties or a pair of socks. Some small touch of social dignity that she could cling to as the damnable teasing air stroked her against her will. But as she was, completely exposed, each leg toeing a bedpost, hands clasped under the small of her back, she could do nothing. Every breath of tiny wind sent electric current over her, but she dared not move. He would know if she did. She could not see him, instructed as she was to "Keep your eyes on the ceiling at all times" - it was worse that way, and he knew it. Better to have your eyes shut and not know, than to have them open, know that he was close - so close she could feel him inside her, phantom fingers dancing - to have her eyes open and not be allowed to look. To have to deny herself the pleasure of looking, so he would give her the pleasure of feeling. Still, she could vaguely feel his presence, the way the doe feels the wolf. Vulnerable things are so closely attuned when the predator is near. He was somewhere in the room. At least, she thought he was. She could leave when she wanted, but there again, was the worst part. He demanded supreme obedience without demanding: she knew if she did not obey, he would stop. Lock eyes, hold her gaze while she begged him for another chance, nod, and leave her there. He'd only stopped it once, when she'd let her eyes slide down to watch his lovely fingers explore her. She wouldn't let it happen again. Her hands, locked behind the small of her back, were cramping a little. Never moving her eyes, only blinking, working to keep her breath even, she slowly flexed her fingers to restore the blood flow. And then she stopped. She listened. Was he there? She heard quiet breathing but in the darkness couldn't be sure if it wasn't her own. In fact, she was almost sure it was: he never gave himself away until he was there. She tried to slowly work her hands a bit more, but then she felt it. Not a kiss, not a touch, not lips or hands. Heat. Soft, soft, subtle heat, somewhere along her hips. In the darkness, her peripheral vision was useless, but she knew what it was from long experience. His hand, millimeters from her skin. Far enough not to touch, but close enough for her to feel the heat of his body. He'd never started so close to her pussy before - "Pussy!" she thought, shocked in realization that she now thought in those "bad words" - always it had been her feet first, or an arm, or her face, if she was lucky. To start so close, so early... He's hungry, she thought, and before she could process it, she felt the wetness that confirmed her excitement. Her body responded without her now. She stifled a shudder - did he feel her shake? - and concentrated on her breathing. In and out, like he'd asked of her. In, and out. Not on the hand hovering just above her hip, moving over her, with that delicious quiet heat radiating across her legs, and between - The tiny heat seemed to roll across her, burning across every inch of naked flesh. Her nipples speared upwards, and deep inside she begged him to touch her. But still she kept the breathing. In, out, in out, in - In, in, in, she cried in her mind, as his broad hand made first contact just above her labia, on the flat of her pelvis. He pressed it softly there, but firmly, the flat of his hand almost covering her from hip to hip. In that simple gesture, she felt such a swelling sense of being possessed, of being owned and protected, she almost cried. His hand was hot, and it burned her deliciously. The teasing touches of the air were gone, as the sum of her entire body seemed focus on the place just under his palm. Heat again, and now her skin prickled, as she felt hot breath blush over her left nipple. Damn the darkness! She knew he was close, but even a glance might mean this all would stop. She knew his eyes would be locked on hers, watching for a misstep. She held her calm even as her body pulsed and her nipple rushed with sensation, but as his mouth enshrouded it, she almost skipped a breath. It was warm, so warm against the cool air. His gentle lips held her erect nipple in place with soft suction, and in a moment she felt the electricity begin to burn as his tongue stroked the tip. Back and forth, and around, never the same, but consistent, building the fire in her belly that he stoked with his hand. She kept her breathing regular, but it was heavier now, she couldn't help that. It came from a place deeper than her lungs, somewhere down inside that begged to be touched as well, to share in the fire. His hand moved slowly south, and she felt her body tense in anticipation. Breathe steady breathe steady breathe steady don't stop God don't stop. Her thoughts stopped being words and became needs. His fingers, sliding along her, reached her pussy and made one long, slow stroke. His clever fingers, one-handed, spread her labia apart, exposing her clitoris, his fingers moving easily against the slickness. Her clit was hard already, and he took his time, stroking it with a single finger. His mouth on her nipple never lost pace, slowly sucking, as he danced across her clit with circling touches. She could get lost in that feeling, but there was something more she wanted. She felt his weight add to the bed, and prayed - God how she prayed - that this might be that moment, when she would feel him inside, and let go, let everything go - His face interrupted her solid view of the ceiling. His eyes twinkled in the little light there was, and she could see the shine of his lips and teeth. He was smiling a measuring grin, the kind that said he knew her better than she did herself. "Are you ready?" His voice was a whisper. She opened her mouth to speak and realized she wouldn't be able to without panting. She closed her mouth, and nodded. He bent, his lips dusting her earlobe. "Good," he said. "You've been a very good girl." And then, he entered her. He was hard - so hard, cleaving her open, refusing any denial on her part, though there was none. Knowing he was so aroused took her to another level. She felt her pussy tighten with excitement, getting wetter still. It was the signal. The moment he was inside her, all rules were off. Her cramping hands flew out from behind her back, wrapping around his neck - her legs, before splayed out, presenting herself to him, now wrapped around his hips, and she pulled. She pulled hard at him, to go deeper, deeper, and her voice was freed now, and she screamed over and over again. The muscles of her body tensed with the impact as he pounded above her, driving himself in hard. She felt his hands grab her hips, owning her as he slammed back and forth, and she moaned again, arching as the sensations wracked her. The tension built under his solid strokes, in and out, in and out, just like her breathing. The build was steady, electricity fanning out from him to her and throughout her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on, moaning as his pace built. His voice turned from breathy exertion to something deeper, a growl that started in his chest and ended in her clitoris. The fire was hot now, and she was close, moaning and tensing and tightening around him, around his cock that would not submit to her squeezing pussy - His voice was a deep whisper, still echoing his growling breath. "I'm...going...to...come..." "Oh God, come, come with me!" she screamed. He gripped her hips, gave two powerful strokes, and she felt him swell inside her. "Oh God!" she screamed, and she climaxed, feeling the world spin into a white haze as he pounded furiously, screaming, growling, clasping her to him in the throes of his passion. * * * She felt his strong arms encircle her, holding her tight, the signal that it was okay to release, to come down, to give in and be safe. As her mind still circled the ceiling from her climax, the same thought as in the times before came to her. In things like this, she thought, who is the dominant? Who is the submissive, and who is being served? He kissed her neck, and as the warmth of her body spread throughout her, merging with the warmth of his, she smiled, knowing that the answer, in the end, was completely irrelevant. Waiting for Him: Anticipation She wasn't used to wearing pantyhose anymore. It was an antique from another life, linked so closely with her teenaged memories of Sunday service, feeling the hard wooden pews through the thin nylon layer. And yet it clung to her every curve and rubbed so sensually against her shaved pussy that it turned those prim memories into something modern and almost deviantly sexual. She lay in his bed, in the dark, and waited for him. "Wait for me at seven," he'd told her. Not, "I'll meet you at seven" or "I'll arrive at seven." Just "wait for me." His arrival was to be at a wholly separate time, perhaps a few minutes early, perhaps twenty minutes after. She lay naked from the waist up and from the waist down painted in the sheer black pantyhose. The cool air lazily brushed her perk nipples as she kept her hands tucked behind her back, folded, like he liked. The waiting should have been boring, but the anticipation was like a pot set to boil.. Every minute of no reward built upon the anticipation, and as the time went on and the likelihood of his arrival grew, and with it, more anticipation. Surely now, she would think. And then after a moment, surely now. Her pussy was beginning to soak the bed underneath her. She almost shuddered when she heard the door open. She felt herself tighten in anticipation, and she bit her lip softly to keep the hiss of delight silent. Her eyes flicked over, saw something shiny in his hand. Something sharp. "Did I say you could look?" His voice hit her low, inside. She felt a flush of shame and a deeper flutter of something, something tied to and yet not directly arousal. She wanted to know what the shiny object was in his hand. It didn't worry her -- she trusted him not to permanently hurt her. But "permanent" was such a flexible word, and recently he'd been pushing her normal boundaries farther and farther. It scared her a little, in the back of her mind. He knows I'm frightened, she said, and he's using it. She felt her pussy clench. "I didn't say you could look," he said. "Now..." The moment hung, and even as she knew the words coming she felt the anxious thrill charging up her back... "...I imagine we'll have to find some punishment." He held the shiny object in front of her ceiling-focused eyes. It was a razor knife, the cheap kind you found at any hardware store. He clicked it twice -- in and out -- a sharp, metal sound full of internal gears and possibility. "Do you know what I'm going to do with this?" he asked. She realized she was shaking, and she wasn't sure from arousal or fear. "You're going to . . . to . . ." He SNAPPED the razor knife open again, and she lost her train of thought. Where is this going? she thought. "I'm going to teach you a lesson," he said. "About yourself. Do you know what really turns you on?" The razor knife floated down toward her. She struggled not to move her eyes. "No, sir." "It's my role to know," he said. "And I'll tell you, because in your case, telling doesn't spoil the magic. In fact, I think it adds." She could feel the cold aura of the razor knife along her skin. Not touching, never touching, but chilling her nonetheless. He paused, and then said finally, "Anticipation." The knife was on the hose now, the cool metal handle bracing her. She knew the blade was there but she couldn't feel it, didn't know where it was in relation to the rest of her. "The action is your release," he said, "but it's the anticipation that brings you there." His warm hand suddenly palmed her vaginal lips, stroking, and she moaned. Then, suddenly, it was gone, and she fought the urge to stretch her hips up to find it again. "Feel that? The expectation of the next touch? Anticipation." She felt one finger lazily paint a path down her inner thigh and skip over her swollen clitoris. She shuddered and whimpered a little. "What's interesting is that the action itself can be either positive or negative," he said, and she felt the cool press of the handle just above her clit -- where was the blade? -- and then it was gone again. "There is no value judgment in anticipation. Wanting one thing creates the same lovely anxiety as wanting to avoid something else." He'd never spoken this much to her, not during their time like this. And he was right -- the words didn't dilute her experience. If anything, knowing what he was doing, knowing the intended effect, only served to heighten the shuddering need that was building low and rising higher by the moment. "You want to know what I'm going to do with this?" he asked again. And before she could answer, she felt him move sharply, felt a tear, and gasped. His warm hand now stroked her pulsing vaginal lips with no encumbrances. The razor knife had made a neat vertical slash, opening the tight nylon to let her pussy flex outward, soft and wet like a kiss, caressed by his firm hand. She heard the SNAP of the knife close, the clunk as it hit the floor. She cooed and wriggled, pressing herself harder into his hand, fucking it, humping it like a needy animal. But the hand was suddenly gone, and she felt fingers at her waist. He took hold of the hose and tugged, pulling it from around her softly-rounded ass. "Raise your legs." Shaking, she did, and he pulled the hose off her completely. "Stand up." What was this? She had never been told to stand before. She did, but haltingly, unsure. "Raise your arms." She did, and he slid the panty hose down onto them, and as he did, tore the razor-cut hole wider to accommodate her head. The panty hose slid all the way on, the hip-section wrapped around her shoulders, the legs becoming too-long sleeves, and the snug hip area fitted tautly over her breasts, restraining them. She was drowning in the smell of her own wetness, so soaked was the hose. It filled her nostrils. It smelled like sex and love and warmth and forbidden things, and she felt drunk from it. He took the too-long legs, hanging off her hands like an oversized suit-coat, and drew it around behind her. This had the effect of crossing her arms along her belly, boosting her breasts, pushing them against the nylon. Behind her, he pulled the nylon tighter, wrapping it around the front again along her belly and back once more, tying it off at last. She tested the hose - it was strong. "Now, isn't that that pretty?" he said. He turned her to the full-length mirror across the room. She couldn't move her arms at all now, and with them so snugly crossed under her breasts, it had the effect of a corset: pushing and shaping her breasts pleasingly but equally against her will. "Spread your legs," he said. And she did, feeling the heat radiating from her pussy as cool air slid up to meet her. She watched in the mirror as he slipped off his clothes, letting them fall in a pile. He was already hard. She moaned. He SLAPPED her ass, hard, stingingly, and her legs almost gave in from the shudder that passed through her. "I didn't say you could speak," he said. "Bend over." Awkwardly, she tried, but she found with her hands tied it presented a strange balance problem. As she struggled, he suddenly grabbed a handful of the knotted nylon behind her, and pushed her head forward. She hung there, held up by his arm and wedged against falling by her own feet. He completely controlled her now, and just by moving he could drag her along with him. She gasped and bit back another moan, feeling so intimately her lack of control. And he entered her. Firmly, forcefully. Guided by her slick lubrication, his cock filled her completely. She could feel every hill and valley of his flesh as her pussy squeezed him over and over. He began rocking his hips back in a lewd, almost-dance; a rolling that started at his chest and ended with a powerful thrust of his hips against her. She rocked back and forth, feeling the nylon tug at her breasts as he used it to pull her back to him. The sensations of the nylon, the thrust of his cock, feeling her own juices seeping down her leg. She looked up, and realized she could see the whole thing play out in the mirror, and that he had planned it that way. She could watch him. She shook, and tears welled up as she watched the passion play on his face, as he took his pleasure by giving it, was fulfilled by fulfilling. His voice turned to the dark growl she knew so well, and that was all she needed. The climax exploded in her, squeezing him so hard, and he fought her back, pushing deeper with his own climax, driving her forward till she had to take a step to avoid falling over. The feeling of hanging, of ownership, of being used for pleasure, and the joy of giving pleasure by receiving it, filled her till the scream broke from her lips and she shook, and shook, and shook. When the shocks had softened, she felt him withdraw, and delicately untie the knots of nylon. Her legs were rubber, woozy. She felt lightheaded. His strong arms slipped under her, and brought her aloft. There she clung to him, feeling warm and safe, as he carried her back to their bed, and carefully pulled the sheets over her. Equally erotic, equally necessary to the feeling of exposure, of nakedness, of danger, was this surging sensation of protection, of safety, of affection. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheeks, pulling her into his chest and squeezing till she felt there was no other world outside their bed. And he did not let her go, until finally her eyes fluttered, and she drifted into a serene sleep. Then he kissed her once more, wrapped his legs with hers, and closed his eyes. Waiting for Him: Breathless "How we doing tonight?" This was the fourth time the waiter had come by in ten minutes, she thought. Did he know? He'd watched her ass the whole way - she felt it. And he knew she knew, by the heat on her face and the way she wouldn't meet his eyes. But did he know? "I'm great, thanks." She pushed around the garlic potatoes on her plate in what she hoped looked contented. "Doing just fine --" She dropped her fork. Oh shit, she thought. "Lemme get that for you." The waiter was already ducking down to grab the fork. "No!" she said, but she knew it was too late when she heard him gasp. She knew, from the many hours she'd been placed in front of her hall mirror, exactly the sight he was taking in. Her soft, clean-shaven vaginal lips, unobstructed by any panties, exposed to the world in a skirt far, far shorter than any she'd ever worn. "And you will not close your legs once," he'd told her. "I want you to feel the breeze all night." She felt more than a breeze. The waiter was making sounds like he was looking for the fork, but she could feel his eyes on her. She wanted to clamp shut her legs, cry pervert, run, but she didn't. He had told her not to, and she knew, no matter how softly she tried to hide it, he'd know if she disobeyed. She was getting wet. "Sorry about that," said the waiter, rising. His face was red like he'd been running. Out of breath. Her face burned too, and she said, "Pleasure's all mine," the words she'd been ordered to use whenever she was discovered. She felt the leather seat underneath her starting to dampen. Her eyes broke from the waiter and looked around for Him, the one who'd ordered her here. He was nowhere to be found, but she knew he was watching her, from somewhere. Had he set this up? Had he told the waiter how exposed she was? It would be like him to do that. "It's like riding the edge of a razor," he'd said. "You are naked before the whole world, and it only takes one to notice." Then his eyes had poured into hers so deep, and in that voice -- that voice, the one she obeyed with a part deeper than her mind -- said, "We wouldn't that to happen, would we?" And then he'd penetrated her. Her breath became heavier in the memory, and the sound of it brought her back. You're in a restaurant, you're in public, she thought. Her legs naturally idled together and she SNAPPED them open, looking around. Had he seen? He was so demanding, and so quick to punish. Sometimes in light touches, sometimes in swift spankings. Worst of all, in no touch at all, but the soft heat of his body lingering over hers, sometimes for an hour, till she begged for his lips or his hands or even just the sensuous slide of his body. An older man and his wife looked at her, went back to eating. She watched his eyes - had he noticed? Did he know how bare she was? Was he imagining it right now? Her pussy felt like it was humming. She could feel the warm tension singing. She had to calm down. "Excuse me!" Her voice came out too loud. A waitress nearby looked up. ABBY on her nametag. "Can you tell me where the ladies room is?" "Just past the kitchen," said the waitress. "Thank you," she said. She carefully set down her fork, neatly folded her napkin, and made her way delicately toward the bathroom, leaving a glistening pool on the seat behind. The chilled air of the ladies room hit her like a slap. It was very clean: she was impressed. Austere white, with a long row of stalls. Everything was pristine, like the way people imagine the future. Soft lights overtop the mirror made it feel like her own bathroom at home. She took a deep breath, feeling the freedom of privacy wash over her. For a moment, she just breathed, looked at herself in the mirror. The tight dress, small enough to qualify for a swimsuit, but somehow less modest. She wasn't tiny like a model: she had curves, and this dress did more than accentuate them. It held to her every inch like it had been painted on. Just in shifting, the bottom hem wanted to ride up. She touched the edge and felt that surge of past experience. "I like this dress," he'd said. "I can do things with it." Feeling his hand grab a handful of the back of the hem, yank upwards, rolling the dress up so easy till she was naked from the waist down, pressed into the mattress, feeling his fist make a knot of the hem and pull her onto him. This was his dress, he'd bought it, he'd put it on her, he'd taken it off. And tonight, it was his plaything, along with her. "You're going to feel that heat," he said, "though you will not see me. I will see you, and you will feel it." And she had, all night long. Every glance her way had sent her heart beating: was she revealed? Did they know? Would they say anything? Now the waiter knew, and the danger of it made her blush. A rush of water and her sudden sense of freedom exploded: someone was in the bathroom. She couldn't look. A click of heels. Tap water running. "Nice dress." And then another click of heels disappearing back into the world, like an ellipses at the end of a novel. The door swung shut again, and she closed her eyes, feeling relief, finally. A voice whispered in her ear - no, not a voice, the voice, his voice: "I told you to keep those legs open, lovely." The relief coalesced into that lovely familiar tension. He was there, she could feel him against her. That loving touch that was hard and soft at the same time. She opened her mouth to speak, and he CLAPPED a hand over it, pulling her tight against him, her ear to his lips. She felt a thrill run down her. "Shhhhhhh," he said, and the sound was sinuous and wet in her ear. His hot breath raised her flesh in little ripples of electricity. His hand pressed firmly against her open mouth, muffling her panting to little gasps through her nose. His other hand slid down along her right side, down to her hip, pressing along the soft flesh of her belly, upward, always keeping contact, sending little trails of anticipation ahead and pleasure behind. He reached up to the top of her dress, keeping a tenuous surface tension on her breasts, and pulled. In the mirror, she watched her own breasts spill like a river into the cold air. Her nipples crushed to hardness immediately. His fingernails dragged over the soft underflesh, circling, tracing lines. He pinched one of her nipples, suddenly, and she MOANED through his fingers. "Shhhhhhhhh," he said. And she reached around, grabbing the edges of his jeans with both hands, pulling him into her, just for contact, just to feel him, all of him, pressed against her. He laughed, a soft deep sound that made her shake. "Do you want me to continue?" he said, and she moaned a positive. His strong arms guided her back to the door, and for a moment, she panicked, thinking he would escort her into the center of the restaurant and take her, right there. And worse, she knew, if he told her to, she would. Happily. But he didn't. He pressed her firmly against the chilled wooden door, her breasts feeling the press of sleek polished panels. His hand slid past her, and with a sound that POPPED in her ears, slid the deadbolt in place. She felt his lips graze her ear. "You're going to have to be quiet," he said, and in that familiar motion, took a fistful of her dress and peeled it back, exposing her round ass. Her legs snapped open, and just in time, because he was already out, already hard, and within a breath she felt his full length ride deep inside her. She MOANED into his fingers. And he held it, making tiny thrusts, barely a quarter of an inch at a time, but enough to beckon sensation out of every eager nerve in her. Backforthbackforthbackforth -- -- and THRUST. The THUD of her body against the door. The moaning through his fingers. It echoed together in one song off the tile walls. And AGAIN, that hard thrust, pushing her open, pressing her deep into the wood. She gasped, and felt that rush as she tried to suck air from between his fingers, and none would come. She pushed against the door, pushed back against him with her pussy, spreading wider for him. She heard him laugh, felt the fingers open, and took a gasping breath. "Oh God," she said, in low tones for only him to hear. "Tell me what you're feeling," he said, and withdrew almost his whole length, till she felt just the tip of him beckoning at her entrance. "Oh no no no nonono --" she said. "I feel empty, I feel empty, I feel -" He SLAMMED into her once more, driving her into the door. A scream bubbled inside her and he clapped his hand around her mouth again. Something knocking on the door. "Is everything all right in there?" Her eyes widened. Someone was at the door, with a bare inch of pine door separating them. She felt his lips near her ear again. "You better explain to the man what's going on," he said, and thrust again. She felt that lovely penetration, felt the thickness of him brushing her legs as he slid inward. She choked back the moan, and he adopted a slow, rhythmic pace as she spoke. "Everything's...fine..." she said. "The door is just...stuck." "I'll get someone to help, just one second," said the man behind the door. "Oh God!" she said, and she wasn't sure if it was the panic or the pleasure that drove her. He spoke in her ear as she felt him slide deep in again. "You're going to have to be quick," he said, in the voice she couldn't ignore. "Please, please," she said, "I'll be quick, I'll be quick --" Like that was the signal, she felt the rumble grow in his chest. A hand gripped her hips, and one clapped over her mouth, and his rhythm doubled. She felt the pound-pound-pound setting a fire inside her, felt the crush of his body against hers, holding her so tight, owning her completely. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," she moaned through his fingers, taking ragged breaths as he let her, and she felt his grip tighten. His hand slipped down to her clit, engorged, burning, and gently feathered it along the edge, gentle while the rest of him was firm. He slammed her against the door, bodily, fully, pressing deeper into her, using the door as leverage to penetrate harder and faster. His one hand, still between her legs, cupped her clit protectively, keeping her from harm as he forced his way deeper into her. Protecting her. And on that thought, she came. She felt the fire exploding deeper now, and the contractions inside gripping him. "Oh, Goddddddddddd --" He could feel her, and it shocked his system into a climax. She felt the hard slap of his ejaculate inside her as he pulled her tight, held her, squeezed her as they rode out the song of their passion. Over, and over, the waves rocked them, starting in the flex of his hips and rolling out in her gasps. For a moment, there was no time, and there was all the time there ever was. Outside, the maintenance man had just begun to unscrew the hinges from the door when they heard a loud CLICK and the door swung open. There she stood, flustered, out of breath, dress dirty. "Everything's fine now," she said. And it was.