I want to watch as you perform for me.
You wear a black minidress, black boyshorts, and a black, lacy, bra.
You lower yourself down to a squat and spread your legs for me, so I can see your thighs, so I can see the fabric, pulled taut against your pussy. You stand up tall and arch your back, so I can see your breasts, pressing out against the bra, against your dress.
You sit, on a chair, directly opposite mine.
You spread your legs, once more, giving me an unparalleled view. My eyes dart back and forth, between your eyes – fixed on mine – and your thighs, where the fabric presses into you, just millimeters from your cunt, from where my fingers, my tongue, my cock, will be so soon.
But not that soon.
“Arch your back for me, again,” I say.
You do. For me.
“Now trace the outline of your panties,” I say.
Your fingers travel down to your crotch, each hand stroking, gently, along the line of cotton (or silk), up and down. Your eyes don’t leave mine. Mine don’t leave yours, even as my hand travels down to my cock, stroking it, stroking it.
“Touch your clit for me,” I breathe.
Your right hand dips down, under the elastic at the top of your boyshorts, and you shudder as you make contact with your clit, swollen, ready. You dip down a little deeper, to scoop a little of the wetness, to lubricate your clit. You draw that finger back up to your mouth and elaborately, ostentatiously, lick every last bit of your pussy’s sweet juices off, before your finger travels back down, under your panties, into your pussy. You finger yourself, you rub your clit.
Your thighs are quivering just a little. My cock is straining, arcing up, high, as I rub it, as you stroke your clit.
“I want to watch you come for me,” I say. This isn’t a statement. It’s not a question. You understand that it’s permission, a command, a demand, all wrapped up in one. And you do.
“I want your mouth on me, now, please,” I say. Again, not a statement.
You are on your knees before me. You lick your lips, pull your hair back, and dive down on me.