Whetting the Appetite

Unsaid by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Unsaid by Elizabeth L. Brooks

“What do you want to do tonight?”

I want you to tie me down. I want you to spend at least half an hour just taking off my clothes, and then another hour teasing me and dancing me on the edge of climax without ever letting me drop off, no matter how much I beg for it. I want you to take another hour—or more—and find out how many times you can make me come. And in between, I want to watch as you kneel over me and jack off. I want you to f**k my mouth and my breasts and my aching, needy p***y. I want to watch your face as you come.

“I don’t know. You have any ideas?”

I want you to strip me naked and stand me against the wall, my arms spread and my hands braced against that unyielding surface as you caress my shoulders with the tails of the flogger. I want you to whip my back and my ass and my thighs, until my skin is so raw that even the passage of air makes it sting. Until I’m forced to beg for mercy. I want you to threaten my c**k with it, to tickle it with those leather tails, still warm with my own heat, until my prick is so hard it weeps and leaps with excitement at the touch. I want to store up that sweet pain like a camel so I can live on it for days, to make my own skin a reminder of your power over me.

“We could go to the movies, if there’s something on worth watching?”

The vibrator is nestled snugly against my clit, and even without turning it on, its shape and pressure taunt me. I am fidgeting; it’s an effort of will not to rock my hips, not to make that nub of plastic push and stretch me out of myself. The car stops, and I allow myself one small thrust against the firm leather of the seat as you walk around to open the door for me. You come back into view and you smile at me, through the window, and one hand slips inside your coat pocket. I jump as, gentle and insistent, the vibrator comes to life. I can feel the blush climbing my cheeks as I look up at you, and your smile widens as you open the door and offer your hand. I take it: I will need your support well before we reach our seats, it seems.

“A movie could be fun, I guess. Maybe a walk in the park, after?”

The scent of fresh-cut grass mingles with that of your hair as you lean back against my chest. I push my c**k against the curve of your ass and I feel, more than hear, your chuckle. You stand behind the park bench, leaning only slightly forward, your hands resting on its back as if you are posing for a portrait. From behind you, I lift your skirt and slide your panties down. Only a moment later my prick is seeking your depths. My hands cover yours as we rock together, but as the need mounts, such delicate restraint ceases to serve me. My arms wrap around you, hands closing on your breasts, and I pull you tightly back against me, tighter, tighter, tighter still, as if through sheer will I could meld us into a single being. You tip your head back, nestling it into the hollow of my shoulder, giving yourself to me entirely, your eyes closed to the expansive brilliance of the night sky.

“I like the way you think.”

Do you truly, my love? Do you know that I want to feel your hand fisted in my hair and forcing me to my knees? Or that I’ve dreamed of standing you in my bedroom door, your fingertips straining to hold the frame and your breath hissing between your teeth as I mark that beautiful skin of yours with a crop? Do you like the way I think about submitting to you and forcing you to submit to me by turns, trading in the normal for something far more zesty and complex? Do I dare risk asking?

“Only because we think so much alike.”

Oh, I hope that’s true. You’re so amazing and I haven’t allowed myself hope in so long, but I hope you do think of the things I think of. I hope we think alike about the excitement of taking risks, about the submission inherent in dominance, and about the ultimate power of submissiveness. I want to put you in a blindfold and force you down into your own skin; and I want you to put a cockring on me and pull me out of mine. I hope we both share this desire to experiment, to experience. Could it be true, that we think so much alike? I could ask. I could throw off this veneer, this wrapper of “normality” and just ask…It would be a risk, but if we do think so much alike, it would be worth it, so very worth it. I should ask. I should. But do I dare?

“…”

Do I dare?

“On second thought…What if we just stayed in tonight?”