Yep, debauchery. I’m coming for you, I think as I place my beer and book on the table, appearing to settle in for the night.
I dip my head to smother this smile and reach to the centre of my shoulders to grasp my T-shirt. One tug and the thing slides over my head. I drape it over the back of the chair with more care or thought than I ever have before. Then again, I’ve never stripped for someone’s pleasure before, imagining her eyes drinking me in.
Are you feeling pleasure, little love? Has your heart rate elevated just a touch? If it hasn’t, it’s about to.
I begin to loosen the buttons on my jeans.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I take it nice and slow, making a show of sliding my fingers around the waistband as though I’m about to slide them off. Of course, I appear to have second thoughts, though not really. My little love, and I know there’s something about being half-naked that makes things twice as naughty. The state speaks to us.
Lowering myself to the chair, I plant my feet wide, my gaze snagging on my reflection in the window. I run my hand down my chest, just for shits and giggles, or maybe for the effect of the muscle ripple. I take care of myself. Hit the gym when I can and watch what I eat for the most part. I don’t think it’s conceited to think I look good, though it feels a little weird watching the ripple of muscles, anticipating where my hand is heading. I pull away the moment before I reach my cock, pressing the sides of my jeans open a little more. I slide my hand in with a sigh she can’t hear. Relief and anticipation, the thrill of touching myself; it makes for a heady concoction, the kind that feels intoxicating.
Ungh. Fuck me, that feels good. I’m already half hard, but the thought of Kennedy watching me touch myself gets me the rest of the way really easy. My head rolls back as I give my cock a half-concealed tug. Half concealed because as I lift my hand to grasp my beer again, I leave my cock head hanging out.
Hanging out? I glance down and run my fingers over the head. Maybe straining, proud and eager. Ruddy and swollen and so ready for her.
I take a deep swig of my beer, intentionally exposing my throat. I bet you’d like to kiss me here, wouldn’t you, little love? You’d climb on over my knee, spreading your legs over my thighs so your feet would touch the floor. Maybe you’d press kisses to my neck, then your teeth to my windpipe as I give a little growl. You’d take my hard cock into your hand and work it a bit, your dark eyes watching me twist under you. I’d press my hand to your head, encouraging you to drop to your knees. And you would, because you’re such a good girl.
With that image in my head, I reach out to put my beer back on the table, almost missing the thing. I slide my hands down my thighs with a groan, knowing she can’t hear me but needing to as I think of her watching me. Her gaze all languid midnight, her insides throbbing, her fingers gripping the railing of the veranda.
Are you wet, little love? I just bet you are.
I bring my fingers to the fly of my jeans, widening the sides a little more. Then, with a lewd, dirty kind of exaggeration, I stick out my tongue and lick the tips of each of my fingers before rubbing them over the crown of my cock. I glance up to see how it glistens, wet and shiny, in the darkened window.
“Fuck, yes.” I tip my head back from the sight, behind my eyelids glowing gold thanks to the ceiling lights as I resume my dirty little fantasy. She’d use her tongue to lick my cock head, tease the slit, treating me like I’m the best kind of dessert. The kind to be savoured slowly, not inhaled. She’d leave tortured and teased, wet and fucking leaking. “I need you here.”
I almost grab my phone, then remind myself that’s not the point of this exercise. Instead, I take my aching crown into my fist and give it a satisfying squeeze. The room is filled with my lust-soaked groan.
“Can you imagine what I’m thinking?” My words are little more than a rasp to the ceiling as I tip my head back again, squirming on the chair, trying to make this last, not to touch myself too hard or too fast. Not to rub myself fast then slow. Rough, then rougher, twisting the head of my cock to ease the ache in my balls.
But it’s a bit late for that as I imagine her here, on the floor between my splayed knees. Fuck.