Sometimes, I’m such a wanton Kitten.
I really ought to be punished…

I wait for you, yearning
to be bent to your
erotic will.

She shields herself, concealing from view the succulence owned and possessed by him, the naked and molten epicentre of the desire that exists for his eyes only.

As she poses and revels in the display of her scantily-clad form to the unseen eyes beyond the picture window, the wetness flows white-hot as she recalls an altogether different image – the photograph created for his carnal and bespoke tastes of her rear encased in the same diaphanous mesh, the suspender straps draw tight, their lines the ideal frame for the sweet cunt sodden with wanton need for the grip of his hands, the power of his thrusts, the seed buried deep by his thick hard perfecting flesh.

Use anything at hand. Use everything that catches your eye and incites your carnal imagination.

Your commanding grip.

The decadent silk strip nestled against your chest, whose arrowhead invariably directs my gaze to the virile need hardening between your legs.

The pungent leather that bears your scent plus mine. The alluring danger of its glistening clasp.

The cashmere that moments ago clung to the soft slope of my shoulder and kissed the delicate swell of each creamy breast.

Use it all to bind me, to shroud my sight, to plunge me into your dark hunger.

Then use me.

Take and possess every inch of skin, every morsel of flesh, every moan and tremble, every ravenous hole and dripping slit you have craved to fill and ravage and mark.

Lover, use me and make me yours.

I’ve never lied.

I have never played a deceptive game about my dividing line.

It took scarcely a moment, at the most maybe two, before I knew in the pit of my stomach, in the marrow of my bones, in the wet and hungry heat screaming between my legs, there would be no fooling either one of us.

From our very beginning, from the utterance and the brilliance of the first few words growled from your lips with a ravenous possession, I knew you couldn’t – you shouldn’t – be duped into believing your seductive eroticism inspires anything but the craving for your irrational and urgent passion, the craving for the destruction of the line between my want and need.

Because with you, that line is fine.

Most days, it is nothing more than a delicate chain, a series of tantalisingly fragile links you could easily crush and destroy, even as you wind it – and me – with measure and precision around your finger, place us gently into your palm, reducing the space between your clothed form and my nakedness, between my breath and yours, between the rough kiss and the hollow of hips, between this melting softness and your raw hardness, between the woman of wanton strength and the submissive crying out to pleasure you on her knees.

I dream endlessly of contrasts.

Silk on skin.

Groans and sighs.

Sodden lace fused to molten flesh.

Your gleaming salt on my tongue, my pungent sweetness glossing your lips.

The ebony bands drawn tight against this fair and ravenous body as you bind my wrists behind my back with a strap of leather that bears my wanton scent.

Your hands, at once domineering and tender, sliding between the softness of thighs that silently beg to surrender, to give themselves over to you completely, that hunger for you to spread them so shamelessly wide we will fear, for the briefest moment, each of my delicate bones will shatter and break.

The violence of the scarlet of your visibly aching, burnished glans circling, tracing areola of the palest pink, marking and teasing and filling their raspberry peaks with a need that will overwhelm the space between these four, unassuming walls, that will consume the freshness of the ether with ragged breaths and sultry pleas.

Of this, I dream endlessly. And more, so much more.

Just as I dream about you.

You retreat.

Finally fall silent. Instinctively lock all the words away.

You befriend pretence.

Paint the smile upon your lips. Conceal the eyes once bright behind the darkest glass. Persuade your mind to cease its remembrance.

You live.

Talk and joke and laugh. Dance with abandon. Walk freely in the sun. Tilt your delicate face to meet its restoring rays.

You lie.

Live out the lie. Embrace the comfort of performance. Fool those who surround you by day.

Until the truth returns.

Until honesty exacts its brutal revenge.

Until it comes to you in the gloaming, in the moment the night’s nascent darkness dims the walls and cools the air.

Until it comes for you, preying upon your soul and your body, plundering the craving that refuses to sleep.

The craving. The hunger.

For him.

The hunger confessed in whispers and sighs to empty rooms, in the sheen upon your skin when his voice rushes back, in the sodden mess your hand seeks out compulsively between your legs.

The hunger.

The hunger to have him again, to have him want you again, to have him overwhelmed with every desire you represent, with the intensity burning to ash his own flesh, with the force to bind and grip you and trace the bruises on your softness, the need to taste your breath as he takes your mouth, as his lips and tongue fuck you with their kiss and your sweet and filthy little cunt weeps for his thick uncut hardness, cries to have him prise you open, to fill the void of your most intimate place, to mark you as his forever, to anoint you as his lover, his woman, his cockwhore, his queen.

He instructs my touch.
I silently obey.
Then shiver.

It is her smile that invites him.

It is the slight curve of her sensuous mouth, almost sweet and unassuming at first. It is the way it drifts up to her eyes, delicately creasing their corners, betraying her intensifying desire. It is the way it both illuminates and clouds her face as her gaze travels approvingly the length of his strong, lean body, as it finally recognises the hunger of his own need.

Yes, it is her smile.

And then slowly, just as softly, it is the parting of her thighs, the gleam of the sheer nylon under the violence of fluorescence, the heat and the wetness and the pungency of the lust he can sense even now dripping from her sex as he sits quietly on the opposite side of the boardroom, his cock thickening and hardening and leaking, out of sight and underneath the oversized mahogany table, at the vision of his fingers shredding with practiced ease the damp gusset of the pantyhose in preparation of her violation.

Yes, it is her smile that he meets once more as the temptress taunts him over her shoulder, her buttocks grinding into his shaft, silently challenging him to take her then and there on every surface of the now emptied office. It is her wanton smile that he kisses roughly off her lips once he turns her slight frame to face him, as he pushes up the trailing hem of her skirt to place his cock between the cunt lips pouting with lascivious greed through the ragged opening, before plunging himself selfishly into her clutching velvet depths in one slick, throbbing, measured stroke.

Yes. It is her smile, the one now completely overtaken by the ecstasy etched on her face, the pink, lustrous mouth grasping for his name and for breath, the fine hands clawing at the brick wall as he fucks her with hard and decisive thrusts from behind, as possesses her tight little cunt for the third time that night, metres from the bustling crowd in the shadows of the city alleyway.

I think of you.

I think of you and crave the warmth of your fingers trailing across the coolness of my skin, my body yearning to draw deep into my bones your heat, to have you wind yourself about me, your strong arms around me as we slide together gently into the shadows and the night, into dreams, into sleep.

I think of you and your teasing caress, the one that cruelly stops short of touching my aching sex, the one that merely toys with the periphery of this ivory lace as my thighs are splayed wide before you and my arousal soaks the filigree pressed tight into the scarlet smoothness of my throbbing clitoris and these plump lips.

I think of you and my heartbeat quickens, my cunt throbs at the memory of your dominance, the way you took hold and seized me, the way you carried me to the table like a rag doll made expressly for your carnal bidding, pressing your hand into the small of my back as I lowered my naked breasts and left cheek to rest upon the gleaming mahogany, my body trembling, mind racing, the anticipation prickling your skin, our breath, hot and raspy, one moment in synch, in the other out of kilter, and the rush of air that grazed the curve of my flank once you finally raised your hand, the hand that hovered suddenly with unaccustomed patience, the hand plotting in mid-air the first sweet point of contact, the hand ready and hungry to reprimand my defiance, the fingers and palm itching to mark my pouting buttocks, my entire body as yours with stinging strikes, with bruises and bites, with your uniquely blushing possession.

I think of you and long to feel, to feel your aroused glans straining, fighting against the confines of the inky denim, its pulsating hardness brushing the backs of my legs as you sweep aside my curls and kiss deeply the curve of my nape, your mouth sensually mapping the path from my delicate shoulders to the rosy prints on my fair skin, from the freckles adorning my hip to the intimate flesh pounding, dripping its sin, the tight honeyed succulence silently weeping its need to drench your beard, to come hotly on your lips and your tongue.

I think of you. I think of all of this. And more. But mostly, I think about our fusion, our melting and merging, the stillness of our bodies as your hard, thick cock is deep inside me, all the way inside me, as your ravenous flesh is buried to my breathless limit, so that every millimetre of my cunt can feel you and know you, can grasp and claim and devour each glorious vein and ridge and pulse and morsel of your burnished shaft as if it’s belonged there always, as if it’s an absent part of me returned and home again.