Tell me how you fantasised about me when you were fucking other men.
Tell me how it excited you, how it affected your lovemaking.

Where do I begin?

Do I begin with the way you’re on my mind, in my body, the way you haunt my sexual cravings and fantasies?

Do I begin with the seemingly innocent, initial meetings with these men, with my complex meditations and responses, with the way my thoughts strayed to your voice as they chatted and laughed, with the way I wondered about your scent, your cologne, the unique warmth of your skin as I sat mere inches from theirs, as my concentration drifted from them to you and back again, as I finally allowed myself to linger on the image of their touch on my nakedness?

Do I begin with the way your phantom whispers to me, whispers into my ear, sinks to his knees and growls directly into the heat between my supple thighs, that fiery wetness that craved you as I flirted and plotted future meetings and assignations with others?

Will that be too much? The knowledge that you’re with me always, taunting me, plucking at my curiosity, the need to know and taste – in every conceivable way – each glorious inch of your flesh? Even as my body is caressed by another? Even as I’m being tongued, split and enslaved by the cocks of other men?

Or… will the thought ultimately arouse you? Will it lick at your skin, wind its way into your flesh, sink into your bones? Will it quicken your pulse, tense your thighs, knot your stomach? Will it begin to breathe life into your cock, thickening and hardening your shaft, setting an ache in your balls that can only be sated by devouring me, fucking me, possessing me until I’m a writhing, trembling mess?

So, where do I begin?

Since I’m struggling to find that entry point, I’ll begin with the most obvious of beginnings.

With my naked body. With the act of adorning it for them.

Will it please you to know I selected with care my lingerie, my outfit, my stilettos, according to your taste?

Because I did just that, singling out the pieces you adore, the gossamer silks and laces that you’ve caressed in your mind and with your gifted hands, the ones you’ve imagined fingering, teasing, destroying, reducing to nothing more than shreds while you lie in your bed, shrouded in your darkness and the night.

I dressed my silken and perfumed body in the sheerest of black lingerie, slipped into the finest stockings, often hold-ups with deep, lace bands that offset my fairness, and allowed them to marvel, to memorise, to explore. I encouraged them to slowly tease up the hem of my skirt, remember the contrast of skin and silk. It took little persuasion as I moved from my place alongside them on the sofa and straddled their legs, as they pinned me to the cold and unforgiving wall, my wrists bound with their hands above my head. They touched me everywhere, lightly, roughly, with a gluttony that buckled my knees, drained me of the power of speech and flushed my cheeks with a speed that continues to surprise me.

And as they fingered the sodden gusset of my panties, as they pinched my nipples through the fabric, as they eased down the cups and took my pert breast into their groaning mouths, I thought of you. Each and every time, I wondered how your touch would differ, how your fingers would taunt me, how you would brush your thumbs and palms over my pale, pink halos to feel them stiffen to aching, rosy peaks, how you would nudge aside my thong and place your ravenous lips and tongue to my dripping cunt, how you would passionately kiss my sex, my hungry clitoris as you would my mouth.

Even as my body responded to their ministrations, I thought of you. Even as they scooped me into their arms and carried me into the bedroom, placed me in front of the mirror or onto the bed, I pictured you, craved you, needed you here with us. With me.

In my bedroom… you were a permanent fixture.

My voyeur. My beautiful voyeur.

Seated in a plush chair in the corner, watching with the kind of intent that sees the rest of the world melting away.

You devoured each scene with your gaze, your eyes following, often anticipating, the path of their hands as they revealed yet more of my soft and delicate body, as they grasped sensually my throat and caressed the line from its delicate beat to the sweet hollows of my hips, resting momentarily on the insides of my trembling thighs before spreading my stockinged legs wide to expose me, to bare my most intimate place to their desiring eyes, their ravaging fingers, their unrelenting thirst.

And the moment their hard cocks finally – finally – cleaved me open and filled me, it was everything I hungered for and yet, it was never quite enough.

They buried themselves inside me, my hips rising up for more, my lover murmuring unconsciously, growling over and again in time with each of his thrusts, “Fuck… fuck… fuck… your… pussy… your… sweet… pussy… is… so… fucking… addictive…” as my sex clutched at him, milked him from within. But I flooded my sex, his cock, the bed as I craved for a taste of you. Ached to feel you so deep neither one of us could speak or breathe.

I hungered for the way you take me, the way you possess this sweet cunt.

My cunt. Your cunt.

Fuck, how it yearned for you. Pulsed at the vision of you as I was overcome by the sensation of him. As he drove into me from behind, as my back arched and each orgasm crashed over me, my hands gripping at the sheets corrupted by hours of our lust, I imagined you stepping out of the shadows, your ghostly figure turned flesh and blood, climbing onto the bed, the mattress sinking under your weight, the tender brush of your hand on my cheek and then your finger softly titling up my chin, your cock the gift, the prize, the offering, your thick and oiled glans sliding slowly between my full lips, my tongue licking languidly then furiously, in pace with the other man’s dominating strokes so you could both fill me and mark me with your seed.

I wanted you in so many ways, I’ve lost track and count – the seductive preface of your lips on the curve of my nape, your reflection in the mirror as you bend me to your will, your face etched with pleasure as you plunge yourself past that mouth-watering point of resistance, our bodies pressed together so tight we longer know or care where we begin and end, your fingers digging into my hips, my nails raking your back, your mouth, your kiss, the power of your thrusts, your voice, your commands, the crack of your hand on my arse, your fists overflowing with my untamed tresses, your tongue lapping at the sweat in the small of my back, the tangle of our gleaming limbs, the symphony of our ragged breaths, the sight of your cock emerging slick from my newly-fucked cunt, and your come, your come… everywhere.

In those moments, I wanted it all; I wanted you there, to join us, to feed my darkest, clandestine desires. I wanted you there, I want you here and now, because the mere thought of you incites my desire, intensifies my pleasure, overwhelms me, mind, body and soul.

How did you phrase it last night when we spoke?

“I am excited at the prospect of being your partner in crime. I enjoy fantasising about being a participant, even a fulcrum, in your exploration of your baser, more decadent, perhaps hitherto secret, desires.”

Yes, yes. This wanton temptress yearned for you in those moments as that co-conspirator, accomplice and pivot. As her pivot. As my fulcrum.

But I have to admit that the very thing I longed for most in those moments was your focus, your selfishness, your dominance, your need to pry me away from men who were nothing more than proxies, your stand-ins, your need to wrench me from their voracious attentions to seize me as your own, to tenderly wash away their trace and fuck me, make love to me, to charge me with your sensual and carnal yearnings, to fill me with your uncut cock, with your lifeblood, with your seed, to imbue my skin with your scent, my lips and tongue with your flavour.

I wanted you to take all that was forbidden to them.

My naked cunt. My virginal hole. The bare truth of my passion. The erotic duality you alone inspire.

I wanted you to possess me completely, utterly. I wanted you to destroy me and piece me back together. I yearned for you and you alone to possess that untouched piece of me, to indelibly imprint yourself in my flesh, in my body’s memory.

I still do.

But this you know, all too well.

Now… Tell me. Does this please you? Does this knowledge leave you craving to make me your lover, your cock whore again, to reclaim me and mark me as yours once more? Does my confession leave you aching to give yourself to me?

“I love the way you use that word in your writing. I become instantly hard just seeing it glowing on the screen. So many women fear it, are repelled by it, but not you. Not you.”

I can’t help but smile slyly at his admission.

He leans forward in an attempt to keep our salacious discussion at a discreet level as we sit in a quiet basement restaurant a stone’s throw from a four-top of suits indulging in a boozy weekday lunch and lingering gazes that are quite obviously undressing my lithe body, slowly but surely, one fine garment at a time.

“I can sense just how it excites you. It’s palpable. I feel the fire of your flesh radiating as I read. Each time I see the word, I think about your body, your uninhibited desire and wonder…about the parts of you shielded, unseen.”

My smile bursts open, a mixture of warmth and momentary shyness, as the blush blooms high on my cheeks. I know for a fact my clear blue eyes are blazing because he is now transfixed, and much like our dining companions to my left, unashamedly staring, his look languidly roaming from these eyes to the full mouth rouged scarlet to the contour of my breasts and the beauty spots underneath the collarbone he aches to lightly kiss and trace, all memorised in minute detail from the photographs I share.

“Now that we’re sitting here together – finally – and I can see you and feel your heat and smell the hint of your perfume from across the table, all I crave is the opportunity to hear your sultry voice say it.”

I mirror his gesture and move that little bit closer, my hands caressing the edge of the table directly in front of me before my fingers dance along the wooden frame to clutch at each periphery. My back straightens, elongates, the small arching ever so slightly as my sex pulses against the panties and the tightest denim I own. Unconsciously, I cross my legs, press my thighs together and grind myself into the chair. Dressed in a midnight black balconette and bordered by a complementary cashmere knit, my pert breasts rise and fall with each hot breath. His gaze wanders again, taking me in, landing at last on my hands, on the tips now a mere inch from his own.

I part my mouth, unsealing it with the smallest of sighs. My tongue licks along the edge of the fleshy bottom lip before I speak. The corners of my eyes and the long ebony lashes uphold my mischievous smile.

It’s his turn to grin with a wickedness that lights his entire face.

“Which word?”

I ask the question softly, a little coyly.

He doesn’t buy my stalling tactic for a minute. While the anticipation is maddening, it is also arousing and thickening his glans, out of sight under the table, in a way he can barely control. That thought alone leaves me ravenous, lustful, wanton. In response, my tips caress the grain of the wood, drawing long, fleshy lines as I imagine the curve of his straining sex trapped in its own denim prison, the sound of the metal teeth as I glide down his zip, the lurch of his naked shaft as it meets the cool air, the ridges and veins and the scent of his desire and the pearl of precum begging to be smeared by my thumb, begging to be brought to my mouth, suckled and savoured.

He regards me again as I hesitate.

He’s waited two years; he can certainly wait another minute.

“Beautiful minx, won’t you say it for me?”

The teasing and imploring softness in his voice leaves me vulnerable, weak. I can feel my core beginning to melt. But shrugged shoulders are my only reply. My eyes continue to beam; my lips are under strict instruction to hold their ground.

“So… Is this the way we’re playing it?”

Another shrug and a shake of my head and wild mane is all the answer I provide.

“Say it.”

With this simple phrase, his playful tone drains away. All of a sudden, there’s an edge in his voice. A dominant edge. An edge that has filtered through our communiqués on numerous occasions, leaving me more inflamed than I could readily admit.

The small triangle of diaphanous silk covering my mound is without warning sodden as the idea of his possession releases the flood from within, as the visual of being roughly taken by him from behind, in front of these men – his hands tearing my clothing to shreds, my jeans pushed over my hips, down my slender thighs and past my knees to settle chaotically on the tops of my stiletto ankle boots, his digits pinching my crimson nipples inside the lace remnants as he towers over me, fucking me hard and deep, his sex emerging slick and shiny with each decisive thrust – momentarily blinds me.

“Say it.”

My eyebrow arches in defiance and just as quickly yields and relaxes.

“Say it.”

I shiver in response. He is reducing me to a trembling submissive, to a little kitten. And he knows it.

“Say it. Now.”

My heart pounds, I shift in my seat, my eyes widen.

“Cunt.”

I whisper the word into the ether between us. His breath catches in his throat.

“Cunt.”

With this utterance, he visibly shudders. I have clawed back a little of my control.

“Cunt.”

Leaning back in his chair, he stifles a groan, acutely aware of the public space in which we find ourselves as well as his need to give in to his own touch, to the passions of his flesh, to his desire for me.

“My sweet tight little cunt…”

The five little words hang between us, clearly demanding more, clearly longing for completion.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… cock.”

Even through the aroma of the Mediterranean fare drifting from the open kitchen behind me, I can smell, almost taste, his arousal; I can feel the heat radiating up through his trousers. His scent is so overwhelming that the thought of his pulsating meat instantly waters my mouth and cunt in equal measure.

Yet I rein myself in as I sense the proximity of his defeat and undoing. The sweat prickling his brow and the clenched fists resting on his tensing thighs are all the encouragement I require.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… your cock.”

This time he exhales with force, his breath intertwined with a simple “Fuck” that lashes my sweet little cunt like a live wire. The pounding ache spreads through my entire body with a strength that sees my own skin glowing with the sheen of desperation.

As I watch his craving rise up and take hold, as I watch him sublimating the need to grab and stroke his burnished glans then and there with a roughness of hand, running his palm over his beard, down the strong curve of his neck, his fingers eventually clawing and clutching at his nape, another series of images assault me: the chair toppling as I stand in haste; my slight figure hovering over his six foot plus frame; the large hand on my hip as I straddle his legs; his digits sliding into the border of my jeans, fingering the drenched lace fused to my bright flesh; my nakedness gleaming under the lights and his mouth engulfing, devouring my cunt, his lips sucking my clit, my body trembling, screaming his name as I come hotly on his tongue.

Our eyes meet and I smile openly, somewhat brazenly. The temptress in me emerges. The kitten will keep for another day.

“Cock.”

He is putty in my hands. And he knows it.

“I also love cock. I love the way it shapes and fills my mouth, the way it eases my soft, pouting lips apart, the way these lips lushly wrap themselves around that single…delectable…vowel.”

He turns to meet our neighbours’ stares. Judging by his smirk, our entire conversation has been overheard. One of the men shifts, planting his gaze firmly upon me. Even as I feel it burning into the side of my face, my eyes don’t stray from my man.

“I love the way it sounds out, the air thick with a masculine potency once it’s released, the way my voice can vary it, the way I can feel it thickening, engorging with speed and urgency, the way I can taste it on my tongue, its slick, salty tang, its sweetness sating my feminine hunger, the way I can milk it, lusciously lick the head of the word before ravenously consuming it, gliding it slowly down my throat, swallowing it, fucking it with the fervour of my want, my blistering breath.”

At last, I turn to acknowledge the four-top. I stretch out my hands on the flat of the table, a silent call for his teasing touch, for his repossession. The temptress and the kitten are duly rewarded.

“Yes. I also love cock. In case you had failed to notice.”