WANTING

It’s Saturday morning and I’m sat in the kitchen. Leonard Cohen is doing his thing in the background (I love his last three albums), I have coffee and have just finished the scrambled eggs I made myself. This relaxation feels guilt-free because I can vaguely here the noise of the washing machine from the utility room. The weather offers no incentive to venture out.

And I’m wanting. I’m wanting all of it: all of what we had at the beach last weekend, all of what we have every time we meet: the intimacy; the contact; her beautiful responses to my stimulation; my responses to hers.

I want HER!

I want to feel her body through the  satin of her lingerie, as I run my hands over her; now soft, now firm, now soft again, enjoying the way her breathing changes and her eyes unfocus as I move against her.

I want her to stretch up to return the touch but I’m needing to be in control this morning, so I’ll grab both hands in one of my mine and pin them to the bed above her head, stretching her slightly. The other hand will continue its stroking, sometimes through the material sometimes skin to skin. I love how she arches her back, showing me her need, wanting more of me than I’m letting her have. It seems cruel to tease her so, but I like the way it heightens her senses; I like the way it turns the simple act of touching her body into an exchange between my dominance and her submission. I like how she cedes control of her pleasure to me in this way.

Where would my wanting take us this morning, were we together? How wonderful to have so many paths available to us.

I might continue my stroking but bend my head down and tease her nipples between my teeth; soft at first then harder; harder still til the pain and the pleasure of it cut through her defences and make her mine.

I might flip her over onto her stomach, slowly lift the filmy material of her nightdress north, and spank her; spank her firmly, steadily, pausing occasionally to stroke the reddening skin or enjoy how wet she is, before smacking her bottom again. This is not spanking as punishment, or spanking as dominance and submission; this is spanking as sex. I love how she lifts her bottom slightly for each blow; wanting it, asking for it.

Or perhaps this would go the other way; perhaps she’d reach up and grab my nipples, twisting hard. There’ll be that little tipping point, that second in time where I choose between slapping her for her impudence or conceding, lying back and raising my hands above my head to show her my submission; to let her know that, for now at least, I am hers.

Oh yes. From those first few light touches, all manner of things might develop.