“Touch yourself for me,” he said. “Trace your fingers where you wish mine would go, let them linger where you wish mine would be.”
I unzipped my jeans, right there in my office chair, and slid a hand down to the top of my lace-edged panties. Then I stopped. What I wanted was more than his fingers playing with my cunt. He has such long, almost delicate, fingers. They stroke my skin like a whisper, like a promise.
I raised my hands to my waist, to the sides of my ribcage. Stroked them up to the soft swell of my breasts, then across my nipples – yeah, those nipples that were already making themselves known by jutting against the fabric of my tank top. Then up to my face, along my throat and my jawline. My lips…
I want his fingers everywhere.
But I can’t reach everywhere – I can only anticipate his fingers roaming my body, stroking down my shoulders and my back, finding that perfect place and perfect pressure that stills all the noise inside me.
For now, I just send my fingers down, lower, inside the opening in my jeans, under my panties, tickling my clit for a moment before pushing between my labia and into the wet core of me.
Already slick.
I draw the wetness out and lave my lips with it, my clit. I think about another time of anticipation, when he lay between my legs, his mouth a breath away from my cunt, his breath warm, his tongue almost-but-not-quite touching me, until I told him what he wanted to hear.
I feel an almost painful anticipation that stretches on and on…a low hum that occasionally – when he permits – trandscends into a roar as he says “cum for me,” in my ear.
