A Writing Prompt
It seemed I was waiting forever. Facedown, knees pressed together, knowing that any moment, he’d be there to tear my apart. And I’d succumb to him–I always did.
He liked to see me nervous. He liked to see me squirming with my own thoughts of what might be to come. He liked to see the workings of my own dirty mind play out in the way my pussy opened and closed, gasped and gulped with desire, long before he ever started toying with me. He liked knowing that in spite of my supposed propriety, my fearful brain was imagining things far dirtier than what he would devise on his own. He liked to let my body guide him–tell him things about me I would never admit to.
“Yes, she’s aching for it,” he’d think to himself, watching the way my legs were starting to part for him. “She’s hoping I’ll drag my tongue between her plump cheeks. She’s hoping I’ll kiss her deeply in her dirty little fuckhole. She’s hoping I’ll pin her down with my cock, press into her without asking, so she can say, ‘I never do things like this!’ But she wants to. And she will. I’m a patient man. I’ll wait until she asks me for it. I’ll wait until she begs.”