The session begins, doors bolted, music playing.
And then there she is. Dancing.
“I’m glad you came back,” I say. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I…wasn’t sure either,” she says. Then adds, “Thank you for the invitation.”
My mouth quirks at one side.
Ana moves with more confidence tonight. Her rhythm is smoother. Her touch is less hesitant. Her fingers find my chest, my shoulders, then my thighs. I feel the heat of her skin even through my clothes.
When she turns, her long hair brushes against me, and I clench the arms of the chair.
It takes a hell of a lot of control not to wrap it around my fists, to pull, to tilt her head back and find the place on her neck where her pulse pounds.
I want to touch her so badly.
My fingers twitch against my thighs. I try to keep the ache from turning me into a lust-driven madman. My cock strains painfully against the inside of my dress pants.
I can’t take it anymore.
“May I touch you tonight, Ana?” I ask, my voice low, frayed with desire. “I want to touch you.”
“What would you do if I said yes?” she asks.
I find myself grinning. I like this game.
“Well,” I say. “First, I would free your lovely breasts. I would touch the soft skin there. I would let the cool air harden your nipples, and then I would roll them between my fingertips. Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”
I have no idea what she looks like, but I have a strong image of a young woman biting her lip, perhaps touching her own breasts, ever so lightly, imagining the touch of a man there. My cock hardens even more at this thought.
“Does it matter what I enjoy?” she asks after a few heartbeats of contemplation. “Aren’t I here to turnyouon?”
“In a way, yes,” I say. “But touching you would turn me on. Very much.”
“Keep going,” she says, still dancing, her ass dipping to graze against my lap, where my cock is dying for attention. “What else would you do?”
“I would dip a finger, just one, between your slick folds. And I know they’d be wet because you left traces all over me last time. I would press just the tip of a finger inside, just enough to make you mad with desire. I’d make you beg for me to slip that finger inside, then two. A third would stretch you wide, perhaps to the point of pain. The heel of my palm would press against your clit. In and out. In and out. Painstaking. Slow. And you would pant for me. You would press against me. You would beg for it. Harder, faster. But I would make you wait. I would make you crazy with lust, and my hand would be soaked, and only when you were mindless, crying with the need to come, would I pick up the pace.”
“Oh,” she breathes. I think it’s supposed to be a question, an urging to say more, but it comes out only as an aroused single syllable.
“Not this time,” I continue, “But next time, I might turn you over my knee. I might redden your round ass with my palm. I might spread your cheeks and touch that part of you that is sointimately private you blush just talking about it. And I might finger you there. Gently, at first. Then harder. And then, while one hand plays with your perfect ass, the other might find that hungry pussy once more. And I’ll fill you both while you come for me.”
She’s stopped dancing, her breathing shallow, her hands on my chest.
“Yes,” is all she seems able to manage.
That is all I need. I put my hands on her back, pull at the thin straps of fabric to free her luscious breasts. And yes, they are luscious. Firm and round, heavy, with peaked nipples and soft skin. She arches into my touch as I feel them, worship them.
“Do you want me to kiss these?” I ask.
“Yes.” That breathy hiss again.
“Ask for it,” I say. “Beg.”
She stills for a moment. I assume she’s deciding her limits. Usually, I negotiate these things in advance with dancers, but since Ana is not a dancer, she may not yet be aware of her limits.
“Pick a color,” I instruct.
