The flush starts at her chest and climbs. I watch it travel up her neck and across her cheeks and I file it away with everything else I'm learning about her body.
"Your instruction," she repeats.
"I'll tell you what to do. Where to touch. How fast. How slow. You do as I say and I watch. That's it."
"That's it," she says, and the way her voice drops tells me she already understands that it's not that simple at all.
"You can say no."
"I'm not saying no." She pushes her coffee aside.
The silence between us is charged. I can feel the energy shift in the room, the way it does before a hunt, before a fight, before something irreversible happens. She's weighing it. Turning it over with that precise, analytical mind. Measuring the risk against the reward.
Then she stands up.
"Where?" she asks.
"On the table."
She leans against the edge of the varnished wood, and slides herself back, while I abandon my coffee in the sink. She positions herself in front of me.
“Open up my shirt and show me those tits I love so much.” I pull the chair out of the way while she does as I ask, and then stand facing her.
"Start with your neck. Run your fingers down the side of it. Slowly."
She lifts her right hand. Her fingers touch the column of her throat, trail down the tendon, trace her collarbone. The movement is stiff.
"Close your eyes," I say. "Stop thinking about me watching. Think about how it felt when my mouth was on your neck last night. Remember the way I kissed you right below your ear. The sound you made."
Her eyes close. Her fingers slow down. I watch her breathing change and her nipples pebble as the memory replaces the self-consciousness.
"Now your chest. Touch yourself the way you like me to touch you."
Her hand drifts lower. Over her collarbone. Down to her full tits. She cups the left one, her thumb brushing the nipple, and her lips part on a small exhale.
"That’s right, good girl" I murmur, pressing the heel of my hand against my aching cock.
The effect of my words is immediate. Her back arches slightly. The nipple tightens under her thumb. The praise response is hardwired into her now, connected to every nerve ending I've spent three days mapping.
"Other hand. Both at the same time."
She sits up a little more as she brings her left hand up. Palming both breasts now, her fingers circling her nipples, squeezing gently until the flesh presses between her fingers.
I groan as she tugs and rolls her nipples, speeding up as another moan is pulled from her throat.
Her knees start to part. Slowly, without instruction, her body opening as the arousal builds. I watch the flush spread down her chest and unbuckle my belt.
"Lower," I say. "Touch your stomach. That curve below your navel. The part you think isn't beautiful."
One hand slides down. Fingers tracing the softness of her belly. She hesitates there and I know she's fighting the impulse to skip past it, to rush to the place where the need is sharpest.
"Stay there. Feel it. That part of your body is going to carry our child someday. There's nothing about you that isn't perfect. I’ll spend every day proving it to you."
A sound comes out of her. Not a moan. Something deeper. Something that comes from the place where she's been carrying the belief that her body is built for function, not for wanting. My words are reaching that place and dismantling it piece by piece.
I watch her center as her pussy entrance clenches around nothing, a small amount of her creaminess leaking from her, glistening, tempting me to put my mouth on her. I don’t know how I manage to hold back.
"Now lower."
