I take off the clothes I’ve barely put on, a cream colored camisole-type shirt, matching bra, fuschia panties, and jeans. I really should have known better and not bothered. My naturally curly hair nearly skims the top of my breasts. It’s still wet, making me shiver and my nipples harden. My hair isn’t the only thing that’s wet, but I think that’s obvious by now.
I’m in my bedroom. To get to the table I have to cross through the living room…no carpet, and no rug beyond my room, not that it provides much comfort on your knees. But this isn’t about me, other than me doing this for you.
I lower myself to the floor slowly and start to crawl. It’s another first courtesy of you, eliciting more new feelings. At first I thought it would feel a little humiliating, but it’s not. It’s a heady feeling imagining you watching me crawl. For you. And the effect it would have over you. I get wetter at the thought.
I’m halfway through the living room when my knees start to ache. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent even this much time really on my knees. I think you would have me on my knees often.
When I reach the table in the dining room, I stand and pause. I’ve never had to get on top of the table. I seem to be telling you that nearly every day. Do you like that I’m doing all of these new things because of you?
I need to use a chair to get on top, I’m too short otherwise. It feels strange climbing on top naked. I don’t know if it would be easier or more difficult if you were here. I situate myself close to the edge with my legs hanging and spread them wide. The table isn’t very comfortable underneath me. I think it’s probably best I learn now rather than later that my comfort doesn’t necessarily matter if it’s something you’ve told me to do.
I imagine you sitting in the chair before me, maybe lightly running your fingers up and down and inside my thighs, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Like you said earlier, I think of you telling me that I’m going to be your dinner,that you are going to devour me because you are hungry to taste me. And like always, your words ignite me.
How would you go about devouring me, as you said? Would you start agonizingly slow, teasing me? Or would you truly devour me from the start like a starving man? Because you’ve told me I could cum only once and I don’t know if that means just once for now or once today, I go slow and enjoy it.
I lightly run my fingers up and down my pussy, dragging some of my wetness up to my clit. I pretend it’s your tongue instead, you getting your first taste of me. I think of your hands tilting me up to you from underneath.
I rub my clit, imagining you sucking on it. With my other hand I start fingering myself as if it were you. By this point, there’s no hope in dragging it out. I’m frantic, too far-gone, the only thought in my mind is the word “fuck.” Would you tell me I couldn’t cum, keeping me on the edge for as long as possible?
I’m horrible at self-discipline and soon I’m cumming hard, even more intense than yesterday. I’m not even sure how that’s possible. It takes me a few minutes to come down and feel steady enough to get off of the table. I absentmindedly wonder what more you would have in store for me if you really were here. I make a mental note to clean the table a little later because honestly, I don’t have it in me to do it now.
I know I’ve already told you this, but I’m going to tell you again. I will never be able to look at the table without thinking of you, and I like that.