Usually I write in the third person, a black and white voyeur. However, Romance challenged me this week to write in the first person. I felt like a learner driver, the gears of my mind rattling and moaning in desperate need of someone who could work the clutch. So I started to play around with the idea of me writing to you, or in this case, to Romance. He’s been considerably assertive with me, and I found myself writing to a far more dominate and submissive theme. So lo and behold, a new work has been born, one that had a title before I even began. Here is the small beginning of what has become a much larger story. Still raw, only provisional, a bunny hopping draft.
I want it to be You.
I heard you call out. You seemed angry, I urgently searched my mind but I couldn’t think of anything that could have set you off. I have been pleasing you a lot lately, well at least, I thought I had.
I hurriedly checked my outfit was all in place: the short black halter necked dress that scooped right down to the curve of my bum, seamed back fishnets on a beautiful black lace suspender belt, black patent leather four and half inch heels and my two inch wide, black leather collar fastened around my neck. I was wearing exactly what you had told me to. You always insist, you must be able to see my back, to know I’m not wearing a bra. You can have my breasts in your hands, a nipple in your mouth, my cleavage around your cock, at any time that it pleases you.
As I approached the dinning table, you were tapping at a spot near the edge, it seemed to be wet. Deliberately you bent down and forcibly licked it away, startling me, stopping me dead in my tracks. You looked up, glaring at me.
“You’ve been playing with yourself without asking!”, then you demanding questioned,
“Did I say you could take off your knickers?”.
Without letting me answer, you sharply continued,
“Always remember, I say, when you can stroke yourself.
I say, when to slide your fingers into your pussy. I say, when you can come. Do you understand? You need my instruction and most definitely, you need my permission.”
I knew, I had been sneaky. I had taken off my underpants. I had sat up and lent back, resting my feet on each arm of the chair. I had imagined you were sitting there, right in front of me, watching me masturbate. I had used two fingers to make myself come and I must have dribbled onto the table. I was thinking about your cock. About how it feels in my mouth, as it gets harder, how I like to taste your come and feel you ejaculate into the back of my throat. I can’t not get excited when I think about how sexy your penis is. I had to touch myself. I had to penetrate deeply into my myself and cover my fingers with wetness, and then I had to suck them and lick it all off. I really had been a very naughty girl.
You reached down, picked up my knickers, and then you threw them at me.
You’re lip curled up, and with a flash of delight in you eyes, you firmly commanded,
“Stuff them in your mouth, kneel down, and face away from me.” I did exactly as you instructed, and as quickly as I could. I could feel you standing over me, the excitement starting to work it’s way up my body. Suddenly, you were right in my ear, you whispered, “I’m going to remind you, of exactly what I mean, now repeat back to me, very clearly and very slowly; I want it to be you,” your voice trailing off, almost inferring you hadn’t completed the sentence.