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When I get home you are there to greet me with a hug and a glass of chilled wine, your kiss sharing the wine’s tart fruitiness. I sit down, wearily sinking my weight into the folds of the sofa, and begin to recount the day’s deeds, as you recline at the opposite end, keen blue eyes attentively focused on me, your blond hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Even before finishing the first sentence, I notice you’re dressed differently to usual – you look terrific in a tight blue top which enhances the swell of your breasts, and a short pleated black skirt giving a generous view of your elegant legs, now languorously crossed just above the knee; the fingertips of your free hand are describing small, gentle circular movements on your stockinged thigh, drawing my eyes down the length of your legs to a strappy pair of high heels I don’t remember seeing on you before. There’s an unusual charge in the air, almost as if I were with a stranger, and I find it impossible to conceal my admiration as I eye you up and down.

“You must have had a very important client to entertain today – I bet he enjoyed watching you at the photocopier.” My offhand tone seems to annoy you; you get up smartly and march off into the kitchen, telling me you can dress how you please, that you have at least two secretaries, one of whom happens to be male, to do your photocopying, and not to be so bloody smutty and patronising. I know you better than that, and am certain you’re secretly pleased I’ve noticed how fine you’re looking. Sure enough, you reemerge a minute later with a refilled glass (your second – or third?), and suggest I repair upstairs for a shower to ease away the day’s frustrations while you get on with preparing supper.

Once under the shower’s powerful jet, I soon feel the tension in my shoulders ebb away, and note with some amusement that our little exchange downstairs has left me with a mild erection. Maybe we can make some positive use of that tonight, if I can stay awake for long enough after supper. I towel, talc, floss and shave, and have just pulled on a clean pair of briefs, in which I still manage to produce a satisfyingly large bulge, when I hear the bathroom door open. A heartbeat later and you’re standing right behind me, reaching up around me to cover my eyes with your hands so that I feel the warmth of your sumptuous tits on my naked back and the faint creak of your bra as they flatten against me. You must be standing on tiptoe as you whisper in my ear.

“Darling, I have a surprise for you… Would you mind terribly just doing exactly what I ask for the next 30 minutes or so?”

“Do I have a choice?” I ask, not really wanting one to exercise.

“No,” you reply, more firmly this time, “eyes closed, please.” Your voice is low and husky, your breath hot on my earlobe, and I feel no reluctance whatsoever in yielding. With that your hands release me, only to return a moment later to wind what feels like a silk band around my head — there’s some padding at the front — wait a minute, it’s a blindfold! I open my eyes to complete blackness.

“Well, my dear, this IS rather kinky,” I manage, tentatively.

“Please follow me and everything will be fine.” Your voice is even, commanding and decisive. You spin me around, grabbing my cock through my cotton briefs, and lead me towards the door. I stumble after, helpless in your grasp, and fearful of stubbing a toe or worse. This is certainly not what I was expecting. We move across the landing and into the bedroom, where you guide me over to what I figure is the foot of our shared bed.

“Sit,” you instruct as you release my member, a little sore by now. Sure enough, there’s a chair waiting to receive me. As soon as I am sat in place you position my arms flat along the edges of the backrest and again I feel a cool silk binding being applied, first around my right arm and then on my left, firmly but not so tight as to interrupt circulation, leaving my hands flapping helplessly at the base of my back. No words are exchanged, but my pulse is definitely quickening. My arms bound, you move down to attend to the legs, fixing my calves securely to the chair legs. Gingerly I experiment shifting my weight around slightly – the chair is quite stable and there’s no danger of it toppling over, but I am completely helpless. For the first time I am nervous. There is no sound other than our breathing, yours calm and measured, and mine as steady and deliberate as I can manage. I know that to say anything now would break the erotic tension.

After what seems an age I hear you say “now please wait while I get ready,” and return to the bathroom, where I hear the door close. Left in splendid isolation, my mind starts to race. What do you have in store for me? Will it involve ice or candle wax (please, no!)? What’s brought this on? Have you discussed the plan with anyone else? I bet it’s your friend Julie; she looks like she knows her way around the bedroom – we’ve joked about it together before. My God, what if Julie’s there in the bathroom with you? Are you planning a threesome? This intriguing if illegal thought refuels my lust and an uncomfortable bulge develops in my briefs which I am powerless to relieve. That’ll teach me to pendik escort fancy your friends. Still…

Just when I’m beginning to think you’ve forgotten me altogether I hear you walk back into the room and stand beside my chair, close enough for me to sense the heat from your body. I catch my breath, desperate to know what happens next. Suddenly I feel a sharp pressure on my belly which must one of your beautifully-manicured nails pressing into my flesh — seemingly hard enough to leave an indentation. I gasp, and shudder involuntarily as I feel the nail slowly move up my chest along my sternum and over the base of my collarbone, then trace lightly up my throat. Instinctively I draw my head back allowing you to continue up around my chin and finish with your finger pressed on my lips. My mouth had gone dry with the tension but now as you gently caress each lip in turn, I manage to moisten their inner surface with my tongue-tip, then allow them to part so that your fingertip can slip between them. Eagerly I lick at first one, then both of the fingers you place in my mouth, letting the first, and then the second of your knuckles to forge past my lips, as your fingertips explore the interior, while at the same time my own flutter impotently, dreaming only of reciprocating this exquisite intrusion within the moist folds of your cunt. Eventually you withdraw and I feel my own saliva wet on my cheeks and forehead as you anoint me.

I regain my breath and try to regroup, wandering would could come next. You don’t leave me in suspense for long. There is a hiss of nylon and then I feel the pressure of your heel against my thigh as you carefully place one leg up on the edge of the seat. I lean forwards as far as I am able and, yes, my cheek brushes against the smooth warmth of your stocking. For a moment I bask in its softness as if it were a pillow, gently rocking my head and stroking my face against its sheer surface. I want to leave a leisurely trail of moist kisses along your inner thigh, which you normally love, but your hand firmly nudges my head forward; I sense the delicious transition to hot bare skin at your stocking-top, then suddenly my nose and chin encounter what feel thrillingly like lace panties. I exhale slowly and deeply, allowing my hot breath to play over where I think your crotch must be, and am rewarded with a faint gasp from miles above my head, and a brief but intoxicating whiff of your own desire. I lurch forward, eager to bury my face in your crotch and renew the long-standing acquaintance between my lips and tongue and your intimate seat of pleasure, but the steadying hands at my shoulders put paid to that, as once more you stand apart from me.

“Do you still promise to to everything I say?” I hear.

“Of course, please, I’ll do anything…” I mumble.

“Very good. I think it’s time to restore the use of your eyes. You’ll need them for the next part.” With that you lean forward and your heated scent fills my head as you fumble with the knot at the back of my head. When you pull the blindfold away, I shake my head to restore my equilibrium, then slowly open my eyes.

You stand in the half light from the dressing table lamp, a few feet to the right and in front of me, feet slightly apart and hands on hips, awaiting my judgement. Truly you’re a sight worth the wait. While in the bathroom you have applied makeup and changed into a filmy peignoir which I haven’t seen before, and which is left hanging open to reveal bra, panties and suspender belt. Your eyes are outlined in black with long mascara’d lashes, and your lips painted a sultry, sinful shade of crimson, matched by the glossy varnish on your nails. Your honey-coloured hair is tied up to reveal tiny silver studs in your earlobes, and you’re wearing an elegant black ribbon choker with a more elaborate silver ornament at the throat. Your underwear, also new to me, is a matching black satin set with lace details which inflame my imagination; there are pretty pale blue bows at the front of the bra, at the centre of the panty waistband, and at the top of each suspender strap. Your body looks fantastic — the plump mounds of your breasts gently rise and fall with your breathing, seemingly threatening to burst free of their flimsy cocoons. The deep cleft that plunges between them is echoed in a fainter furrow descending your rounded, muscular belly, its navel piercing glinting in the half light. My eyes feast on the delightful curve of your hips as they flare out from your waist, and the large, biscuit coloured nipples and dark pubic furze clearly visible through the near-transparent lace. I linger greedily on the taut strain of your panties at that tantalising gap at the top of your thighs. Your black-sheathed legs seem to go on for miles until they reach those wicked heels, bringing to mind the time you told me you preferred to be “fucked in stockings.”

Again I sense the hand of Julie somewhere in all this, but any sense of intrusion is overtaken by a mounting lust, which must be only too evident from the state of my rapidly burgeoning stiffy; the involuntary flick of your tongue across the corner of your mouth betrays that you have noticed my predicament.

“Well, what maltepe escort do you think?” you ask. Despite the roles we are playing I think you are actually quite nervous at this point, beset by the perennial female anxiety of the ages.

“My God, you’re… well you’re just beautiful. Just beautiful,” is my witty and considered response.

I’ll never forget what happens next. Turning aside to face the light, you let the peignoir slide from your shoulders to land in a dark pool at your feet, in a flash revealing the smooth, pale expanse of your back, its elegant lines interrupted only by the thin black bra strap. You hold your arms out to the sides, and I gaze with wonder at the elastic motion of your satin-clad buttocks as you transfer your weight rhythmically from one foot to the other, trying to imagine the sensation of sliding my fingers into the tight crease of skin where their rounded fullness meets the tops of your thighs, and precisely which feats of wickedness on your person would follow if I ever got the chance. When you eventually turn to face me, your arms are crossed over your torso forcing your boobs together and upwards towards me in a gesture of offering. My gaze is ineluctably drawn to your splendid cleavage as you sway towards me, until it completely fills my field of vision. I’m desperate to touch, and strain at my bonds until you take pity, and leaning over me press my head against your bosom until the combination of the intense perfume emerging from the chasm between your breasts and the heat radiating from your body almost makes me pass out.

Just when I feel as if I’m being buried alive in the most wonderful way imaginable, you step away, and while I pant for oxygen you reach for the second chair beside the dressing table and position it opposite mine, just a few feet away with its back toward me, and gracefully sweeping a leg over the seat to straddle it. Thighs parted provocatively, you cradle a breast in each hand, squeezing and stroking each one almost protectively through the underside of your bra. I watch fascinated as without pausing you turn to the left, slip the strap from your shoulder and pull the cup away, allowing your breast to fall free of its confinement. In the flesh, as it were, it seems if anything even more massive than before, but still sits up firm and proud from your chest – the areola dark and glossy against your pale skin, but visibly puckering as you gently stroke and primp it beneath the nipple. With some effort I raise my head to look at your face, and you return my gaze, a faint smile playing at the corner of your mouth. Your long lashes flick downwards and I understand you want me to watch. I lock my eyes on your nipple – as it begins to swell and protrude you start to tweak it a little more deliberately between thumb and forefinger, your lovely throat pale and tense as you stare towards the ceiling, emitting small gasps of self-inflicted pain and pleasure as you do so. I try to imagine what that stiffening bud would feel like in my mouth, as I knead your ample flesh with my greedy hands. Even as the performance is slowly, painstakingly repeated on your right breast, followed by your reaching behind to unclasp the bra and toss it clear, I’m silently begging you to get up and come back over to me to feed your bursting abundance between my parched lips, each boob in turn at first, and then both forced on me at the same time.

You don’t satisfy my urge, of course, but continue caressing a naked breast in each hand, each nipple dangerously erect and aimed directly at me. Your eyes are closed and mouth half-open to an unknown pleasure, which I desperately try to read in your distant, dreamy expression, all the while powerless to relieve the mounting tension between my own thighs, once again painfully apparent in the tent-like bulge in my briefs. I think at this point I must have groaned with the discomfort, breaking your reverie. You smile at my predicament, rise from your seat and squat in front of me, sliding cool palms up along my tensed legs to my lap, and start to pull down my pants, pausing so I can raise my bum from the seat to allow you to slip them halfway down my thighs, as far as they can go without loosening my restraints. We both stare at my penis, which has sprung up from its nest of wiry curls like a jack-in-the-box to stand a few inches from your face, for several seconds.

Really it’s not in bad shape considering what it’s recently endured – the broad, heavy shaft unambiguously erect, both thick blue veins and tiny delicate red capillaries visible beneath its papery, uneven surface, the deep furrow beneath the purple crown running almost the complete circumference of the tip, surmounted by the glossy helmet itself, now a vivid, angry puce, with a telltale smear of precome already glistening in the dark cleft of the glans. There’s no need for words of introduction — you’ve got to know it pretty thoroughly over the years, and it certainly knows its way around all your major orifices, but I guess it’s nice to take time every now and again… in any case I think it communicated my feelings remarkably effectively for a male organ at that moment.

Once again I catch you licking kartal escort your lips, but this time I feel your breath hot on my prick, stirring it to tense and pulse with a will of its own; quickly you dab a forefinger over the glans to scoop up a drop of precome to moisten your lips, then stand up, lazily passing your tongue over your lips to savour what I’m praying will be just an appetiser.

The next course, however, is to be supplied by you. Returning to your seat, which you now rotate through a hundred and eighty degrees so that it’s facing me, you again sit down with your legs apart. Keeping your gaze fixed firmly on me as if challenging me to look away, you raise your hands momentarily to each side of your head, and then shake out your silky mane, allowing it to slide gracefully past your neck and shoulders and lie on your chest; with a clever flick of your head you cause the loose strands to arrange themselves modestly over the curves of your breasts; I wonder if you’ve practised that manoeuvre at the mirror. Thrusting your chest out you slide your right hand over your belly, passing over the suspender belt and straight into your panties, until it rests squarely over your crotch, all the while continuing to pleasure your nipples with your left. Beneath the thin material I can’t quite make out what you’re doing, but it must be good because you start to squirm and rock on the seat, and a delicate rosy flush forms on your neck and throat which rapidly spreads between your breasts making a lovely contrast with their flaxen veil. I catch a couple of those low grunts of satisfaction which I enjoy inducing myself. By now you are almost oblivious to my presence, and I really like it — I’d be quite happy to join you in auto-stimulation if I could get a free hand anywhere near my cock.

Before your pleasure mounts still further, though, you rise from the seat and move over to the bed, which you mount, carefully positioning yourself before laying back, so that your head hangs over the end close to where I’m restrained, and gracefully, with not a little athleticism (the spectacular development of your bust curtailed a promising gymnastic career, for which I frequently have cause to feel blessed), lift your legs, one kinked to support the other, to point at the ceiling. As you tilt your neck back to look back at me your lovely hair tumbles in a golden cascade to the floor.

From here the view is stunning – beyond your magnificent chest your foreshortened body slopes away from me, to where you’re already slipping your panties over your gorgeous hips, easing them up your legs as far as your knees, at which point you first disengage your left foot, then skillfully send them over into the far corner of the room with a twist of the right. She shoots she scores! Knickerless, you rest your feet on the bed, the cruel heels playing havoc with the sheets, and with thighs wantonly splayed recommence pleasuring your now naked cunt.

I can barely see what you’re doing, but now my attention is drawn to your face – you’re staring at me fixedly, your lips parted to form an inviting crimson ‘O’ which the point of your tongue traces out languorously, reinforcing the message. You know exactly what I’d like to do at that moment, and I know that you know. As your eyes close in ecstasy I experience an agony of frustration, recalling the last time you’d let me have you in this fashion, and the incredible sensation of your throat enfolding my prick as I’d ecstatically emptied my balls. I open my eyes as you moan again, louder this time, and guess that those fearsome talons must be well inside you by now. I feel more powerless than ever, and sense my poor prick must soon explode with all the tension building in me.

After several minutes of this anguish, you relent, pulling yourself up and swinging round of the bed to sit facing me, keeping your legs wide apart. I am flushed and faint; my prick feels about a foot long, and I am so desperate for release, but you have no such intention. With nowhere else to look, I stare at your cunt, forcing my gaze to linger over its topography, which normally I’d have been racing to explore with fingers, mouth or cock. Your bush starts a little more than halfway down from your navel, at first just a few downy wisps barely concealing the skin, then thickening into a chestnut patch of stiffer bristles, trimmed in a neat rectangular strip for bikini purposes, which as they travel downwards grow ever longer and more unruly until by the time they halt at the entrance of your slit a few have formed tiny damp curls as a result of your excitement I’m so glad you don’t shave – I love plunging my nose into that dense fragrant thatch, smelling and tasting your excitement mount as I play my rough tongue over you. Below the bush your skin is a darker, more primitive shade; the deep creases of your outer lips form an enticing inverted ‘V’, but it is the puffy, corrugated folds of your inner lips that fascinate me now; I watch entranced as your fingertips prise them apart to reveal the coral-pink interior, and then slowly slide upwards around your pearly clit, peeping shyly from under its hood. Your hand re-descends, the glossy talon of your middle finger extended, and I hear your low moan as it disappears inside you, curling upwards until it’s buried up to the second knuckle. I look up: you are staring wide-eyed at me, muted gasps catching in your throat as you pleasure yourself exclusively for me.

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