I got some last night.
I spent the evening watching a
British special on PBS about Helen of Troy. The narrator,
Bettany Hughes, reminded me of Maggie in some way. This was odd, since they looked and sounded nothing like each other; Maggie was Asian, short, kind of round and curvy, and spoke with an American accent. Bettany Hughes is of European descent, slender, speaks with a British accent. It must have been the way Ms. Hughes would arch one eyebrow and talk about Helen’s “powerful image as a sexual icon” and make the Spartan queen’s life sound so romantic and alive. I remember Maggie talking about Katherine in Shakespeare’s
The Taming of the Shrew the same way.
By the end of the evening I was so freaking hot I figured I’d be up again in an hour, letting my fingers do the loving and thinking of Monsieur.
But Monsieur finally came to bed, after a long session trouble-shooting for some client of his.
[1] I was in my flannel nightie, about as sexy and appealing as Carol Brady on
The Brady Bunch, or so I thought.
He lay down next to me and I turned and put my arms around him. He gently held me, and I moved his hands from my back to cup my ass. He squeezed it gently and I wrapped my legs around his thigh, burying my face in his chest and hugging him tightly. I didn’t want to force it on him; but I really wanted him to know I wanted it. He would alternate between squeezing my butt and running his rough fingers in circles over my ass. I flexed and squeezed my thighs on his knee, and he moved his hands up and down my bottom, squeezing it and slipping his hands in my butt crack. I was pressing my face to his chest, feeling my face flush when he turned and placed his mouth at my ear.
“Tell me, my love,” he whispered.
I gasped.
He pulled me to him tighter, and his thigh pressed into my pussy, mashing into my vulva and forcing it to spread and gush in my panties.
“Tell me, ma chère,” he insisted.
“Oh, Monsieur,” I whispered. “I… I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do, my angel. You know what you want; I wish to hear you say it.”
I reached for his waistband but he held my wrists gently but firmly, and then held them over my head. He was then on top of me, and I felt his erection through our layers of night clothes and my head swirled.
“Tell me,” he said, with his lips on my neck and his voice in my ear.
“I… need you, Monsieur,” I said feebly. My strength seemed to be fading. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, biting, kissing, and teasing. He was unshaven and his day-old beard was rough on my tender skin; it felt wonderful.
“What is it that you need, ma belle?”
“I … oh Monsieur, I am so embarrassed.”
“I love you, dear girl; do not be embarrassed.” His hands were moving from my bottom up to my breasts; he cupped them both in his hands and squeezed them, then his thumbs teased both of them roughly in his fingers. It felt exquisite; I arched my back to force them into his hands.
He let go and looked me in the eyes. “Tell me, or I’ll stop.”
“Oh … Monsieur, please no!”
He leaned over and sucked a nipple in between his teeth, as he gently bit it then sucked it out to its full length. I humped my pussy against his knee but he pulled it away. “Oh, Monsieur, I can’t believe I am this way with you?”
“What way is that?” he asked lightly.
“I’m so … so submissive,” I gasped, trying to force my sex back against his thigh. “I’ve never felt this way with anyone else before.”
“If so, then tell me what you want,” he insisted. “I would like to hear it from your pretty lips. You have said such things before; I wish you to know how it drives me wild.” He lifted up my nightie, exposing me to the open air and sending goose bumps up my body. He tugged my panties down and twisted them around my ankles, binding my feet together. “I love these panties,” he said almost to himself. He pulled my nightie off, and then took his t-shirt off and tied my wrists over my head with it. Then he retrieved the tie from his bathrobe and tied my wrists to the headboard.
Oh, shit, I thought. I struggled, testing my arms and my legs against my bonds.
“You’re quite secure,” he said, as he traced his fingers over my body from my thighs to my neck.
I was inflamed. “Please. Please Monsieur,” I begged. “Please take me now. I’ve been waiting for days.”
He smiled. “You’re so very good when you’ve been waiting. I’m considering making you wait after thoroughly teasing you for the night.” He pulled a nipple between his fingers, watched it stretch out, then leaned over and licked it before sucking it into his mouth.
I arched my back, moving my hips up and down and feeling obscenely wanton. “No, please, God, I’ll do anything.”
“Tell me, you sultry, sexy, naughty woman. Tell me what you are longing for.”
“Please please please … fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck the fuck out of me,” I hissed.
He was on top of me, his tall, lean body against me, his mouth kissing down from my neck, across both breasts. I tried to move my hips to position his cock against my gaping slit but he kept it away. He kissed down my belly to my sex, kissing across it and avoided it, lifting me up by my bottom and kissing down my perineum. I spread my legs wantonly. He turned me over, kissing all over my bottom, spreading my cheeks. I felt a wet finger circle around my anus, then his thumbs pressed on that tender ring.
“Where?” he growled.
“Wha…? Unnnhh…” my eyes closed as his thick finger slid into my anus. I never really liked butt play but this was beyond pleasure. My whole body felt like it had turned into molten lead.
“Where shall I fuck you, ma chère?”
“Oh… my god…. Not there, please, no,” I begged.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “you’re way too big. I don’t think it would … it would fit. I’m afraid of it hurting me.”
He pressed the fingers of his other hand against my vulva. I was on my knees, my chest against the bed. He lined his cock up with the entrance of my vagina, and held it there. He parted my labia and slid his thick cock head up and down my slit, teasing it.
“Oh, Monsieur,” I gasped. I tried to back up against it but the bathrobe tie held fast. My arms were stretched out in front of me, and my ass was as high as I could hold it. His knees were between mine, and he forced my legs slightly apart with his thighs. My ankles were still tied together with my twisted panties and kept me from spreading as wide as I wanted.
“Where shall I fuck you?” he asked me again.
“Fuck me … fuck my pussy,” I begged.
He took this as his cue, pulling my labia apart and swirling his cock head around in my hole, coating it with a layer of my wetness. I could feel it running down my slit, down my thighs, and I moaned.
“Yes,” he slowly whispered, and slid his length into me, slowly, deliciously, and I felt him penetrate me, stretching me, pressing and pushing and parting me.
“Ahh,” I gasped happily.
“There?” he whispered, as he slid into me.
“Unnggh,” I said, delirious, and I nodded, burying my face in the mattress as he took me from behind. He held my hips with both hands and pulled me towards him slowly. I moved my hips forward, then arched my back to give him the best angle.
I looked back at him from beneath my hanging breasts. His balls were tightly packed against his body, his thighs, strong and lean. His hands were all over me. I pulled against the knotted bathrobe tie, and he pushed the last of his length into me. I felt his shaft rub roughly against my clit.
“UNNNGH!” I cried. “ahh-AAH, YES!”
“Hush, love, or you will wake the children,” he said, touching my lips with his wet finger. I sucked it, moaning.
His free hand traveled down to my mons, pressing it; then his fingers circled my swollen clit and mashed it, rubbing it in a circle as he began fucking me in a steady rhythm. “Is this what you wanted, love?” he whispered in my ear.
“Yes,” I hissed, “every day. I need it every day.”
“Oh, no,” he disagreed. “You are so much better if you’ve been denied for a few days. Or even,” he added, picking up the pace, “a week…” a deep thrust, “two weeks…” his balls slapping against me, “I wonder if you could stand a month?” He grabbed my shoulders and fucked me, hard, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
My vision went dark as my mind went elsewhere. Sparks seemed to gather and explode in my eyes. I’m seeing fireworks, I thought, amazed. Then my consciousness left me, for a minute? For five minutes? I didn’t know.
When my eyesight returned, he was beside me, untying my wrists and ankles, and then holding me tightly to his chest. My breath was ragged and I was woozy.
“Do you feel better, darling?” he asked me.
“Oh… oh Monsieur, yes. Yes I do,” I assured him, kissing his jawline and then his lips.
“Good,” he sighed. “I do too,” he added. I sighed as well. He paused. “I love you, darling. I hope you know that – sleep well.”
(I did. I slept like a well-fucked rock.)
