I know you've been wanting this for a while, needy thing that you are. You almost thought it wouldn't happen! We've been out at a bar, going for a friendly drink as we often do. You've been drowning your sorrows all evening, on the verge of accepting your desires to be a lost cause. I'm sorry, pet. You know it takes me longer than most to develop want for a specific person.
But the fact that it caught you off guard almost makes it better, doesn't it?
Now, you're finally on my table. Bare on the stainless steel and squirming against your restraints. You don't know how it happened—what's happening, really, barely able to comprehend your surroundings. Tsk. I thought I had managed to teach you to pace yourself, though your penchant for overindulgence serves me well in this case.
No matter; seeing as you've finally regained a bit of coherence, I can get started. Your questioning, anxious mumbles fall on deaf ears as I approach the table. Clad in nitrile gloves, I let my hands trail your limbs, gaze clinical, before squatting down and leaning in to get a closer look at your right arm. I will examine your every inch and crevice.
I do so methodically, moving from the top of your body down to your toes, all the while poking, prodding and squeezing at the pliant, soft flesh beneath my rubber gloved fingers and scrutinising stare. My probing hands leave your restrained limbs aching dully.
When I'm finished, as you're still out of it, I bring you back to your apartment and tuck you in. Come morning, you won't know whether everything was just one of your silly, hopeless, wet dreams... though with a bit of luck, if you're quick to bruise, you will have carried the proof of my examination with you.
