Light streams in, rendering her nearly invisible as she moves toward the window. Reaching the opening, she turns her head to the side, allowing me a view of her face, her gaze directed pensively downward into the room.
She turns back to look at me, again veiling her face in darkness. Her shorts drop to the floor, and I involuntarily strain at my bonds, yearning to see her shadowed vulva.
A husky voice reaches out to me: “So, Meestah Duneld, do you have someteeng for me today?” There is a playful lilt to her speech, the mispronunciation of my name seemingly her little joke. She’s Jamaican, or African, or something. I’ve never been able to find out since conversation with her is forbidden, and her brother won’t tell me much.
She steps forward and reaches down, fingers encircling my erection. As she strokes it languidly, her other arm sweeps to the side, indicating the bare room. Her attention returns to my swollen member. “Is dis all you left me to sit on?” She releases me and returns to the window.
I don’t speak because that’s the rule. Break it and she leaves, and who knows how long before her brother comes to unbind me.
She removes her top, but again the incoming light shadows her. She bends her left arm to cup her breast, though I infer this more than see it. Her right arm bends slightly: she must be reaching for her sex. My cock twitches.
I construct a picture of her grasping her breast, twisting her nipple, as she fingers her clit. Do I hear her breath quicken, or is that just my imagination?
She turns sideways a bit, enough to outline her right hand on her crotch, and to throw her left breast and the hand mauling her nipple into bold relief. Her eyes are shut, face relaxed, mouth slightly open, moans beginning to come forth.
“Do you like to watch me, Meestah Duneld?” she asks, her voice even lower, rougher. I dare not speak, dare not utter the demand inflaming my brain: that she pierce herself with my manhood.
She drops her hands to her sides, a false submissive gesture. “I save myself for you.”
“Get on with it then,” I think. ”Hurry.”
But there will be no hurrying this one. She approaches again, and reaches down to lightly brush her nails across my scrotum. ”Tell me then,” she says, pronouncing it “‘den”. ”How do you wan’ me today?” As if I had a say in the matter.
How do I tell her that I want to make love to her, endlessly, but as equal partners, no bondage, no games, just two becoming one? But with her it’s this or nothing. Her way or the highway.
She straddles me, breasts almost close enough for me to lick, kiss, suck. The wanting in my manhood is a painful throb. She puts her hands on my shoulders and begins to lower herself. “Do you still like dis, Meestah Donald? Are you bored wit dis?”
If only I were. If only I didn’t think of her constantly, the need always an awareness in the background, interrupting, asserting, making normal thought impossible.
“Perhaps dis will please you, Meestah Duneld.” With that she lowers herself until her nether lips barely caress the head of my member. She takes one hand and pushes my cock backwards so that further descent causes my manhood to run up along the crack of her ass. Down she goes, then up, her pelvis tilted so that I’m now rubbing against her vulva.
“Are you dying to entah me, Meestah Duneld?” Always the mocking tone, as though I am some pathetic toy she’s been given to play with. Her juices run down my cock, down her leg. I have never seen a woman get so wet, yet her control is absolute. I want to crack that facade, but I can hardly move, and could barely speak even if allowed.
Finally she raises up a bit more, and my cockhead releases itself from her cheeks and, like a homing warhead, points towards its target. She lowers herself and the tip begins to part her flesh.
Suddenly she reaches down and, grasping me, gives a few quick strokes. I gasp. ”Good, Meestah Duneld … I was worried I be rushin’ you.” Rushing me? Shit! I was beyond ready to fuck her before she ever entered the room, and the delay has been unbearable. ”Jesus, do it NOW,” I think.
Finally she resumes the docking maneuver and slowly, oh so slowly, glides downward until she’s impaled to the hilt. I’m enveloped in hot slick wetness and bite my lip. I could have come right there, was aching to come, but … no, not yet. She lifts up and repeats her skewering, and it’s as though my entire body has become an extension of my member. I try to raise up and bury myself further, but the bindings do not allow it. She notices my straining. “Now, Meestah Duneld, why not jus’ relax an’ enjoy da ride?” She takes me to the precipice again and again, somehow knowing just how much I can take. Would an observer grasp the subtext - that she is torturing me, allowing me no control, ever the cool customer? But then she astonishes me as her facade finally crumbles … her pace quickens, and she leans forward into a kiss, her tongue exploring, lips wetly caressing mine as her legs begin to tremble. With this I can hold back no longer; a hot needle of pleasure/pain rises from the root of my cock as I explode, while she grips me convulsively, her moan a deep growl accompanying her completion.
Just that quickly, it’s over. She dismounts and, turning toward the window, wordlessly snatches up her clothes and strides out of the room.
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