your hips are pinned to the cold, hard top of the kitchen counter, fingertips uselessly digging into the surface in a vain attempt to find an anchor point. the broad, strong, warm body at your back is flush with you like a second skin -- unyielding and imposing, emphasizing the futility of any chance at moving. but why would you want to? why move away from the lazy way his thick hands run across your shape like an artist getting a feel for a canvas?
squeezing your hips like he can mold the curve as easily as clay. kneading into your stomach and thighs like he's testing the give of them, seeing how long he can make the imprint of his fingers last before he can start over with a fresh slate. unapologetically cupping the space at the apex of your thighs in a way that feels almost derogatory; the act of accessing a tool, or toy, to see if it is capable of meeting his satisfaction.
your knees start to twitch in the impending doom of them giving out entirely, lungs expanding too far to try to combat the light feeling appearing at the forefront of your mind.
"sir?" you ask, nearly cringing at the breathless shake of your own voice. all you get back is an inquisitive hum that vibrates along your back, hands never stopping in their assessment of you. "are you going to fuck me?"
there's a momentary pause that makes you feel like maybe you've said the wrong thing, mercifully ended by an amused exhalation through his nose. a hand drags up the center line of you -- belly button to sternum to trachea -- and then grasps the column of your throat, thumb and forefinger compressing the vein on either side as it slows its ascent. blood flow lessens to a trickle to your brain, making the light feeling exponentially worse, before it all comes back in a rush when he digs into the space beneath the hinge of your jaw instead, forcing your head to tip back against the shoulder behind you. he gives a gentle squeeze, holding your very life in the palm of his hand as his beard scrapes against your ear.
"all in good time, love."
