Image used with permission of Cara Thereon.
Isabelle has come to me ready to play, wearing nothing but a grass green leather harness that frames her perky tits and runs down her belly to disappear somewhere in her crotch. Her black hair is lightly perfumed by the wintersweet tucked into her braids, and her skin is sprinkled with a fine glitter powder that sparkles red and gold beneath the halogen stars in the hall ceiling.
It really pains me to take her coat and bundle her through the spare room door, but I make myself do it. I make myself stuff her hand-written instructions into her palm, and I force myself to close the door and lock it. Then I lean against it for almost five minutes, waging a war with desire. I want to free her, to take her over my knee and blister her ass cheeks with my palm before shoving my fingers into her cunt until she soaks my jeans.
But I walk into the darkened kitchen instead and settle down in front of my laptop. On the screen is Isabelle, standing in the middle of the room I’ve confined her to, looking more than a bit vexed. She’s eyeing the bit of paper I’ve given her as though it might suddenly sprout teeth and take a chunk out of her.
Elbows on the table, I watch her draw in a breath so deep it moulds her skin around her ribs and sharply defines the tendons in her neck. Excitement bubbles in my chest as she smooths out the white slip and takes in the words I’ve written there. There isn’t many of them, but I’ve chosen them carefully. No matter how I deliver them, I’ve always been explicit with my instructions, but this time I’ve opted to be intentionally vague.
And Isabelle doesn’t like that one bit. Oh, the flash in her eyes when she glances up at the camera! She lowers her gaze quickly, but in those few seconds of having her look at me through the screen, I see uncertainty. Defiance, then arousal, and finally acceptance. Then I see the long slope of her back as she turns away and walks, cheeks lightly tapping together as her hips tick-tock from side to side, to the brightly wrapped box I’ve left on the floor.
The absolute grace she moves with never fails to captivate me. She folds herself down in one fluid movement, her shins pressing into the floor at the same time as the palms of her hands come to a rest on top of the box. And there she sits just…sitting.
Is she teasing me?
It’s uncharacteristic of Isabelle to do something like that without me being present in the room so she can gauge how her playfulness is being received, but the way her long fingers trace the snowflakes on the wrapping paper and smooth over the perfectly tied bow… it feels like she’s stalling. Making me wait. Making me squirm.
She sits there, running her fingers along the edge of the ribbon, letting her knees inch outward so that her ass drops closer to the floor. I move closer to the screen, licking my lips because that simple shift has parted her thighs and I know that her pronounced inner labia will now be mere inches from the wood.
I zoom in, just a little, and as I do, she pulls the bow, unties the ribbon, and pushes the glittery paper to the side. A cardboard lid skids a few feet across the floor, and she leans over to peer into the box. My lungs burn as I fill them with oxygen and hold it there. I’m so eager to see what she picks up first and how she interprets my instructions that I forget to exhale.
It doesn’t take her long to choose her first item. Her hand delves into the box, and she slowly withdraws a string of white beads. They spill through her fingers, trail over her thighs. She coils the bumpy strand around her hand a few times and then suddenly whips the shortened length over her shoulder.
And I hear it. I hear the clatter of plastic bashing against plastic, the dripping slap of each bead making contact with her back. She does it again, and again, and I move around in my chair, pushing at the sides in a bid to feel less constricted. That won’t help me, though, because it isn’t the chair that’s becoming too tight. It’s my jeans.
I glance at the swelling mass at the top of my thighs, welcoming it one second and wishing it would deflate the next. Any other day I would give up and give it to Isabelle, but not now. Going in there and bending her over the guest bed will be little more than impatience and I don’t want to spoil my own fun.
When I look back at the screen, I gasp. Isabelle has moved closer to the camera. The toes of one of her feet are propped up on a boudoir chair and she’s leaning forward. My eyes are full of tight asshole, and glittering beads that are being drawn back and forth between hanging, glistening labia. I can hear them whipping through her wetness, I can see them making her lips quiver. Fuck, I want to be on my knees sucking that warm flesh into my mouth, nibbling on it, finding the small nugget that’s nestled at their top so that I can swirl my tongue around it until I’m almost drowned in Issy’s juices.
I’m halfway out of my chair when she flips the bead chain onto the bed. For a second, I just stare at the very edge of the screen, imagining it lying there, thinking about her fluids seeping into one of the fresh pillowcases and wondering if whoever sleeps there next will be subconsciously turned on by the faint, lingering scent of cunt.
I shake my head to dislodge the unwholesome thought as my ass hits the chair. Damn, I should have released my cock while I was on my feet. God knows what damage it might suffer being all scrunched up and bent over on itself behind my buttons.
With a few clicks, I’ve zoomed in on Isabelle’s face. Lowered eyelids, tiny, almost dirty smile with ice white teeth chewing at one corner. I pan down, taking in her heaving chest, her bullet-hard nipples, her sweat-streaked belly. Down I go to wide open thighs and…
Fuck!
Wide open thighs and one small, red bauble. It’s slick so I know that, while I’d been imagining my favourite co-worker being driven to frustration by Isabelle’s musky scent as he tried to sleep, she’d been rubbing her cunt with the ball. She’s doing it again now. Stroking it from top to bottom, wriggling it between her generous lips, pressing one finger against it and rocking it around her clit.
I can tell that she likes it in the way her finger moves. At first, it’s just the tip that touches the ball, then it’s her finger pad, then the whole digit curls around the bauble so she can grind it against her.
I watch her roll it down, see her flinch when the ring at the tip nips her skin. There’s a pause, and in the momentary stillness, I feel my body start to vibrate with tension. With a gentle push the ball parts Isabelle’s lips wider and then it’s swallowed up by her cunt.
Fuck, fuck, fuck…
What follows is the most furious wank I’ve ever bore witness too. Isabelle’s fingers flash over her clit, her lips wave and send spots of fluid splashing over her thighs and up her wrist. I pant so hard I start to palpitate, my thighs tighten, my balls draw closer to my body.
Now, now, now…
Isabelle shrieks the mind-bending shriek that always comes seconds before she does and, to my utter fucking delight, her thighs spasm and a flash of bauble pulses into view. Then it’s gone, sucked back in by that roiling cunt, and when it appears again, I see more of it. Bit by bit, her orgasm pushes that shiny ball out of her body, and as it rolls toward the camera and out of shot, my bent and folded cock beats out a sticky mess right into my shorts.
Panning the camera out again, I watch as Isabelle stops trembling and her breathing slows to normal. She leans over and picks up the fallen slip of paper. I smile as I think about the words I’ve written there. I want you to entertain me. That’s what I wrote on the paper and, by God, that’s exactly what she did.
