I’m feeling decidedly slutty so I’m resolved to give Seth what he’s been wanting all this time. Hopefully it will be the most memorable birthday present he has ever had. It will certainly be one hell of a surprise when I turn up at the hotel out of the blue to deliver his kinky treat. It was the four-poster that instilled the thought. Once I’d found out he’d bagged himself one of the posh establishment’s feature suites, the seed of an idea began to form within. And since I am secretly such a dirty girl, anything that provokes me to use words like ‘seed’ and ‘within’ in the same sentence whilst he is on my mind simply has to be pursued.
Seth is many women’s idea of the perfect man and there were a lot of jealous faces at the wedding. He is handsome and fit. He is charming, open and very sexy. He works hard and brings home the bacon. He gives a lot and asks for little in return, which is why it bugs me so much to have him deprived in the bedroom. I have plenty of sleepless nights mulling over him and his particular kink. I’ve opened bottles of wine and had Carla and sometimes even a couple of my other friends round to discuss the issue. However, the fact still remains that due to certain apparently insurmountable reservations, poor, lovely Seth quite rightly feels himself doomed to go through life without having his naughty fantasy come true. It made my heart bleed to think I couldn’t act to change it. My one immediate aim should be to somehow make it happen for him. Then I heard about this hotel trip and all my ideas suddenly crystallised.
I’m amazed the thought hadn’t come to me sooner, although this instance does seem unique in its potential. He goes away often to present on courses, although usually further afield. Here he is a mere twenty miles away in deepest Oxfordshire, leaving him well in range of a swoop by Yours Truly. Any visit must be of a hit-and-run nature because wives and girlfriends are never allowed to tag along. Normally only a single room would be booked, but it seems his colleagues are keenly aware they have made him cancel his day off and his birthday plans at very short notice, just to shore up their shortfall on this course. Added to that, he must undertake the bulk of the work, including the morning presentation on Day Two, straight after breakfast, which would mean a cripplingly early start if he was to travel from home, despite its closeness to the hotel. The plush room is thus compensation for spoiling his birthday, and since they are making this effort it’s only fair that I also do my bit.
The short notice has stopped me dwelling upon the gravity of my plan. Better to just leap right in without thought. The longer I don’t act the harder it will become. Everything seems to fit so why not just go for it? The preparation is minimal. I’ve ascertained what time he and his colleagues are having dinner in the hotel restaurant, so I know when to make my unseen arrival. The bedposts have been provided so really it’s just a question of finding something to secure the wrists with. Seth also likes the idea of using a blindfold. I’m sure a sleep mask would do the job and since the hotel’s website says they provide such things in their suites he should be in luck. He likes the idea of a gag too, but that’s not something I’m going to have lying about the house so he will have to do without. I know this is supposed to be about him but I also need to consider my part in proceedings. I mean, it is a really, really big thing I’m going to do. I need to ensure it goes the way I see it in my head. I’m sure he will realise it is better like this.
The toughest part will be securing entry to his room without his knowledge, so that I am already in place on the bed on his return. I will need a room key, and the receptionist might not want to do that without checking with him first. It is too risky to just turn up and hope, so I decide to ring first. The female receptionist sounds approachable, so I give her the whole blah-di-blah backstory on Seth: how I am his wife of a month; how his work is going to make me miss this, his first birthday with us as a married couple; how this date is also something of an anniversary for us since we met five years ago on this very day at his party; how I’d love to sneak into his room to give him a surprise gift of my own.
I try not to make it sound dirty. I don’t mention the black net stockings I will be bringing in my bag to be used as wrist restraints. I don’t fill her in on Seth’s long-time bondage fantasies and why I have suddenly decided that this is the perfect time to do something about them. I will let her draw her own conclusions about what my ‘gift’ is to be. Seth must have checked in by now so she will have already seen what kind of a dreamboat he is and why I cannot bear to pass up this opportunity. Hopefully she will not let jealousy stand in the way. She tells me she will have to clear it with the manager first. I tell her to do so, and that I will be along before eight that evening, hoping this will present them with a fait accompli.
Frankly they should let me in because it is a waste of a room otherwise. I see from the pictures that the hotel is a beautiful Tudor manor house in red brick and black timbers. The front is wisteria-clad. The lawns are immaculate and surrounded by box hedging, and there is a walled herb garden too. The rooms are sumptuously appointed and sympathetic to the age of the building, hence the four-posters in the feature suites. However, let’s be honest, four-posters are Sex Beds. They call his room the Wolsey Suite but they might as well have called it the Bondage Bedroom. Such beds are a kind of jokey hint that we stiff-upper-lipped Brits aren’t averse to saucy antics after all. Never in the history of hotel-room booking has a four-poster suite been reserved without some accompanying nudge-nudge, wink-winkery. It’s almost the law. So, having seen that Seth has been booked singly into such a room, they should be glad I plan to turn up to make the best use of it.
Somehow I manage to keep my legs crossed all afternoon, a feat I normally find nigh-on impossible. The nerves bite as the hour draws near. For the first time I begin to think of how it might backfire. However, my naughty side won’t be denied, and it drives me on. I go over my stuff. There are things to be secreted that I don’t want spilling out of my handbag at reception as I search for my purse. I have the genius idea of wrapping them as presents. I still have the boxes they came in so no one will be able to guess what is concealed beneath the gift wrap.
I also decide to wear the stockings rather than hide them in my bag as originally planned. The evenings are just about cool enough for hosiery and I think I can avoid looking too much like a tart. I settle on wearing black: a simple blouse and a knee-length skirt. I have to wear heels, of course, but I’ve dispensed with any kind of cleavage display, to keep the look sophisticated rather than flirty. It’s my bottom he most lusts after anyway, not my breasts. From behind her desk the receptionist might think Seth has somehow got himself hitched to a consummate prude, and let’s face it, she would be right.
I check my watch yet again and do the calculations. I want to be there in good time. Suddenly it’s crept up on me and I realise I must go. I take a deep breath, check my handbag again, ask myself for the umpteenth time if I’m sure I know what I’m getting myself into, then get in the car and drive before I lose my nerve. The journey is easy and I know exactly where I am going. I am impelled there through anticipation despite the growing butterflies. I must be bold or things will fall down. I pull into the hotel driveway at 7.15. If I am right he will still be in his room, so it is time to bring Phase One into operation.
I park up and breeze into reception. The girl there turns out to be the one I spoke to earlier. She also turns out to be much better looking than she sounded on the phone. With me in this mood I can’t help but eye her up even if I am trying hard not to appear like a hussy. I think she notices but I’m not sure the manager arrived in time to catch me gawping at her backside as she bent to find me a form. I try to keep up my deception as the good wife, there merely to deliver a surprise gift, rather than being there to provide the Birthday Boy with the kind of kinky sex he has been hankering after for so long.
The manager’s smiles mask his suspicion. He doubtless suspects a scam, in which I gain access to my supposed husband’s bedroom without his knowledge only to fleece the room and disappear back into the night. He wants me to fill out a form, which I am OK with. He also wants me to leave a credit card. I agree, but point out that although it is current, it is still printed with my maiden name, me not being organised enough yet to have changed my details. He studies the card, the suspicions starting to strengthen. I say I am happy for him to take my picture on his phone for added security. I then tell him I want a table for dinner at eight and to pay now for a bottle of champagne to be delivered to the suite at nine. This convinces him I am neither thief nor con-artist, and thus I get my very own key to the Wolsey Suite. With this victory sealed I sweep out of the hotel again and go and sit in my car for a while to catch my breath and bask in the smugness of my success.
I am just about on schedule. I look at my phone, studying the text message I have typed in readiness. The wording didn’t take long to compose. It was the first thing that came to me and I think it sums up my thoughts very succinctly. It says, very simply:
I want us to fuck tonight.
I press the button to send it and my belly flips because it has begun. I can almost see the fragments of the message flitting through the ether into the grand hotel entrance and up the stairs to his room. I hope he is naked when he receives it, still wet from the shower. I hope his prick springs up as he reads what I’ve written. I hope he gasps and has to grab his stiff cock from the jolt of excitement my words bring. The urge to masturbate sweeps over me again, fuelled by a combination of excitement and nervousness at my reckless action. I practically have to sit on my hands to prevent me tugging up my skirt right there in the hotel carpark. I told myself before to keep calm at this point. A reply won’t be immediate if he is still in the shower or dressing. He most certainly is not used to getting such messages from me, so it will come as a bolt from the blue, one he will no doubt need time to consider. Still, when five minutes have crept by with no response, my jitters worsen. Maybe it was just too rude, too unexpected. Maybe he thinks it is a prank. Perhaps for some reason he can’t read it – it would be just my luck to have picked the one day he left his phone at home, or had the battery run flat.
I jump when my phone beeps to show a message received. My hands are shaking. I rush to read his reply, hoping he will stick to the script I have played out in my head. His message is pretty much as I thought it would be. It says:
!!!What???
I smile because I can picture his surprise and because I already know what to say next. I type quickly and send my reply:
I want to give you a birthday present you will never forget. I want to come all over your cock.
He is too cool and too self-assured to mince his words. My message will shock him but I have nailed my colours to the mast and I am sure he will do the same. I am correct. His reply comes back quickly:
We both know that can’t happen.
Little does he know it both can and will. This conversation is going almost exactly as I had played it out in my head, so I know my next line:
It can, even if someone has to be tied to the headboard to make it happen.
That’s the killer line, the one to slay him. I guess it stunned him into silence because there is a little while before I get his answer:
It’s a lovely thought, but …
But nothing, Seth.
I leave him hanging with all this in mind, not wanting to spring the surprise too quickly. My breath is coming in heaves and I have to concentrate to bring it under control. That last text of mine will have struck right at his heart. I picture him standing, staring at his phone and wondering what to make of my messages. I imagine his beautiful cock hard from the thoughts I have given him, him there naked with his prick stretching out, swollen with rude ideas. I can see him clearly in my mind’s eye and that gets me back on top of things. He will be rushing now, aware that he will be late down for dinner. He might have to squeeze his still thickened fat prick into his tight cotton boxers. His head will be a jumble, that one word ‘tied’ inducing all sorts of images. I bet he thought he would never have such promises made to him, least of all by me.
At 7.50 I am ready to sneak back into the hotel. I go to the bar area to await my table. From my vantage point I can see through a glazed partition into the dining room. His group are there, already into their starters. I see him and my heart leaps. He is looking wonderful in a lilac shirt, open at the neck. He scrubs up very well in smarter clothes. It is odd to watch him candidly, knowing he cannot see me. His cheeks are a little flushed and I know it’s a hangover from the excitement of my texts. I bet he is dying for my next one to arrive, hoping that I will keep up with the flirtation, even if it makes his crotch bulge under the table. Despite the shock I’ve given him he is just about managing to be his usual charming, humorous self. Being centre stage is natural to him. Some think him a bit brash and selfish but they don’t know him well enough. Self-confidence is a gift and he wouldn’t be who he was or where he was without it. Too bad that marriage has dampened his adventurous side, but that is all about to change.
I want him, desperately. I almost want him enough to slide from my stool at the bar and march in there to brazenly bare myself for him and tell him to come and get it. I have never been so horny for him and he deserves it. He deserves me in this mood. The waiter tells me my table is ready and I stand slowly and prepare myself for my grand entrance. I wish I’d worn a shorter skirt to show more of my stockings off. I am glad this one at least is tight around my curvy behind. In I go, eyes fixed his way. I know he likes to surreptitiously check out other girls so he won’t allow the entrance of any young female to pass him by.
His eyes come to mine and I watch the flicker of appreciation followed by recognition and amazement. His jaw drops open. I know he will be feeling the same shiver that is currently sweeping through me. His belly is probably doing as many cartwheels as my own. He says nothing. He watches as I sit at my table not ten feet from his and calmly study the menu. I told him it was going to happen. Now he might begin to properly believe. Before the waiter has a chance to leave I’ve ordered a plate of Chicken Something and a glass of white wine. I’m hungry for more, in truth; the nerves have left me famished but I need to be finished and upstairs for when the champagne arrives.
I don’t look at him. I try to put on an air of nonchalance as I compose my next text message:
Did you ever dream you would have your naughtiest fantasies come true, knowing that your wife was the biggest prude on the planet?
I run through the sequence of my plan again in my head and then press ‘send’. The double beep of his phone, heard above the chatter at his table, tells me that the message has landed. I still don’t look up, although I know his head is bowed as he reads it. He cannot reply without drawing attention to himself but I know he is dying to. I can feel his eyes burning into me. I know he wants to be inside me. I feel a swell of power in my belly, which drives away the prior self-consciousness. It feels fabulous to be here now, so close to him yet distant, seducing him without even opening my mouth. I send him another text:
The stockings I’m wearing will act as the ties.
His phone beeps and he fumbles beneath the table to read it. I even bring my legs out from under the table and pretend to adjust my shoes, just to give him a better view of my fishnets. I’m sure he wants to vault over and shag me where I sit. Their main meals arrive and their conversations are replaced by noises of appreciation and the clatter of cutlery on china. I compose another text, knowing he is watching me, this one designed to leave him in no doubt about my slutty boldness. It reads:
I’m not going home tonight until I have fucked the arse off you.
That one has to make his cock stiff, even if all the others have not. He loves my smutty side. My food arrives too and I dig in, glad it gives me something other than him to focus on. The chicken is delicious and the wine well needed. I’m feeling far more relaxed now, my stomach calm enough to accept the food. I’m sat here all alone but I feel fine. I’m surrounded by oak-panelled sumptuousness, eating excellent food, and I don’t feel ridiculous. I’m feeling like I’m starring in my own private period drama. God, I love hotels like this one – there is just something so naughty about them, like they are specifically designed for trysts and improper liaisons.
Think about it – after you have been spoiled by all the grandeur, once you are in your room that’s all it is: a room with a bed in it. What else is there to do but use the bed? There will be a bathroom, usually smarter than the one you have at home, kitted out with expensive soaps and hand creams. The bath always looks big enough for two and you can run it as deep as you like. Everything is there to prepare you for a long night of passion. Champagne can be had without need of a shop or a fridge to chill it. In the morning dropped towels and unmade beds will be seen to by an invisible maid. All your secrets will be cleansed by ones who know only of discretion. All seems sumptuous and thrilling, most especially the scintillating thought of having sex in an unfamiliar place, in someone else’s bed, knowing that you need not worry about leaving any evidence behind.
You can be whoever you want in such places, sign in with any name, create whatever fiction you desire. It feels more fantasy than reality, and that will help me go through with it without thought of consequences. It seems ridiculous that anyone could get so het up about what I plan to do with him tonight. It’s only a couple of wrist restraints, that’s all – just a bit of trust in your partner and the acceptance of some adventure. It’s merely a couple of knots and maybe a blindfold, nothing more. In these surroundings you would think it perfectly natural. With the bed they have provided it seems stupid not to. It’s just a bit of nothing-to-be-alarmed-about, good old-fashioned English bondage. With maybe a bit of bum-sex thrown in, just for good measure.
Their plates are being cleared and I can sense he is itching to talk to me. He surely won’t be stupid enough to approach me at my table. I need to be elsewhere, but I don’t want him to follow me out. I compose my final text. I bide my time until the waiter comes to take their dessert order and then I send it. The message reads:
I will be waiting for you.
I hear the double beep on his phone and watch his furtive efforts to read it. One of his colleagues loudly jokes,
‘Is that your new missus, checking up on you?’
There are laughs all round and I snatch a glimpse of him to see his face flush a little. He mumbles the reply,
‘Yeah, something like that.’
I get up and leave just as he is about to give his order to the waiter, knowing he cannot follow.
Indeed, ‘something like that’. There’s the thing, you see: I am not Seth’s wife. That frigid cow Carla is. I might have ended up married to him, if things had gone differently. We both met him on the same night, at that party for his birthday five years ago today. I fancied the pants off him then and told him so too. Unfortunately I drank a little too much and got waylaid and ended up in some cupboard with Andrew Bloody Mathis. Carla ended up with Seth, and they have been together since. OK, they are a good couple, in most respects. He and I would have been a much better couple. It is easy to pretend to be his wife because it is a fiction I often play out in my head. I have always flirted with him but never once pushed it – even though I know things could definitely happen between us – all because she is my friend.
But she keeps coming to me moaning about their sex life, about how kinky she thinks he is because he wants to try a bit of bondage. She tells me all in great detail. I get to hear all about Seth, every little thing. I know him intimately, better than he realises, because of the secrets Carla seems compelled to share. I welcome these extra insights into his character, but not the way she puts him down. If she cannot love him for what he is she doesn’t deserve him at all.
However much she claims she loves him she still uses the bondage thing against him, like he is somehow failing and betraying her for wanting to try something barely a notch up from vanilla sex, like he is disgusting to ask her to indulge him. I simply cannot see it that way. It sounds so fabulously exciting, so gloriously intimate. It drives me spare that she is such a ridiculous prude. I hate that having claimed him she now wants to snuff out his passion when there are others who would die for a chance to share in it. I get to spend evenings drinking wine and pulling my hair out as she moans about how perfect he would be if he wasn’t such a perv. I said to her, little more than a month ago I said it, at her hen night,
‘If you can’t make him truly happy why are you going to marry him?’
‘Because I love him,’ she replied, ‘and I’m hoping he will change.’
He gives her everything and all he asks is this one little thing in return, but she just can’t bring herself to do it. Well, I can. She might be my friend but Seth is too, and he is far too downright gorgeous to go to waste like this, to be trapped like this. What she doesn’t know won’t harm her, but I can’t let him suffer in silence when I am longing to make it right.
I enter the Wolsey Suite and flick on the light. There is the bed, not as big as I’d imagined but definitely suited to my purpose. The champagne will be here in ten. I estimate Seth will be another half-hour, holding out for a decent period before making his excuses and leaving the others to drink the night away. I kick off my shoes and sit on the bed to carefully remove my stockings. I tie one, by the end, to each of the posts at the head of the bed, then lay them out upon the crisp white pillows, so they are clearly visible. I go into the bathroom to prepare as best I can before the champagne arrives. The porter brings it at nine sharp, and sits it in an ice bucket near the bed. I don’t care that he can see the stockings tied to the posts. Let him think what he likes; he doesn’t know me. Let him scuttle off and wank over it for all I care. Hotels are for fucking and that’s what I’m here to do.
I pour myself a glass of bubbly, take out the two wrapped parcels from my bag and place them on one of the bedside chests. I then strip off my skirt and blouse and go finish my ablutions. I’m feeling in control. There is only one obstacle to overcome and that is the matter of his wedding vows, so recently uttered. He and I, though, we have always had a special understanding, an agreement that we would both one day make it happen, even if it was supposedly said in jest. I know what to do, just in case he does have any second thoughts. I remove my bra, place a pillow at the very end of the bed and bend myself over it, so my body is flat on the mattress whilst my feet stay on the floor and my bottom is pushed up by the pillow. It will be the first thing he sees as he enters. He’s not going to be able to say no to that.
On a whim I go for broke, reaching down and raising my hips to push my knickers down around my thighs. I should take them off but there is no time. I can hear the fire door opening in the corridor and I know it is him approaching. He is going to get his first view of my bare arse. Let’s hope he hasn’t brought anyone with him! I must look such a slut with my panties half down. Good. I know he will see my wetness but I don’t care – he caused it, after all. I hear the key in the lock and then the sound of the door opening, followed swiftly by him gasping and saying my name in beseeching tones. Well, he can beseech until he’s blue in the face – I’ve told him what I’ve come for and I’m not leaving without it.
I don’t move or look around. The door shuts and I can picture him coming towards me, the bulge at his crotch swelling dramatically, his eyes wide and fixed on my round stuck-out bum. Still without turning I say,
‘I don’t want kissing, I don’t want to fall in love with you. I just want to give you the most memorable night of your life.’
He can’t refuse that. I roll onto my back, my bottom now on the edge of the bed and my feet flat on the floor. His saucer eyes travel down my body, down from my breasts to my bare sex. I splay my thighs as far as my constraining knickers allow and give myself a little rub down there because I, unlike his prissy ice-cold wife, am a terribly filthy little slut. I push myself upright and he comes to me. I can see the swell at his crotch, longing to be freed. I undo the buttons at the bottom of his shirt and he quickly sees to the ones at the top, so that in seconds it has been thrown off and his lovely muscular torso is on show.
I go for the belt buckle next and down come his trousers, exposing a pair of tight boxers almost identical to those I’d imagined. The bulge beneath the thin fabric is defined, a thick curl stretching the fabric as it fills. Five years. Five long, frustrating years I’ve wanted this cock in my mouth. I pull at the band of his boxers and down they come, spilling out his beautiful, warm erection right in front of my face so I can smell it. I watch the rapid final swell now it is free, the bob and pulse from the surge of blood. I see the thin clear stickiness already present at the tip, a sure sign my messages did the trick. I grip the thickness of his meat, my hand looking so small and pale against the darkness of his skin.
He wants me to consume him but I am patient, waiting and absorbing the glory of his prick before hunger finally takes over. I go down on him and he gasps. I bet his wife isn’t this fucking slutty. I slurp and suck and take him deep. He grips my hair and stifles his cries. He crams my mouth, making my saliva flow. He feels so slick, so smooth and lovely. I need this cock inside me. I push him onto the bed and struggle with the tangle at his ankles of trousers and underwear and sock and shoes. He shuffles up the bed till his head rests on the pillow, his fingers already caressing the ends of my stockings, tied in readiness for this moment. He smiles at me, knowing that I know.
I climb back onto the bed, coming up at him slowly. In my head I’m like a stalking panther. I use my tongue on his thighs, lapping the skin there, in towards his privates. I run my long nails down his legs as I lick the skin near his genitals. I take his heavy balls into my mouth and give them a quick wet sucking. I lap the length of his shaft along its stretched underside, from balls to tip. I flick the glans rapidly with my tongue, in my mind’s eye more snake now than panther. He wants another sucking but I move on, my breasts sliding over his privates as I move up upon him. I lick his belly and his chest, both nipples in turn. Then I am on him, looking down into his eyes, feeling his iron-hard prick pulsing against the length of my wet slit.
He has to bear my weight and he does. I need both hands free. I take the end of one stocking and wrap it around twice, quite tightly, so that his wrist is secure. I fasten it with a single knot. I can feel his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths beneath me. I give him a little smile and touch my forehead to his, then set about fastening his other wrist. He lies there, always looking into my eyes. I see in his a mix of lust and gratitude. I adjust the stockings in turn, pulling them so that his hands are forced closer to the posts, spreading his arms wide. I reach down and peel off the wet knickers still at my thighs. He is going to get a gag after all. I press the gathering of soggy fabric to his lips and he opens up to take it. I reach for the bedside cabinet and find the sleep mask there. It seems a shame not to let him view it all but this is what he wants, according to frigid Carla.
This is it; this little thing that his wife can’t abide but I find so thrilling. She thinks it emasculates him, makes him a sissy. She cannot bear the thought that her big, strong man wants to be tied up and used. She wants it all to go away. She hasn’t got the imagination to realise the fantasy. She hasn’t got the fire to delight in any power or control over him, but I do. Ever so slowly I mount him, holding his prick beneath me to guide it to my entrance before sinking down upon him centimetre by centimetre. He bites down upon his gag and gasps into it. I ride him, as slowly as my self-control will allow. I am already soaking him, my wetness flowing out onto his balls. It is quite a sacrifice to have the mask and deprive oneself of seeing the bliss on your lover’s face, or their bouncing tits. It must be driving him mad not being able to grab my soft arse and squeeze it. It must be driving him mad, this slow, deliberate, teasing pace, when he is dying to slam into me and explode.
This is all he wants, the thing to make his life so infinitely better. This is what his wife cannot bring herself to give him in any form. All he needs is to be tied up by a dirty hussy and used, to be made a bitch by a bitch. He doesn’t want to be beaten or spat upon or even have abuse hurled at him. He just wants control taken away from him. He wants to be tormented. So I do. I take him all the way deep and grind against his crotch so that I can take pleasure without driving him close to his own finish. I come off him and tease him with my mouth, flicking my tongue across it then taking him deep. I love the taste of my pussy on his rigid prick.
Whilst using my mouth I push my bottom right out towards his face. I’m feeling so horny I might well have done this even if he didn’t have the mask on. I waggle my backside so that the cheeks brush against his face. I know he is dying for me to squash it into him but I won’t. I know he can smell my desire and feel the heat from my pussy. I know he would give anything to feast upon me. Having this power over him is incomparably erotic. Why can’t his stupid wife see this? He is so strong and forceful, so confident, and yet he has surrendered himself entirely.
I wank him with my hand and with my breasts pressed together against his erection; anything to drive him wild. Then I sink back down upon him and ready myself for the final onslaught. I build slowly, pushing my hips back and then sliding forward as I rise up on him, like I’m trying to milk every last drop from his balls before I let him explode. Then the pace quickens so my bottom is slapping against his thighs and my pussy against his crotch, spattering him with my juices. I’m telling him how much I love his gorgeous, thick cock and how much I want to suck it and fuck it and feel it up my fat arse.
That is the trigger for him. He bites down hard on the panties in his mouth and wrenches at his restraints, as if to hold me fast while he fires off his spurts inside me. But I won’t stop. If he were in control the strength of his climax might check his movement; he wouldn’t be able to drive himself on through it. However, he is not in control. He has no way of stopping me wringing every single pulse of electrifying pleasure from his prick and balls. I know that continuing to move upon him will give him a finish of almost unbearable force, but that is what I do. I press down hard on his chest and buck up and down, slapping into him, riding him hard as he tenses and jerks and then sprays my insides with jet after jet of his deliciously hot seed.
When I have drained him dry I climb off. It was a wrenching finish for him but I’m not quite finished. I untie his wrists and remove his mask but leave the gag in place. I don’t want him getting all romantic on me now, not before I’ve shown him his gift. I lie flat on the bed and have him lie on top of me. I can feel his flagging erection wet at my thigh. I rub up against him with my crotch but I know it will need more stimulation than this. He’s looking at me like he loves me. I’m sure if that gag came out he would be gabbling all sorts of sweet nothings in my ear. Maybe we would just be kissing. He is upon me and there are some stirrings from below but he is far from being hard enough to fill my saturated puss. I hold his hands and spread my arms, taking them back towards the posts. I suddenly realise it might look like I want to be tied, so I act quickly. I wind the stockings back around his wrists, one at a time. I hold him to me and grind my wet crotch to his, smiling up at him. Then I slide out from underneath him, leaving him face-down flat on the bed. I secure each wrist with a knot in the stocking.
This next treat is one I have devised myself. It doesn’t come from Carla’s spilled secrets. Instinct tells me that Seth will love it, and I think I understand his naughty side better than anyone. It is not something he would confess to his inhibited wife to wanting but I know he will love me for ever for doing it. I sit at the edge of the bed to unwrap the larger of his gifts. His eyes are already bright with expectation. I’m careful not to let the box give it away before it is open. It falls out onto the bed, a bundle of black vinyl and plastic. I hold it up for him to view properly: a harness fitted with a slender, solid dildo.
There is no trace of shock in his expression but then there is nothing to alarm him here. At six inches it isn’t even as long as his own erect prick and it is far less thick, with a very slight upward curve at the tapering tip. If anything it might be a little small, but I know it will enable me to give him a long, slow, delicious fuck that will be etched eternally in his memory. I unwrap the smaller gift, a small bottle of clear lubricant. Still he makes no sound into the gag. He turns his head so his face is at the pillow, awaiting my pleasure.
I don’t rush. I keep him flat while I ready him. I patiently work the lubricant in and get him relaxed. When the time comes I draw him up to his knees, his face still in the pillow. He surrenders to me quietly. I fuck him just as I had imagined: slow and deep, driving on so my thighs are flat against his behind and holding there before a gradual outward slide. The joy of doing him like this outweighs even my high expectations. Until you have given a man this pleasure you cannot understand. His prick is hard again within the first minute or so. I take ages so that he can revel in his bliss.
I spread lubricant on my hand and reach below to gently stroke his shaft. Only towards the end do I increase my pace, to push him towards a finish. I undo the harness to leave the dildo inside him, and then slide underneath to take him into my mouth. The slickness on my fingers lets them glide rapidly up and down him as I suck, and then he is tensing and gasping into his gag and shooting spurts into my mouth; thinner this time, but no less hot. As he is still shaking and jerking I hear his phone bleep twice. It will be his wife no doubt, the one who selfishly claimed him even though she had no intention of giving him the thing he most wants. That no longer matters one bit, though, because from now on he will always have someone who will.