Tied Up

I smooth my fingers over the fabric of my tie and think of later, when it'll be tied around his wrists. Not tightly, because - and he'd never want anyone to know this - he's not really into being tied up. I think he only does it for my benefit, actually. He knows it makes me hot to see him writhing on the bed, begging to be touched because he can't do it himself. He'll never admit to begging, but he does. His voice turns raspy, stomach muscles quiver when my breath hits his ear, asking him what he wants me to do.

The first time we did it, I remember being so incredibly turned on by the power of it. He had to wait for me to touch him, had to tell me exactly what he wanted. It left me totally in control, which is something he'll never tell anyone else he sometimes allows me. He told me how to touch him, where to touch him. The words across his lips had sounded so desperate, so erotic in the blue darkness of the loft. The sound of his voice, tinged with lust and sex, had made me harder than I could ever remember being.

My fingers itch now to remove the tie, to feel it around my own wrists as he thrusts into me, fisting my cock, making me come all over his hand, a fevered Brian ripped from my lips with the force of my climax. He loves when I say his name during sex, loves hearing that he's the one who's making me feel this way. He doesn't know I know that, but I do. Just like he thinks I don't know that he doesn't really like to be tied up. With me, though, I don't think he minds too much.