Reversal:Curio Vignettes 03(9)

By: Cara McKenna



Her skirt drops in a whisper of silk. I’ve never watched her this way before. In fact I can’t recall a night when I wasn’t the one to undress her. My mouth waters. I’m a hungry man forced to watch a feast laid out, not yet allowed to taste. She steps out of the garment, standing between my knees at the edge of the bed. She strokes my hair with lazy distraction, traces the outline of my face. I stare up into her eyes, the angle reminding me of every succulent minute I’ve spent between her legs, kissing her sex. Her thumb follows the curve of my lips.

“Lie down.”

I do as ordered, head on the pillows and arms draped behind in a gesture of obedience. She nudges my legs apart and kneels between them, gaze roaming my body like a landscape.

“You’re so handsome.” Her throat tenses as she swallows. The heat in her eyes is nothing new, yet it seems that way. So often her lust is framed in awe, but tonight there’s something predatory about her. It quickens my pulse.

Smooth palms stroke my shins, my thighs, skirting my cock to slide up my abdomen and chest, then down my ribs. My breath grows short. My fingers curl, arms tense from wanting to move, to touch her in return.

Her attention is at my hips, thumbs following the contours of the muscles there. She slips her fingers under the band of my shorts and draws them back and forth, back and forth along my belly. She does the same to the hems at my thigh, a thrilling tease against the sensitive skin.

Take them off, I want to say. Take them away and touch me. Suck me. Make me so hard it hurts. Take my cock inside you and use me until the ache is so sharp I’m begging, and say my name when you come.

But I don’t get to make demands.

Instead I let my breathing grow shallow and loud, let her hear what so few do outside those frenetic final moments of sex—my helplessness. My need. I groan softly, the sound saying, Touch me. Please.

Her taunting hands edge closer, closer to the ridge of my erection, close enough that I can feel the pull of the silk against my pulsing skin, and that alone is enough to make me moan. My hands twitch and rise, ready for more. Ready to push my waistband down and do what she won’t, stroke my flesh and end this torture. But I stop. I lay my palms flat to my stomach, willing them to behave.

Oh she’s mean. She toys with the fabric, drawing it taut—to outline my shape or purely to torment me, I don’t know. I shift my hips, intensifying the sensation.

“You want more,” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

Her thumbs trace me, their nails drawing fiery-hot stripes down the sides of my erection.

“Please.” I shut my eyes and my hands curl into fists atop my middle.

She touches me—a soft sweep of her knuckles or fingertips over my balls then another, lower. There’s tenderness as she cups and fondles but I want more. More intensity, more of everything. The silk binds my cock, maddening. Everything I’ve trained myself to suppress in aid of spoiling my lovers gnaws at me, greedy and impatient. I want callous, tactless male things. To expose myself to her like an animal in heat, ease the skin down until I’m completely bared. I want her eyes on my hard flesh. I want her hands, her mouth, her cunt. Want her on her hands and knees. I want to punish her for teasing me this way, remind her which of us does the fucking, which takes what they’re given.

But all that aggression dissolves the second she touches my cock. I tremble as the pads of her fingers run up along my ridge, gasp as they brush my head. Cool air caresses my fevered skin and she’s inching the band down. I open my eyes, draw my knees in so she can strip my shorts completely. Suddenly I have what I wanted so violently moments ago, to be exposed to her. But on my back I feel a shiver of vulnerability. Not an unpleasant sensation, I admit. Being at her mercy is taboo—an enjoyable twinge, unlike the paralysis of being at the mercy of my own compulsions and fears.

She draws her palm along the sensitive underside of my cock. “Better?”

“Yes.”

I watch her hand and the sight draws my desire into a fist, hot and tight in my lower belly. Her touch grows steadily gruffer, until I’m stiff as stone in her hand, until my skin and her palm grow damp, the strokes dragging with exquisite friction. My back arches, hips seeking more. She pushes me flat with her free hand.

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