If He Knew

Photo from Cherry Red Report.

 
He can’t know.
 
He can’t know the vibrations I feel with every spank, the pressure that builds at the bud, demanding to be uncapped. He can’t understand the weight of breasts bouncing, nipples tightening, as they loose themselves from my bra. I am certain he has no idea of the high-pitched yearning that screams low in my belly as I moan against the mattress.
 
Surely if he knew, he’d reach around and claim a breast, pluck and roll that swollen mound in his fingers, all the while maintaining the downpour of his hand against my cheeks.
 
If he knew, he’d move those stubborn fingers that grip my upper thigh. He’d move them a few millimeters, to the left and up a little. He’d push my button. He’d delve deep, trace circles, tap out an S.O.S. until the swells subside.
 

If all else fails, push your own button.

He would not torment me this way: climbing higher and higher up the ladder just to slide back down again. And again.
 
Almost by design, he teases me until I can take no more when understanding dawns.
 
“Oh, you want to come? You poor thing. I didn’t realize,” he laughs against my flushed neck, as if an apology erases the frustrations of the last hour on the brink.
 
Finally, like he knew my desires all along, his hand captures a breast, squeezes a nipple. His fingers move beneath me to stroke and coax, petting out the mews and purrs from my long neglected pussy.
 
“Come for me, baby,” he invites.
 
I waste no time with an RSVP.
 

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