Ready

The rope was luxuriously soft black silk, the thick strands braided around each other like the immensely long hair of some gentle beast reared only for pleasure.

I made a chest harness out of it, draping the rope carefully between Libby's breasts, pushing them up and apart like a very skimpy halter top. The rest of the long rope trailed down to the floor, hanging between her legs, brushing against the wet lips of her pussy.

It was her first time with rope, but she took to it like fish to water, immediately relaxing even further into a state of pliable submission when I tied the scarlet silk blindfold over her eyes.

I pulled her towards me, the rope wound around my hand, and kissed her. Then, stepping around her, I slid the doubled rope in between her thighs, the length of it caressing the length of her pussy, up between her buttocks and secured it to the chest harness at the back. With the last of it, a little worried the rope might not be long enough, I secured her hands behind her back with a couple of coils around her wrists. It was enough, with about half a foot hanging down like a little tail from her bound wrists.

Gently, I pushed her forward on to the bed, where I had piled pillows and a rolled-up blanket for her to lie on, face down, buttocks raised obscenely, giving me a clear view of her dripping pussy from behind. Libby gets very wet, and the glistening between her thighs was almost irresistible. How could I not just put on a condom and slide my hard cock into her?

I'm not sure how. Perhaps it was the voyeuristic enjoyment of stepping back to admire her like this, the paleness of her bottom framed by black satin garters and charcoal stockings with a delicate lace trim, the black silk of the rope matching the scarlet and purple of the blindfold. Even her red lipstick matched the ensemble when she opened her mouth and bit her lower lip in anticipation.

It wasn't time, yet. We both knew she was in for a spanking. It would be a while until I would take advantage of her helplessness with my cock. Now it was time for the sting of my hand...

Waiting, I could hear her breathing like her heart was racing.

Deferral

A friend of mine appreciates the pleasure of endlessly deferred pleasure.

He's spent more money than I care to think about in strip clubs. His fetish, if we can call it that, is for the touch of no-touch, the arousal of detachment. I like to ogle the girls, of course, and I appreciate the occasional lapdance, but the all-night binging that he indulges in just baffles me.

We went out recently, ostensibly to the pub, but ended up at the local strip joint after one pint. I had the feeling he'd been planning this all along. We found a spot, made ourselves comfortable, and within minutes a smiling brunette wearing nothing but a spangly thong sidled up, plopped herself down on the sofa next to my pal, and proceeded to help him pick out girls. I lost count while they pointed around the room at the dancers.

Then Ms. Spanglypants moved over to me. I was lost. Or spoilt for choice. "Um, are you available?" I asked, feebly. She was. The dance was good. Afterwards, she asked me if I'd like to see someone else. I told her not just yet, and sat back to watch the parade of dancers visit my friend, who sat there, lost in contemplation.

There is only so much of the tease I can take before boredom sets in. I want it to be a promise of further pleasures to come, not an activity in itself. But I can understand the pleasure of that arousal, suspended in the repetition of promise and denial.

It was a good evening, but I prefer a strip from someone who intends to take my clothes off as well.

Naked

She let out a frustrated sigh. Sitting on the bed, facing her, I
leaned back and impersonated a relaxed man.

"I don't care," I replied to her wordless impatience. "You will sit
there, still, until I tell you otherwise. And please keep your hands
like that."

Wiggling her hips on the hard, straight-backed chair, I could see what
she was trying to do.

"Does that feel nice? I know you're wet. I know you need a bit of
stimulation. Stop it."

She gave me her best smouldering look, shaking her hair down over her
face with practised insouciance. This was her bedroom, her chair, her
bed. Who was I to tell her what to do in this place?

Yet, she kept still.

Barefoot, in jeans and a slinky black shirt that didn't quite cover
the lace of her bra, she hadn't dressed for keeping her clothes on for
very long. The summer noises on the street outside drifted up to her
4th floor window. I looked out over the rooftops from her window, idly
stroking her arm and shoulder.

I unbuttoned my shirt in front of her, taking off one item of clothing
after another. Pulling my trousers off in front of her, I was naked.

She licked her lips. Smiling.

All her clothes were still on, the shirt clinging to the sweat on her
back. We were just getting started.

I stood in front of her enjoying the slight breeze on my naked skin.

"Come here and open your mouth," I said.

Hungry, she leaned forward.