Primalex
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2007
- Posts
- 6,148
Most often people write how they are and how it would be with them and what they would do to/with the right person.
But why not try the opposite? Why shouldn't I write how it is without me?
There you go, dear reader, the real story of a woman who had to be without me. And while you didn't mind at all so far that you've been without me all the time, maybe afterwards you actually would want that you would feel what she felt, feel again what real desire means and how rewarding the satisfaction can be.
During cocktails, I went to the entry-level guest bathroom when it would have been much more discreet to go upstairs. I was wearing my favorite cocktail/charity “uniform” – a little black dress, of course.
Hardly wore any jewelry – a very understated diamond solitaire on a delicate silver necklace with matching earrings and strappy black heels. In the bathroom, I have a small white and gold boudoir chair. After locking the door, I pulled my dress up when I sat down, and rested my head on the low, cushy back of the chair. For the first minute, I focused on roughly squeezing my breasts, not feathering or pinching at all, but I did smack them once at the same time. Then I raised the hem of the dress up my leg until I could feel the wet of my black silk panties: I just lightly traced over all the wet areas with three fingers, over and over, but never dipping below the lace edge at all. It was starting to get a bit too, um,….difficult, so I got up and went to the mirror to fix myself. I was about to wash my hands when I thought you would like it better if I licked my fingers first. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before the other night when you ordered me to do so, and for some reason, I find it insanely sensual. In the next minute I panicked, feeling I had been neglecting my guests for way too long, so I washed my hands and went back out – with a bit of a smirk on my face, I think.
Dinner was amazing… I was very pleased. Everyone was very relaxed, and conversation seemed to flow very well – even at times – and always with good humor – between tables… (five tables with ten people at each). It was a bit silly, actually… I was so bloody pleased with myself and my secret, dripping, pussy. Really, what do we know about the various people we see socially… maybe all those people left my home and had an orgy in an open field, lol… but I felt decadently sluttish… and, honestly… I was relishing the freedom of not having any choice in the matter – I was doing it for you, not me. Mind games, but it was fun. When the sorbet was served, I knew there wasn’t much more time…. The ‘business’ of the evening would begin when the coffee, fruit, cheese, & chocolates had been brought to the tables. (No after-dinner drinks… I don’t find drunks amusing.)
It had already crossed my mind a few times whether you would enjoy this type of evening, or be so bored witless you would have to spend the whole evening entertaining yourself by giving me horrific, humiliating instructions. While the coffee and last course was being served conversation seemed pleasantly lazy, and I was soooo wet and horny from… everything. So I went inside again, but as the washroom was in use, I started towards the stairs at the front of the house. I have a guest bedroom on that level, with an antique dresser and a matching, semi-attached, mirror that is quite large. I hiked up the front of my dress until I could tuck it into my bra, and then my left hand slid beneath my dress to pinch and pluck at my right breast and nipple while my right hand yanked down the front of my panties and smacked at my pussy. Only for a few seconds, though, because I HAD to touch my clit. It was so fucking, dripping wet and hot! I watched myself – and loved it – would have rolled in the feeling if I could. I’m loving it again now, all over the jitters from earlier.
Anyway, then I really had to get back…
After a bit of a presentation, I asked everyone to hold all their questions until after we played a game that emulated the ‘gift-swapping’ concept. It worked, thank goodness. It allowed people to exchange ideas, opinions, etc., while laughing and mingling, even if for some it was with a bit of initial reluctance. Out of
nowhere I thought of you…. And how I would feel if you arrived and offered everyone blow jobs from me, saying I needed the practice. I could feel myself turning beet-red with mortification, and I could also feel a few drips of my juices overflowing my soaking panties and starting to trail down the inside of my thigh. I didn't even excuse myself…. Just made a beeline for the bathroom, locked the door and finger-fucked myself – HARD – and the way you make me do it. I felt like a madwoman… I swear if I had been in a strange city, around people I would never have to see again, I would have begged. BEGGED, to be fucked, smacked, forced.
But why not try the opposite? Why shouldn't I write how it is without me?
There you go, dear reader, the real story of a woman who had to be without me. And while you didn't mind at all so far that you've been without me all the time, maybe afterwards you actually would want that you would feel what she felt, feel again what real desire means and how rewarding the satisfaction can be.
During cocktails, I went to the entry-level guest bathroom when it would have been much more discreet to go upstairs. I was wearing my favorite cocktail/charity “uniform” – a little black dress, of course.
Hardly wore any jewelry – a very understated diamond solitaire on a delicate silver necklace with matching earrings and strappy black heels. In the bathroom, I have a small white and gold boudoir chair. After locking the door, I pulled my dress up when I sat down, and rested my head on the low, cushy back of the chair. For the first minute, I focused on roughly squeezing my breasts, not feathering or pinching at all, but I did smack them once at the same time. Then I raised the hem of the dress up my leg until I could feel the wet of my black silk panties: I just lightly traced over all the wet areas with three fingers, over and over, but never dipping below the lace edge at all. It was starting to get a bit too, um,….difficult, so I got up and went to the mirror to fix myself. I was about to wash my hands when I thought you would like it better if I licked my fingers first. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before the other night when you ordered me to do so, and for some reason, I find it insanely sensual. In the next minute I panicked, feeling I had been neglecting my guests for way too long, so I washed my hands and went back out – with a bit of a smirk on my face, I think.
Dinner was amazing… I was very pleased. Everyone was very relaxed, and conversation seemed to flow very well – even at times – and always with good humor – between tables… (five tables with ten people at each). It was a bit silly, actually… I was so bloody pleased with myself and my secret, dripping, pussy. Really, what do we know about the various people we see socially… maybe all those people left my home and had an orgy in an open field, lol… but I felt decadently sluttish… and, honestly… I was relishing the freedom of not having any choice in the matter – I was doing it for you, not me. Mind games, but it was fun. When the sorbet was served, I knew there wasn’t much more time…. The ‘business’ of the evening would begin when the coffee, fruit, cheese, & chocolates had been brought to the tables. (No after-dinner drinks… I don’t find drunks amusing.)
It had already crossed my mind a few times whether you would enjoy this type of evening, or be so bored witless you would have to spend the whole evening entertaining yourself by giving me horrific, humiliating instructions. While the coffee and last course was being served conversation seemed pleasantly lazy, and I was soooo wet and horny from… everything. So I went inside again, but as the washroom was in use, I started towards the stairs at the front of the house. I have a guest bedroom on that level, with an antique dresser and a matching, semi-attached, mirror that is quite large. I hiked up the front of my dress until I could tuck it into my bra, and then my left hand slid beneath my dress to pinch and pluck at my right breast and nipple while my right hand yanked down the front of my panties and smacked at my pussy. Only for a few seconds, though, because I HAD to touch my clit. It was so fucking, dripping wet and hot! I watched myself – and loved it – would have rolled in the feeling if I could. I’m loving it again now, all over the jitters from earlier.
Anyway, then I really had to get back…
After a bit of a presentation, I asked everyone to hold all their questions until after we played a game that emulated the ‘gift-swapping’ concept. It worked, thank goodness. It allowed people to exchange ideas, opinions, etc., while laughing and mingling, even if for some it was with a bit of initial reluctance. Out of
nowhere I thought of you…. And how I would feel if you arrived and offered everyone blow jobs from me, saying I needed the practice. I could feel myself turning beet-red with mortification, and I could also feel a few drips of my juices overflowing my soaking panties and starting to trail down the inside of my thigh. I didn't even excuse myself…. Just made a beeline for the bathroom, locked the door and finger-fucked myself – HARD – and the way you make me do it. I felt like a madwoman… I swear if I had been in a strange city, around people I would never have to see again, I would have begged. BEGGED, to be fucked, smacked, forced.
