Brass In Pocket

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Hot silk and velvet steel.

The descriptor whispers through my mind as I gently control the trail of my fingers over his heated flesh, hands stroking his sensitive skin, eliciting stuttering gasps and throaty moans that tear from someplace deep inside his chest. It is an involuntary reaction on his part, a response he can’t control.

He has controlled very little thus far as a matter of fact, and it is precisely that lack of control – and the way he so willingly embraces it – that has him on edge. But edging him, for all its tortuous erotic delight, is not what I want right now.

No. Not right now.

Right now, what I want is for him to cum.

I flash back momentarily to what we discussed earlier, the difficulty in reaching completion, the difference in sensation when it is my hands on his cock as opposed to his own. It is not the same. Even if I use the same pressure on the downstroke, squeeze his shaft with the same intensity, run my thumb over his head with the same motion… Even if I do all the same things with my hands as he does with his own, it is not the same. Because they are my hands. And because it is my hands that are in control. My hands. My fingers.

And my mouth…

Well, that’s just icing on the cake.

Or rather, I think to myself, on the cock. The velvet soft, steel hard, silk slick cock.

The cock that, at this moment, is twitching, burning hot against my hold. The cock that, with every stroke and swirl of my fingertips, every pump and circle of my fist, every lave and suck from my tongue and lips, is drawing ever more desperate groans from the man I am with.

And while his struggle is beautiful to witness, it’s time for it to end.

I keep my hands in place but still their movements. Then, poising my mouth at the head of his dripping tip, I tell him it is his turn to take control.

Or, more accurately, to share control.

Because it will still be my hands, my mouth. My will. But in allowing him to regulate his movement, to regain that frisson of control, I will get what I ultimately want: his cum.

“Move against me,” I say before swirling the tip of my tongue against his dripping slit.

And when his hips begin their gentle thrusts into my fists, I massage his cock with my hands, suckling the tip of his swollen head while looking up, communicating clearly with my eyes what it is my fingers demand:

Cum for me.

♦

Listening to Chrissy Hynde’s voice on the drive home, the memory assails me and I smile at the serenade coming through my speakers.

Gonna use my fingers
Gonna use my (my, my) imagination
‘Cause I’m gonna make you see
There’s nobody else here, no one like me

Oh, I think it’s safe to say he’s never experienced a woman *quite* like me. 😉

And I do my damnedest to make sure the experiences we share are ones he won’t forget. 🙂

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