Sweet Child O’ Mine (by Fatal Syndrome)

Seduction…  *is* Fatal

It can be hard to seduce him, my Sir, because when he wants me, he has me. There is no tease and denial in our relationship, no blue balls, no orgasm deprivation–unless it is mine. It’s hard to seduce a man when he’s already got you so thoroughly in thrall, but I make the attempt, I try to force his hand, and indulge myself, in my own ways. I love quick and dirty morning sex, and so does he. When the sky is halfway between night and day, and the windows are still cool and dewy, and the taste of sleep is still heavy and cloying, I like to touch him and I like to tease him. I like to wait, until he is out of the shower, until his hair is warm and damp, and so is his skin and he’s putting on work clothes, and he’s starting to wake to the world, and he’s checking his watch, and maybe he’s thinking about grabbing a bite to eat… I like to wait until I know that he is in a precarious position.

He sits on the edge of the bed, pants on, bare-chested and I climb up behind him and press my naked breasts to his naked back and I wrap my bare arms around him and press my flat palms against the ridges and plains of his chest and his stomach and his abs. I like to nuzzle in at the curve where his shoulder meets his neck and breathe hot and slow against his skin and let my hair tickle his back and my teeth caress his throat.

“Oh, eager aren’t we?” he’ll whisper.

And I’ll whisper something naughty in his ear and he’ll chuckle at me, pretending that I have no effect on him, but when my hands venture south and I tap against his thighs, and then against his hips, letting my fingers dance around him like I’m honing in on a target, I can feel this pants straining, and I can feel his breath hitch, but I don’t touch him where he wants it most. I let my teeth rake over that skin, tasting ropy muscle just beneath it, and his breath catches and he growls instead of groans. He is the strong one, the top, the dominant, the Seducer. And maybe my fingers flutter, just over that growing, living, breathing bulge in his pants and I pretend I’ll touch him, but I never do. I rub my body against his back, my inner thighs press against his hips as I mold around him; I let him feel the heat of my cunt beating against his back, and maybe I even touch his cock, just once, fleeting, before I slip away, away from the bed, away from the room, dancing down the hall in nothing but a pair of panties, running from the hungry man I’ve left behind.

As he comes bounding into the kitchen, in full chase, I glance at the clock and know I’ve caught him in my trap. He is punctual to a fault, and loathes being late, and he knows it too. His eyes follow mine and I see a grim determination cross his face. His hard lips are set in a line, his hands flex, as if they want a throat to choke or an ass to spank, and unbidden, a peal of laughter rings out from my throat. I am tickled by the sight of his desire, clear on his face, and the war he fights within. I hook my thumbs in my panties and inch them down, giving my ass a little shake and wiggle as I do. He is furious and aroused as I lean over the kitchen counter, giving him a better view; my nipples are hard against the cold surface. I watch as he throws his hands in the air and stalks back to the bedroom.

My heart falls into the pit of my stomach and I am frozen, covered in the sad goose bumps of rejection and lost adrenaline high. I follow after him quickly, bounding on the tips of my toes, when his long arms reach out from the still warm bathroom and he drags me inside. He slams me up against the bathroom counter, leaning over the sink and I can see his rage and his loss of control and his arousal in his eyes. I hear the tell-tale zip and he rips my panties down my thighs.

“Ah, ah,” I whisper. “You’re going to be late!”

I try to yank my panties back up but he forces me back into position. His hand is hard against my ass as he smacks and spanks and slaps my tender skin.

I cry out with each strike and he grumbles: “Naughty girls get spanked.”

He drives the point home with one rough thrust that makes my legs shake. He fucks me raw and fast and dirty while his hand continues my lesson in obedience. I am groaning and begging for permission to come when his fingers dip deep into my skin and he fills me up. He slaps my ass a final time, and pulls my panties back over my bruised skin.

I watch him in the mirror: he is smug, satisfied, raking a hand through his tousled hair. He checks his watch.

“Time to go, toots, I’m going to be late.”

He pats me on the ass and turns to leave. I must make some noise, because his hand is around my throat and I am standing straight with his lips against my ear before I know what has happened.

“Good girls don’t tease their Sirs before work, and they don’t have to walk around in dirty panties all day either.”

He rubs the front of my panties for good measure, pressing his fingers in against my cunny before giving it a light tap and leaving me in the bathroom, alone. My reflection stares back at me, disheveled and flushed, but a grin creeps about her lips.

~ Submitted (and I use that word intentionally) by Fatal
in response to the Frompt

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And Fatal, darling:  If you’re scratching your head about the title of this post…
It was in honor of your penchant for using lyrical content as post titles…
and inspired by that grin on your reflection’s lips. 😉

{Insert famous Slash guitar lead in here} She’s got a smile that it seems to me…