The silence is textured — soft, quiet — with shushings of breaths carefully measured against the onslaught of silk swathing sensitive skin.
Square silken patches of fabric — folded, rolled, wrapped around then dragged in a sensually tortuous unwind — slide in a soft-rough erotic assault against his (not hard, not quite, but also not not) cock.
He’s on a hair trigger.
The ammunition — two silken scarves, leaving him fit to be tied — is in my hands.
Slide. Shush.
Drag g g . . .
Swipe. Swish.
Tickle.
Every movement, every moment, I watch for his flex and listen for his cue (quiet and quieter — many will open their mouths in cum-shout yawing yells, roaring their release into the atmosphere, but he makes his closeness-to-cum known through his ever-quietening silence of both mouth and movement) of receding sound.
“I want to make this last,” he’d said when we began.
“No. Please. Not yet,” when we were three minutes in.
Another plea, just now.
Perhaps, I think, seeing the near-the-threshold telltale twitch of his cock and swirling my silk over the draw-tight tension in his balls, I’ll torture him _just_ a few minutes more…
