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It’s been another seemingly endless day at work. That’s why you cannot wait to finally take off your heels, go upstairs, and spend some time with your wife. As you reach the end of the staircase, however, you notice that Andrea is nowhere to be found. You look around, check the sofa where she would usually be waiting for you, but find nothing. When you call out her name, there is no answer. Just an echo, haunting the hallway. She must be on the third floor.
In the middle of making your way up another set of stairs, you hear her. She’s—crying? No. No, she’s—it’s a different kind of noise. You listen closely. Hear her cry out a string of curses, at first. Then, your name.
Quite possibly still blissfully unaware of your presence, she’s in the bedroom. Moaning. A faint blush creeps onto your cheeks. The minx. Getting herself off while you’re gone. Or—
Or maybe she only started when she heard you come in? Maybe she wants to be caught. It would not surprise you. She’s always been rather open about activities of a sexual nature. No matter. You quickly cross the last part of your hallway and step through the bedroom door.
Once you’re inside, you make sure to slam the door shut. Her eyes open, but besides that, your presence does bother her. No, she simply continues circling her clit with two fingers, completely unashamed. Her breathing is ragged, and you watch her watching you; until, eventually, she stops, and says, “Come sit.”
You raise an eyebrow, inadvertently. She wants you to sit on the bed—while she masturbates? “You don’t want me to join you?” you ask. Your tone is playful, but you cannot hide the surprise, either.
A chuckle reverberates throughout the room. “Oh, I do,” she says. It answers none of your many questions. You can’t ask, however, because she has closed her eyes again, starts rubbing at herself harder. “Ah,” she gasps, as her hips jerk into the calculated movements of her hand. “No. I do want you to join me.”
You’re unsure of how to proceed. “Then what—” Andrea does not interrupt you, not really. Not directly. But your throat and mouth go very dry at the sight of her entering herself.
“Fuck,” you hear her whisper shakily. “God. You’re so good, Miranda. Filling me up like this. Come—come here.”
You swallow despite the dryness. There are words waiting to be spoken, but you cannot access them. Not like this, not with her—not like this. She’s delectable, lying on the bed, with two of her fingers buried deep inside of her channel. The little whimpers, the obscene noises coming from between her legs—it makes heat spread throughout your body, and it makes you want her. You need to have her. Now. You—
She suddenly stops. Unexpectedly sits up. You cannot do anything but watch as she lets her glistening fingers dip between her lips. You cannot help but watch as she sucks on them, tastes her own wetness, licks it all up until there is nothing left as though she has just had a grand meal.
She looks at you intently as she sucks her middle finger into her mouth. Her pupils are black, you note; her eyelids hooded. And, again, before you can react to any of what is happening, she speaks up. Says, “I want you to sit on my face, Miranda.” A seductive come hither motion follows the words; one which is completely unnecessary—you will always do what she asks of you—but very pleasing to look at; and with it, she makes you join her on the bed. Once there, she issues another command. “Undress.”
It is true that you are still in full office attire. You had forgotten about your clothes. They are definitely inappropriate in this situation, and so you immediately get to your new task. Every time you take a layer off, your eyes meet; and she licks her lips, pointedly looks you up and down; and you feel yourself grow hotter by the second. Instead of becoming colder as you lose your blouse and skirt, the bedroom feels more and more like a tropic island, and only she can save you from the ever-increasing temperatures.
Finally, when you’ve folded up your underwear, have put it on the armchair in the corner, you turn back around, towards her, and you watch, entranced, as she lies back down. This time, she does so right in the middle of the bed, with more than enough space for you to place your knees on either side of her. “Come, baby,” she breathes. “Let me make you feel good.”
You’re dripping. You only notice this now that you’re slowly walking over to the bed with no fabric between your thighs to stop the wetness from freely flowing. By the time you have reached the place where your wife is waiting for you, you are wet halfway down your thighs. Good God. It shocks you time and time again: the amount of power this girl has on you. She makes you wet with but a single look. A single sentence. Her—
“Come. I want to fuck you so bad.”
Her mouth. Her damned mouth. So innocent sometimes. Yet so filthy when you’re alone with her. “You do, do you?”
“God, yes. Miranda. I’ve been thinking about it all day. About you. About having you in my mouth.” A moan crosses her lips, and it emphasizes her words tenfold.
“Is that why you were getting yourself off, you naughty little thing?” you offer with a raised eyebrow as you settle on the bed. How you wish you had been there to see her before. To witness more.
“Aw, are you jealous of my fingers?” she jokes. You never get to reply before she adds, “I didn’t start until you were here, you know. I was lying here thinking about you, but I only really started when I heard the door. Wanted you to… walk in on me.”
Before you know it, before either of you has time to speak, or even think, you’re on top of her, kissing her hard. Your tongue pushes into her mouth, explores every millimeter, drawing the neediest noises from her. You push her down into the mattress, which she acknowledges by clawing at your hips, your thighs, your back. You could spend hours with her lips on yours. You don’t think you will ever, ever grow tired of this, of the way she tastes, or of the way she so visibly loves what you do to her.
“Let me touch you. Please. Fuck. Get on me. Let me—”
With the connection between your mouths broken, you look down at her. Really look at her. You take her in. Even after all these years, you can barely believe your luck. She is magnificent. Breathtaking. Her hair, soft and lush, with a flowery scent which reminds you of the first bloom in spring, and which almost brings tears to your eyes with its beauty. And her lips. Plump, perfect to bite—perfect to suck on, too—and painted in the color of blood. Blood which you do draw sometimes—though only when she asks you, begs you with that alarmingly disarming tone of hers. Oh, and her eyes. Her brown doe eyes, which look at you with such an innocent gaze even now; and your heart stutters for a second, for only you know its truth: the truth of this gaze so deceptive. They make you want her carnally, with a ferociousness you had never before felt for another person.
When your mind comes back to the here and now, the present—her underneath you—and when your eyes focus once more on her face, you note that she is grinning. Before you find the strength to utter a single word, she is kissing you again.
That, too, does not last long, because before things can escalate again, she silently asks you to sit up. You do, of course. Because you follow Andrea Priestly-Sachs’s every instruction. (Ironic, given the initial nature of your relationship.)
You straddle her thighs, and now it is she who takes you in.
“You have the most amazing body I’ve ever seen, Miranda,” she says. She says it in a voice tender and sweet, with no hint to the lust that has filled you both. Her hands gather on your hips, and then they slowly wander up, until they lay on your breast, each of her hands squeezing one. Carefully, at first. Then, harder. “And these? Jesus. They’re unreal.” She emphasizes her statement by taking your nipples between her thumb and forefinger.
Your hips rock into her, and you cannot help but gasp; even a small moan leaves your throat. Pleasure fills your nerve endings. Your nipples harden, which she responds to by pinching them again.
You need her mouth on you. Or inside you. You need her. Want her. Desperately. You’ll take anything.
“And the way you respond to me… God, baby. You have no idea how much you turn me on.”
You think you might—if the way she arouses you simply doing this is anything to go by. Your body is on autopilot now, it seems, your hips bucking repeatedly, rolling forward, into her. Chasing friction, chasing relief, chasing, chasing, chasing.
“Fuck,” she chuckles breathlessly. “That’s exactly what I mean. When you ride me like this… you make me crazy.”
Your breath comes out in short, shallow puffs. You can barely restrain yourself from taking what she promised right now, without waiting for her to be ready.
“Oh, I know what you want,” she responds. Still, she does not do anything. “Tell me.”
“Please,” you say. You’re trembling now.
She rewards you for your plea. Her hands move to your behind, and finally, finally, she helps you scoot up towards where your prize lies; towards where she wants you.
You release a breath when you have reached your goal. It feels—she’s not even doing anything yet, and, already, you’re so much closer to your orgasm than you were just a second ago. You want to lower yourself, want to push yourself into her mouth. You want it. Want her. Now.
Unsurprisingly, this must show in your body language, because she immediately catches onto your barely-restrained need. She tells you, “Not yet,” and grips your thighs, preventing you from settling onto her mouth. “You’ve just come home, Miranda. You’re probably not even turned on yet. How about I prepare you first?”
“I’m ready,” you bite out, sharply. Because you are. How can she not see that? You’re so desperate for it. Can’t stop yourself from bucking your hips over and over again.
Yet she simply shakes her head. Turns her face away. “I want to play with your tits first,” she insists. But just a moment later, when she starts nibbling on a part of your thigh that’s incredibly close to your center, she moans. “Fuck,” she whispers against your skin, “you are ready, baby. You’re wet all the way down your thighs.”
You want to say, I told you so, but all that comes out is a whimper. Your thighs are so sensitive. And the way she’s using her teeth—it almost hurts, the way she teases you. More than the strain that your position is putting on your legs.
“Maybe I should give you what you want,” she muses. “But I don’t think you’re made it clear enough yet how much you need this. So…”
Your thighs are burning. Your breasts are burning. You are burning. All over. She has set fire to your skin, and your insides, and you cannot last any longer without her taking you. You wish she would take pity. You wish she would start. Instead, her hands are massaging your breasts, stimulating your areolae, and you—it’s too much. You cannot do this for much longer.
You must be dripping onto her face by now. And when you look down at her, you see not only that she is, in fact glistening; no, you also see a smirk, you see her eyebrow raised in challenge, and—
And that’s when you realize. You know now what she wants. You don’t say it much, but you need to for the second time tonight. You need to. You need her, and you need to say it. “Please.”
She immediately stops her ministrations, both on your breasts and your thighs. Her eyes twinkle when you glance at her.
Naughty.
“Good girl,” she praises; and—
And, oh, that hits another nerve. It isn’t something you were aware of until very recently, but you certainly are now. Unfortunately, so is she, and she uses it to her advantage a lot. Like right now. To turn you even crazier, to turn you to mush, to putty in her hands. You groan out, and your hips start moving again on their own accord, seeking friction which is still not there. “Please,” you beg, “please, Andrea. Christ, please—”
She licks her lips one last time and then pulls you into her.
Oh. Oh.
It’s—she’s the best thing in the world. From here, from this second onwards, you can barely hear anything but your blood rushing through you, and feel nothing but her strong tongue caressing your most sensitive folds. “Good God,” you whisper, and you have to reach forward to hold yourself up with the headboard now. Before your body gives up on you. It’s all a little overwhelming. Her mouth is exploring you oh-so-gently, she is using her tongue exactly how you like it; and it’s—it’s a lot. You’re getting hotter and hotter, are starting to sweat. The cool bedroom air, in turn, makes your nipples harden further, and it’s—it’s close to overstimulating your senses, but—at the same time, it’s just perfect, and you can only hope that you can make this last longer than another minute.
Because it is so, so, so good.
“You taste fucking amazing,” Andrea whispers when she takes a breath.
At this, you moan and throw your head back.
“You deserve this so much. For being such a good fucking girl. God, I love you. I love you, Miranda. You’re so good, and I love you.”
When she dives back in, she settles on long, broad strokes, then switches to small circles around your clit. It’s what she knows you like; and, as usual, it’s working. Her pattern, the way she plays with you so expertly, is working wonders, and you’re so close, so close. You enjoy penetration, you really, really do, but her mouth—Andrea Priestly-Sachs’s mouth is something else entirely. She manages to make you come like this every single time—today will be no exception.
You can feel it. It’s starting. It’s spreading from your core to your limbs, to your heart, to every single inch inside of your body. And way she talks…
“You look fucking perfect. Hands around the headboard, barely restrained lust on your face. You look so free. And only I get you there.”
You are not going to last. You always want to, you want to savor it, want to enjoy hours and hours of it, but you can never escape the inevitable.
She comes up for air again, and kisses your thighs. Waits for a reply before she continues.
“Yes, yes. Only you,” you sob immediately. “Only you, Andrea. Please. Keep going. So close—” You’re a mess. Your words are, too. This is what she reduces you to: something only consisting of pleasure and need.
“I know,” she mumbles against your sensitive skin. “Touch your tits for me, baby.”
Can you? Will your body allow that? You deny her, say, “I can’t—”
But she will have none of it. She stops kissing you. “Yes, you can. And you will,” she growls.
Oh, and you need to come so desperately that you will do anything. She can’t stop again. You will not survive that. So, you cry out, “Okay, okay, yes, yes, I will—” Your left hand stays around the headboard for security, but you do find your chest with the other within seconds. You just need her to continue. “God, please, Andrea. Please,” you beg as you start playing with your own breast. You squeeze one nipple, then the other one. You take the entire breast in your hand, dig your nail into the skin. It feels so good. So good. So good. Just like she knew it would. She knows you inside out. She does. You’re crying now. You need it, her, so much. You can’t—you can’t speak.
“Such a good girl, Miranda,” she coos. She does go back to work on your center, licking in and out of you. And—
You scream. She’s going to make you come.
She sucks on your clitoris, something that immediately makes your back arch, your toes curl. And the heat inside of you—it’s threatening to boil over. Your mouth opens in a silent cry.
“I love that you obey me like this. That I can tell you to do anything and you’ll do it because it’s me.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you pant. “You’re better than everyone else, Andrea. You’re it. You’re—”
This is it. This is when she’s going to finish you. You simply let it happen. Let her treat you like the most delicious meal she has had in years. The slurping and squelching should turn you off, but they don’t—they urge her on, and in turn make you even crazier for her than you already are, and she’s so good.
The heat—it’s building and spreading and filling your every cell. You can taste it now, your high, it’s so close; and you’re getting closer and closer, still, until you can feel that it’s right there, about to take you, drown you. “I’m—” The soreness of your hips is but a distant, far-away inconvenience, you ignore it, continue rutting back and forth, instead, pleasuring yourself on her tongue. Indeed, discomforts matter little when you know you’re chasing an orgasm so great it will sate you for a lifetime.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck yourself on my tongue. Take it. Be a good girl and take it. Oh, fuck, Miranda. That’s it. There you go. You’re right there, aren’t you?”
You nod your head uselessly, unnecessarily, because there is no one around to witness it, and she already knows that she’s right, but still you do, you nod, and you nod, and your hips gather more speed, and your fingertips and your nails dig into your breasts much harder than before, into the sensitive skin around your areola, and then—and then you—
You cry out fiercely, a long, drawn-out scream leaving your throat as your eyes roll into the back of your head. The orgasm you knew was coming crashes over you, makes you topple over with its strength. It fills your ears with white noise, lets you see but the most colorful stars behind your lids as your body forces your eyes shut under the intensity of your peak.
Your body acts on its own, slowly decreasing your speed, until you’re lightly rocking, and finally, stopping before you become too sensitive.
Andrea helps you get off of her and guides you onto the mattress next to her.
Soon, you’re kissing her sweet mouth again. It tastes exactly like you, of course, and you kiss her for a while as you both bask in the afterglow of your orgasm
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” she says with a dazed smile on her face.
“You were wonderful, darling,” you reply. “As always.”
She bites her lip, then. Hums pensively. “Why don’t I get myself off now? I’m so turned on…” She turns from lying on her side onto her back, tearing her gaze away from you.
You don’t know what to say. Your mouth is dry again.
Then she looks at you over her shoulder. “And I think you should sit at the end of the bed and watch. Watch as I have no choice but to stretch myself to the limit, all because you’ve turned me on so much. How does hat sound?”
You gulp as her legs open for you. She’s glistening—her center, her thighs. The sheets are ruined, too, underneath her. With no way of speaking, you can only nod, and even that is only barely possible. Your body has short-circuited at her words. You moan your appreciation, though, as you move to the spot she has intended for you. From here, you simply stare at her naked form.
She grins at stunned you are before taking a sex toy off of the bedside table. “Good girl.”