You are my voice of reason. I wonder how you do it. How do you maintain control? How do you keep a level head? When I ask you to come to me, you stop. You think. You process. Then you react. I want your level headedness.
My blood is hot. My loins are burning. My nipples are hard. I think of you. I think of us. I imagine how good our bodies will feel next to each other. I imagine how good you will feel inside of me. You feel it too. I know you do.
I imagine your kiss ever so gentle on my mouth. I imagine you working your way down my neck with your mouth as you unbutton my blouse. I imagine you running your tongue around my nipples which have become hard just as I write this.
I close my eyes and feel your tongue move lower then retract. “It’s about control,” you tell me.
You kneel at my side and begin to undress. You unbutton your own plaid flannel shirt. Your eyes meet my eyes and your mouth begins to curl into a smile. I reach to help you but you move my hand away. “It’s about control,” you repeat still maintaining eye contact, still smiling.
I lay seemingly patient. My stomach is churning. I long to touch you but the look in your eyes tells me “No.”
You pull off your worn blue jeans to expose what is the biggest most beautiful cock that I have ever seen. It is perfect in its shape and size and oh how I want to take it in my hands. I want to take it in my mouth. It’s all about control.
You begin stroking yourself as you look into my eyes. My desire for you is so strong now that I want to cry. I reach down to touch myself and again your eyes pierce me as to say “No, it’s about control.” You become fully erect. I am so tense that I am helpless. I can’t touch you. I can’t feel you. I can’t kiss you. I can’t put your long hard cock in my mouth the way I long to. And now I am unable to touch myself. I am a slave to your whim. I search your face for a sign. I look into your eyes begging. Please let me have it. Please let me touch it. Please let me suck it. Please kiss me. Please reach for me.
You continue to stroke yourself but slower now. I think to myself “Is it possible? Is it my turn?” Then I think again, “It’s about control”.
What should I do next? Should I gather my wits and get up and leave? Is that what you want? Do you want me to take control? Do you want me to leave you wanting more?
It’s all about control. It’s all about control.