Silence

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 Not a word, not a sound.I’m about to turn the page when your shadow alerts me to your presence, feeble footsteps absorbed into the thick pile chenille rug. You’re standing in front of me, an unspoken question on your lips, tapping your foot silently. Your face shows no expression, doesn’t need any.I know what you want. Tap, tap, tap. Okay, I am game. But we’re gonna play this my way.I flick my eyes from the page to you, then back to my book. Sorry, honey, I’m enjoying this story too much. Tap, tap, tap.I do love the cheeky wiggle of your bare toes on the fluffy rug. It’s tempting to tickle them with my tongue. I smile into the page at that thought but decide to toy with you a bit more.I set my narrowed eyes on you. Make me! my smirk whispers. You snatch my book out of my hand roughly and chuck it aside. How dare you! You’ve just made me lose the page now.You pull my T-shirt over my head. I’m being undressed like our three-year-old (minus the screaming tantrum) yet it feels strangely erotic. You seize my chin and part your lips, ready to attack with a hungry kiss.But it never comes.The sorrow void churns the nothingness in the pit of my stomach, like an ice cream maker running empty. Disturbing. Wrong.I’m here; hanging, waiting – for something that I’m conditioned to expect. Something, that always comes, always has before.Not this time. The worst thing is, there’s no triumphant look on your face. Just a bahis şirketleri glazed, wooden stare. Nothing. Like seeing a ghost. You’re here, yet not truly present.I want to beg, sob for what’s due, what’s mine, always has been. But my lips birth no words. You draw a downward line on my leg with your fingertips, a definite suggestion to get out of my leggings. You’re watching closely as I obey reluctantly. Still silent, still expressionless. I stay upright, somehow; I know that you wouldn’t approve of any further movement. I feel exposed, naked with only my knickers on, unsure of your plans. You’re so close, mere inches from me. I can feel your snug body heat, I can smell your citrus shower gel. Wearing a pair of faded, washed-out jeans and a simple black tee. How can something so plain be so mouthwatering?Is it a damn muscle fit? Why does it show the outline of your muscles so perfectly? You know that I’m in love with those pecs and those robust shoulders, the way they always pin me down. The one thing more arousing than that is that this time they choose not to.Your big toe resumes tapping an impatient rhythm on the grey luxurious rug, soft like the fur of a hundred Persian kittens. My nipples are blown erect by the night chill in the room and the frost in your eyes. You circle my areolas with a single, barely there fingertip. I’m mesmerized by your perfect nails – cut short and neat, yet capable bahis firmaları to draw red marks on my body. Speaking from experience.It scrapes the side of my painfully hard nipple so lightly that I question whether it really happened or I just imagined it. I watch you like a wounded animal awaiting its fate. Waiting for the inevitable, that always comes. Always has, before. I’m yours. To release or to have. Touch me my nipples scream.When nothing comes, I scrunch my face into a sulk. I reach out for your hand and steer it the right way. The way it has to go. The way it always has gone.You pull away and eyes erupt into tiny shards of molten hatred, like a Christmas sparkler, just less merry.The spoiled little brat revolts in me. I always get what I want. Always have, before.There is a giant clog in this system; one push, one shove and the machine could chug on. But I’m clueless as to what the clog is and how to get rid of it. Your sideway glance at my black cotton panties is telling me I’m still considered overdressed.But if I take them off, my moist state will be revealed and show how not getting my way turns me on. It is a path I’m not sure I want to walk down.Again, the tap, tap, tap of your foot. No other sound, no words, no expression. Yet, of course I know exactly what you want.No impatient demands or gestures, just a barely there simmering haste in your eyes, flickering like the light in a petroleum kaçak bahis siteleri lamp on a cold winter’s night, confined in a safe glass bauble that you created.I want to smash the fucking glass, even if it sends the house up in flames.But before I can act on the crazy you grab hold of my hand, as if it was a piece of lifeless chunk of wood. You’re too rough, it hurts and I hiss. You tighten your grip even more as a punishment for that disturbing sound that broke your perfect silence. You maneuver my arm to touch the hem of my panties. ‘Take them off’ – I see your lips move and I hear the words in my head but not in the sleepy silence of real life.I bend over and slide them off. You’re holding your hand out as a clear request. When I hand them over, you lock them in your fist and keep them as a token. A token for what exactly, I’m not sure.Using my arm as a string of a marionette doll, you lay me down on the sofa onto my back and pull my legs apart. My arousal is undeniable, yet you foolishly choose to ignore it. You cock your head; your gaze lingers on the hand that you are still controlling, and, sliding it down my stomach, you make me touch my most private parts. My fingertips brush against my silk folds. You force me to stroke myself gently, up and down, up and down like I smooth that super soft velvet cushion I bought a week ago. I just can’t keep my hands off it. No one can.I close my eyes and enjoy the waves. It’s like riding a lazy river in an amusement park or rolling down a hill, if that hill were covered with a crushed velvet carpet. I breathe out deeply with every stroke, moaning softly without breaking the silence.

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