What If?

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What if he took her by the hand, led her to their room and asked her to lie back on their soft sheets and relax?

Maybe he’d lie at the bottom of the bed near her feet on his side, head resting on one hand, the other resting on the bed just a few inches from her.

What if he asked her to spread her legs wide for him, allowing him full view, and directed her to touch herself, no looking down or away, only looking into his eyes?

Maybe she’d be asked to touch and touch, building to a plateau, fueled by the look in his eyes and the small, telling movements that assured her he was enjoying what he was seeing – the slight grin forming, his fingers barely curling to grip the sheet, the growing bulge in the front of his pants.

What if she was asked to stop when she was just on the edge, ready, eyes filled with need, and told to remove his pants and touch him, placing him into her mouth, only to be abruptly told to stop, only allowed just a taste?

Maybe she’d be asked to lie back again, to gently massage her breasts, using two fingers to pinch and pull her nipples, to get herself slick and circle and dip with her fingers until she was on the edge again.

What if his hand traveled the few inches up the mattress to barely graze her folds with his fingertips as her own fingers worked, her back arching and her head instinctively turning to the left to bite the pillow so as not to wake the children?

Maybe just his almost-dipping fingers and his slightly tickling fingertips on the outside of her would force her to pause in touching herself for fear of toppling over the edge without permission.

What if, after her body had just begun to calm, he asked her to continue touching herself, this time using his middle finger, tracing and circling her opening before plunging not so gently into her, massaging her g-spot rhythmically, to a beat seeming to match the beating of her own heart?

Maybe he’d tell her what a good job she was doing, but she still didn’t have permission to come, not just yet. Maybe he’d direct her to get to that edge and stop and start again. And stop and start. Maybe she’d try to never break the eye contact because all she wanted was to please him. Maybe watching him, watching her would make her want to keep touching herself for as long as he’d keep watching.

What if he relentlessly massaged her g-spot, now with two fingers, as both of her hands moved to pleasure herself, using her fingertips to travel over her own skin, squeezing her breasts, palms up and down her stomach, two fingers persistent on her sweet spot? What if it became completely impossible to keep her body still or her back flat on the bed? What if her hips danced and bucked? What if her toes curled, pressing their toenails into the bed, a wordless begging of their own? What if the only way for her to remain quiet was to bite her own lip or clench her teeth or hold her breath?

Maybe he’d tell her what a good girl she was for following his directions. Maybe he’d finally tell her if she asked him nicely, he might let her come.

What if she looked him in the eyes, and asked with a shaky, small voice, “Sir, may I please come for you?”

Maybe his fingers would continue to be unrelenting as he said, “Yes, come for me.” Maybe her own fingers on the outside paired with his fingers on the inside, all the fingers stroking and swirling and sliding in all the right spots at just the right time, would make her come so hard she couldn’t stay quiet no matter how hard she tried. Maybe she’d shake and writhe and ride the waves of pleasure for longer than she imagined could be possible from simply the touching.

What if, as her body trembled and quaked, still feeling the downslide of her orgasm, he moved between her legs, entering her and sending her body and mind to a raw, primal place of wanting and begging and needing? Of grabbing and pulling and biting and sweating? Of moans and covering her mouth and many more “please, Sirs” and wetness and smiles of pride and pleasure? Of tired bodies and eyelids which wouldn’t stay open? Of tangling and drifting? Of peace?

Maybe they’d feel as if it was all just as it should be.

What if they finally felt at home?

29 thoughts on “What If?

  1. That was delicious! I haven’t masturbated in ages for the same reason. I have to ask permission, and I don’t feel like I need it anymore. But damn if you don’t make me want to ask for permission tonight! Thank you for participating in Masturbation Monday!

  2. Pingback: #MasturbationMonday – A Desire to KILL #BDSM | Christina Mandara

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