Cream

Blindfolded, you wait.

Fingertips  digging into the bedspread.

I cough, then wrap my fingers in your hair. My weight settles on your chest, then your face.

Eagerly, you open your mouth.  Your tongue lashes my silken folds.

I verbally correct you.

That is not your purpose.

For now,  I grind your inadequacy in your face.

You absorb the salt, the stickiness. You drink in the humiliation.

You are my water, my soap, my washcloth.

Things to be used and discarded.

Visitor, in brief

You have been pushing me, pulling at me, begging me for more of my time. Overtly and subtly.

Late one evening, on the phone, I hear your voice.

In the background, I hear your doorbell. I tell you to go answer it.

I hear him ask for you and tell you he was sent by me.

You race to the phone, full of inquiry. I tell you to place the phone on the counter and obey. No talking.

With a half ear tuned t you, I hear him tell you to kneel, to open your mouth.

I hear a slap.

Then: low moans murmured directions, gagging sounds.

Finally, I hear the grunt. You know the one, you make it when you are secretly jacking off to my photos.

I hear his voice fade, the door slam.

Soon, you come on the line, gasping, gently weeping.

You wanted my attention.

Are you pleased?