When I did, she moved smoothly, taking a seat right in front of me. My dick ended up inches from her plush lips, so close I could feel the heat of her breath.
A deep groan tore out of me. She was trying to fucking kill me, and the worst part was, I’d let her. My mind spun, latching onto the idea of another song—one about craving something so bad it tore you apart, left you bleeding and desperate, knowing you’d never survive the taste but willing to die trying anyway.
She tilted her head, looking up at me, eyes gleaming with heat and amusement. “Do you dream about me?”
I nodded before I could stop myself. “Yes, Mistress.”
Her lips curved. “Fantasize?”
“All the fucking time.”
“Tell me what you dream about, baby. Filthily.”
I blinked. My throat dried. “You really wanna know?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Go ahead. Filthily.”
My dick twitched. My whole body felt wired, like I was being dared to jump.
“I dream about you sitting on my face,” I said, voice rough. “About waking up with your thighs around my head, your pussy soaking my mouth, grinding until you come so hard your legs shake.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
I went on.
“I dream about bending you over the kitchen counter, yanking your panties to the side, and shoving my dick in while you beg me to go deeper like you ain’t already full of me.”
Her mouth parted just a little, but she didn’t speak.
“I dream about missionary, too,” I said, tone almost reverent. “But the filthy kind. The kind where your legs are hooked over my shoulders and you’re looking me dead in the eyes while I’m in you. While I kiss you and fuck you at the same time.”
A shaky breath dragged out of her.
“And sometimes, when you used to deny me,” I added, voice low, guttural now, “I dreamt about tying you up. Riding you slow, cruel, until you’re crying for it. Until you’re shaking. Until you’re begging to cum but I won’t let you. Make you touch yourself in front of me. Edge you for hours and then whisper in your ear: now you know what it feels like to want me.”
“Jesus,” she whispered.
But I wasn’t done.
“I dream about licking your cum off my fingers. About fucking you in the shower. About you spitting in my mouth and then sliding down my dick.”
I was hard as steel now, precum wetting the tip.
She just stared—flushed, breathing heavy.
“You said filthily,” I whispered. “That filthy enough for you?” I paused. “Mistress.”
She leaned back, crossing her legs with an air of ease, blowing out a breath.
“You touch yourself dreaming and thinking about me?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
A grin curled her lips despite the heavy lust in her eyes.
“Show me,” she said. “Show me exactly how you’ve pleased yourself thinking about me.”
Wasn’t even any use in objecting. I’d been beating my dick constantly since she’d been in my life. I wanted to do it for her.
