Good Things Come on Those Who Wait

I take a deep breath, eyes firmly closed, and relish the power crackling in the air around me. Musk and incense fill my nostrils; my head spins at the cloying sweetness. I’m kneeling tall on the bed, legs straddling a young body. My lover, the poor little guy; they couldn't keep their hands to themself tonight. All evening, I felt their fingers worm their way under my shirt, brushing at my sides and belly, sliding higher to trace the contours of my bra, teasing at the waistband of my jockey shorts. I’d pinned their hands to the couch, radiating anger I didn’t really feel, just to make them sweat. Nervous delight glimmered in their eyes. “Hands off,” I growled.

And they obeyed. Until they got bored of waiting for my attention. They slipped one hand onto my hip, over the crochet blanket covering us on the couch, smugly telegraphing a message straight into my brain – I’m not touching you. Their playful nature made me grin, even as I rolled my eyes, and I allowed the transgression. Even as their fingers crept under the blanket, past my robe, along the edge of my shirt. The tip of their pinky caressed my skin.

I snapped toward them, hands locking around their wrists in an iron grip. They squealed, shocked at the sudden jump, and I held them still and leaned right into their ear – “I said, hands off.”

Now, after tying them to the bed, I get to make...