Christmas eve, the flicker of a flame bathing her smooth skin, a mere ember compared to the inferno of need that raged within her. She swayed her hips a little, hoping to entice the man standing beside her at the foot of the bed, yet it was to no avail. Still his hands continued to massager her. Tantalizing her, his hands continued gliding along her back, caressing her raised ass cheeks, coursing along her sides, outlining the contours of her delicate frame. If only he’d touch her more instead of only teasing the sides of her breasts, instead of merely toying with the lips of her sex, so exposed and easy to penetrate.
Her pussy could get no wetter, so plump with arousal, doing all it could to invite those calculated fingers into that silky soft delicacy. Yet he was deliberate, there was still so much more time.
“Turn,” he whispered, gently, yet commanding.
She smiled as she turned, surely this would be the time?
As she turned over on the pillows, while he coated his fingers with more of the lubricant, she looked around for a clock. To her disappointment he had removed any indication of time, only his phone alarm would indicate when Christmas day officially arrived.
Now on her back, the mistletoe hung in full view above them – the cause for her predicament. He wanted her to see it once he filled her with disappointment again, denying her the fulfilment of giving her the orgasm she so desperately craved. With her hips raised by the pillows beneath, her womanhood was so fully presented to
him, yet still he merely traced his fingertip around her mound.
Her body trembled as his fingers slowly and deliberately circled the stiff peaks of her nipples, threatening to give her the relief of pinching them, before stopping and
tormenting her pussy once again. She finally broke down and began begging him once he toyed with her clitoris. The way he peeled back her clitoral hood to expose that tender morsel, before circling it cruelly, forced her to plead for the orgasm she had been torturously denied for so long. Just a pinch, the thrust of a finger – anything.
“Not until we kiss under the mistletoe.”
Her mind raced back to their Christmas work do, just a couple of days ago. How they’d been with their colleagues, standing together under the mistletoe when he leaned forward to kiss her. Her words becoming her own torment, ‘no mistletoe kisses until Christmas,’ she had said with a cheeky laugh. She had stopped him then, but right now she’d do anything for that kiss.
Clawing at the bed in the agony of desire, she had no idea how long until he’d make her come. 10 minutes? An hour? He’d tease her relentlessly for as long as it took.
All she was certain of was that when the time came, she knew exactly where she wanted him to kiss her.
Content created by: PleasureTorture