Table-Tops and Tea

His hands cup my breasts, his palms caressing the soft, warm flesh while his fingers stroke and pinch at the nipples. I can feel his humid breath against my ear as his teeth nibble and tease my earlobe. My eyes are closed, and I sway softly back and forth, making sure to occasionally press my backside against his groin. I enjoy the quiet little groaning sounds he makes every time I brush against his swelling member. While his hands continue to knead at my tits, he begins to frot slowly and steadily against my naked bottom. With each movement, the head of his penis slides up the crack between the cheeks. The slight pulling sensation makes my nether lips tingle and convulse.

Firmly, he leans my body forward until my forearms rest lightly on the table-top. I can smell the aroma of the furniture polish rising up into my nostrils. It combines with the scent of my own desire and the sensual tang of his cologne; Calvin Klein ‘Euphoria for Men’- my favourite. He always makes sure to wear it whenever he knows we’ll be spending time together. I love the thought of him, fresh from the shower and cleanly shaved, spritzing himself with the fragrance because he knows how much I like it and that it’s going to turn me on. He’s good at those little touches. I think it would surprise people to know how tender, considerate and romantic he actually is; to the outside world he can come across as a bit brusque and cynical. Once you get to know him, though, he’s a pussy cat.

Not now, though. Not in his ‘bedroom’ mode. In sexual situations, he is always the pursuer, the dominator, the Master. Like some kind of sexy caveman, he likes to pull my hair, restrain me, bite, smack, bend me into strange and sometimes less-than-comfortable shapes for his pleasure. Not just his own pleasure, though. I find it incredibly arousing when he bosses me around, growls sexy orders at me, treats me like a rag-doll, and uses my body. I love it when he leaves his marks on me; teeth marks, hickeys, bruises, the rows of little indentations from the Wartenberg Wheel I love having run heavily up and down either side of my spine, his hand prints on my arse cheeks, and the red welts from the thin black leather crop he uses to “chastise” me. Whenever he leaves, I spend ages in front of the mirror admiring the marks, and getting hot and wet from the memory of how they were inflicted. I even bought a selfie-stick, and started chronicling them in a series of photos I keep in a password-protected file on my laptop. Sometimes if he’s been away a while and I’m feeling a bit lonely/nostalgic/horny, I open a bottle of wine, fire up the laptop, plug in my Doxy, and masturbate while looking through my photo album of past encounters and previous injuries.

As though reading my thoughts, he gives my arse a quick, sharp slap. I groan from the shock, my arousal, and the pain of the impact. He moves his hands from my breasts and lowers them to the tops of my legs, where he grabs each fleshy thigh with a firm grip and starts to force my legs further apart.

“Open for me,” he orders in a low voice, thick with animal lust and carnal desires. I eagerly comply, and lean further forward on the dark wood of the table. He steps back to watch, and makes a gruff sound of approval in the back of his throat as my cunt comes into view and opens like a dew-dappled flower in the morning’s early light. I can feel every nerve ending between my legs sparking and firing, little pin-pricks of sensual energy making my whole sex quiver in anticipation. I hear him ripping open the Durex packet and the light crinkle of him rolling the latex up his shaft. Yes, we still use condoms. I know that’s a bit out of fashion nowadays, but we’re of that whole generation where “if it’s not on, it’s not on”. Safe sex is good sex. Besides, the last thing either of us needs at this point is a nasty surprise of any variety, be it an infection or a foetus.

I feel the tip of his cock press against my slit, and I moan. With his left hand, he grabs a handful of my hair, and pushes my head down onto the table-top before thrusting hard into me from behind. He stays still for a moment, not moving, just seating himself inside me and enjoying this show of his dominance and strength. It’s like he’s staking his claim, planting his flag at the top of Mount Everest. I tighten around him and savour the feeling of being filled, being owned. Of knowing I’m about to be well and truly ploughed.

He slides his fingers into the crevices where my thighs meet my groin, and pulls me back harder against him before pushing me forward again, allowing his length to slide almost all the way out, before pulling me back in again and penetrating me slow and deep. I moan again, my mouth open and salivating against the wood. He pulls out again, then plunges back in, and so the rhythm begins. Long, slow, deep thrusts that push my face right into the table, making my left cheek rub awkwardly against the surface. Each time he slides his head into my entrance and nudges at my inner walls, I feel it hitting my g-spot. The spongy and sensitive protrusion thrums and vibrates with each impact; he knows this and angles himself in just the right way to maintain the contact and keep stoking my approaching orgasm.

The edge of the table-top bashes against my clavicle with each forward motion, and I fantasize for a moment about the beautiful purple bruises I’m going to have afterwards. He lifts one hand from my groin and grasps my hair in his fist again. He gives it a rough yank, and my scalp throbs from the pain.

“Fuck!” I shout, and push myself back into him urgently. With his other hand, he swats again at my backside, once, twice, then a third time, harder, with the flat of his hand. The force of the impact makes the flesh ripple and my buttock sting.

“Again! Please,” I squeal. I can feel my legs going weak, and have to steady myself on my tensed forearms.

“Shhh,” he snaps, and I gasp as he pulls my hair again. “You’ll get what you’re given. And when I want to give it.”

I hear a strangled sound of frustration emerging from the back of my throat, but I say nothing. He’s put me back in my place, and reminded me that I am at his mercy here. If I make him angry, he’ll punish me by withholding my orgasm. He’s done it before when I’ve gotten bratty and obstinate. I wasn’t allowed to come that whole weekend. I was climbing the walls by the Sunday morning, trying to rub myself against inanimate objects like a dog in heat. He didn’t relent, though, and I was left to finish myself off alone later that night after he’d dropped me home. It was torture, but it was sexy, too. That’s why I didn’t Red Light. If I had, I’m pretty confident he would have put me out of my misery. Eventually.

His thrusts increase in speed, and I’m being hammered against the table edge, the drag of my cheek on the wood surface making a squeaking sound whenever the skins catches. My mouth is hanging open, I’m breathing hard, and there’s a stream of saliva now pooling beneath my face. Every so often my lips touch the wet puddle and it smears all over the table-top. He’s grunting now, making wild animal sounds as he pounds into me again and again, relentlessly. I’m so close, and so ready to come, but I need friction on my clitoris in order to get there. As I reach down to touch myself, I know might be chastised, but I no longer care. Besides, I can tell from the frenzied pace of his fucking and the brute sounds coming from him that he’s probably too far gone to care now. With my right hand, I rub furiously at my clit while he pounds away behind me, muttering a litany of dirty words and half-language in between his heavy, laboured breaths. I feel his own right hand closing over mine, and I fear that any second now he’s going to pull my hand away and deny me my climax. But, instead, he helps me stroke myself to orgasm, the two of us panting while our entwined fingers massage the wet and swollen nub between my legs.

It’s there, shimmering on the horizon for a moment, and then, bang!, the waves of sublime pleasure was over me, carrying me under, then tossing me up again like a giant tidal wave. I shout out his name as my legs start to buckle, and I have a dim awareness of him releasing his grip on my hair and holding me up, supporting me around the waist as I spin in this heavenly vertigo. Lights are exploding behind my eyes, blood whooshing in my ears, and heavy, pulsing contractions are happening deep inside my cunt. Behind me, I hear him grunt loudly one final time, and then let out a long, drawn out moan; the signal that he’s coming. I feel him thrust himself deep inside and stay there, tiny little jerks of his hips his only movement until, with a strangled cry, he tumbles forward against me, resting his face between my shoulder blades and panting.

We stay there for long moments, breathless, sighing, the table bearing my weight, me bearing his. Pulses and strobes of pleasure are still going off between my legs, but I’m floating back down into reality now. I feel his lips brushing gently against my shoulders as he pulls out of me, and removes, then ties the condom into a securely contained parcel of viscous liquid, ready to be binned. With a gentle pat on my quivering behind, he chuckles and asks, “Cuppa?”

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18 thoughts on “Table-Tops and Tea

  1. Wow! I love your dynamic, that’s a fantasy of mine right there!
    Lovely how the urgency builds and you weave together discussion of past deeds/trophies and sensations / actions going on at the dining room table (with it’s polish aroma which just anchors the story in reality) – loved this.

    Liked by 1 person

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