Wicked Wednesday: Hands and Wine, m/f, NSFW
M/F piece for Wicked Wednesday this week. I followed this week’s prompt – link NSFW. Content includes voyeurism, masturbation, and wine.
He sits on the high-backed chair, and watches. One ankle rests on his knee. His shoulders are relaxed, and his shirt is unbuttoned down to the centre of his chest. He holds a glass of deep red wine, two fingers around the stem, the bowl flat on his palm. His face is as languid as her supine body, and his mouth just as smug as she feels. Lying on the plush pillows with her legs apart, she licks her lower lip. One finger steadily strokes her increasingly taut clit.
She is getting wetter with each touch.
“How can you just sit there?” she asks.
He says nothing, but takes a sip of wine, and shrugs. She smirks, and lolls her head back, closing her eyes, trying to simply enjoy the assured feeling of her own fingers on her, and now, inside her, for she guides one in as her cunt both relaxes and tightens with arousal.
But her eyes keep wandering back to him. To his poise, his nonchalance, as if this happened to him every day. It’s all an act, though, for he can’t hide the growing flush on his cheeks. His fingers may tap at his chin, like he’s only examining fine watches, keeping a cool, judicious distance, but she can the bulge in his jeans.
More than that, as much as her hands please her, she’d adore to touch, and be touched, by him. Her pose may show indifference, but there is a tension in her bones and through her core. It takes so much of her to focus on her clit and now sopping labia, to not leap up and kiss him with a laving mouth and hungry tongue. He looks more the beautiful tonight; he may not be partaking in her pleasure, but he is still commanding, overseeing, his very watchfulness the thing she takes joy in, and yet wants to shatter.
She finds a rhythm – the perfect one, the one that he’ll never master with his own hands, yet has exceed in so many ways. Her hips begin to roll, and she tries to find a balance between her arm, hand and cunt, trying to gain the friction that she could against his hand.
It’s never the same as his. She doesn’t have the capacity to hold herself down, to surprise herself with swift, unexpected changes. But still, as she allows herself to moan, he leans forward, his lips parting and his tongue darting out.
“That’s it…” he says. “Yes, baby…yes.”
His whispered words – god, she could eat them – spiral through her cunt, all the way up her, and it only takes one more ‘yes, that’s it…’ before she comes, her hips and arse leaving the bed, her eyes closing and her mouth opening to cry out. For a moment, thoughts of him vanish, and all is just hot joy in the darkness behind her eyes.
When she opens her eyes, he is standing, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding the wine glass. He’s grinning; cocky, and pleased.
“Like you had something to do with it,” she says.
“Ah. But I think I did.” He takes a gulp of wine, bends down, and puts his lips to hers. The wine spills into her mouth, and she drinks it and him greedily.
“Mmm.” He pulls back, only now putting the wine down. “I was right.”
His hand hovers over her body, sweeping down until he presses it between her legs. She quivers, still sensitive, wanting to pull away while still bucking into his hand, and he says;
“You want more.”
And his finger strokes down her still engorged clit, and he starts it all again.