Make me suck those toes, I bet they're salty and nice ~ Skinny Teeth
Christine ponders how long she can stand here, giving what essentially amounts to a footjob. The dominatrix perch is an uneasy one for her, and not merely because she's trying to balance most of her weight on the foot not doing the "job." She's not even sure that's what he wanted from her.
She flicks a glance downward, sees his fingers flex. He wants to grab her by the ankle and take her to the ground. She can almost feel the urge in him as he returns her gaze, the brown of his irises swallowed into black.
"Eyes down," she says, and his gaze shifts instantly, fixed now on the sight of her naked foot.
She can't say she hasn't thought about this over the past few years. Well, maybe not this exactly, but a situation where he's forced to acknowledge that she mattered to him once, that she matters now. Still, she can't simply have sex with him. That's a whole can of exploding worms she'd rather not open. Besides, he's not exactly in his right mind.
Although…
From a clinical perspective, strictly as a medical professional, all she'd really be doing is administering a prescribed treatment for a specific condition. Penetrative sex isn't even necessary. She just needs to help him get over the hump… so to speak. To that end, she applies a little more pressure, rolling the ball of her foot up and down. He squeezes his eyes shut. She shifts her hips to maintain balance, adds a little toe action. His fists begin to drum the top of his thighs—
Wait. Is he trying to keep himself from orgasm?
Her foot moves faster, increasing the friction over the ridge in his pants. His head tips back and he emits groan so raw and guttural that it shudders through the sole of her foot and out the top of her head. The rhythm of her foot joggles, stutters. Her balance falters. She wheels her arms to keep from tipping sideways, catches his shoulder to brace a fall that never quite happens.
Instead, she finds herself in a sort of hyper-aware tableau vivant. Two flesh statues with a bunch of excited molecules bouncing between all the points their bodies touch. The undersides of her breasts skim the top of his head. His hand is locked around the ankle of the foot bearing down on him. They are in states both liquid and solid, melting and rock hard.
After a moment he carefully eases her foot to the floor between his legs. Things start to happen quickly then, like he's playing superfast Tetris with body parts. She's straddling his right thigh now, with one knee nestled up against his crotch. His forehead pushes into her breastbone. He lifts her up a little so he can root around with his nose, inhaling so deeply the sleep shirt pulls away from her belly. He slides his hands up to push the fabric higher, then follows the trail of exposed flesh with his mouth. She gasps at the tease of his teeth scraping her skin, a delicious tingle—
And he sinks them in.
"Ow! OW!" She slams a fist into the side of his head, then again, "Spock! Stop. Let go! Now."
His jaw relaxes, his mouth falls open. He looks up at her, dazed and blinking stupidly.
She pushes at him until his grip on her body loosens, then she reels back, trying not to tumble over the awkward arrangement of their limbs as her feet find the carpet. Her legs are jelly as she backs away from him, watching his eyes shift from confusion to intense focus. She reaches blindly, frantically, for the com switch on her desk—
"Don't." His voice is gruff, resigned. "No need. I'll leave."
He unfolds his legs, starts to rise—
"I didn't give you permission," she blurts. It's a squeaky-edged display of authority but he pauses, hovering between sit and stand, "You are not to take any action without my permission. Got it? Nod if you do."
He does.
"Good. Don't move." She steps closer to the lamp on her desk to examine the bitemark, hisses at the bruise it promises, probes the edges with fingertips. She swears she can feel the slick of his saliva clinging to the wound.
She looks at him again. He's still half-crouched. Because she told him not to move.
"Stand up."
He straightens slowly until he's stretched to full height, and, damn, he seems way taller now. Uh…
Now what, Christine? She gulps. Goes for it.
"Take off your pants."
He undoes his flies, "Just the pants?"
"What did I say?"
A hasty scramble, and then he's just standing there, erect penis straining the fabric of his standard-issue briefs, eyeing her uncertainly, because he's still wearing shoes and can't get the pants off without removing them and she hasn't told him to take off the shoes.
"Oh my god," she sighs, "yes, shoes and socks too." And then, to save going through this all over again, she adds, "And everything else. Off."
He's naked in under ten seconds. It feels like an eternity trying not to watch it happen and no time at all to consider her next steps. Ethically, how far can this go? Does she really need assurance of consent from an arguable threat? Is he in his right mind enough to give consent?
"Spock. We need to establish some boundaries upfront. No biting for one."
"Understood."
"And maybe a safe word."
"You need only say 'stop' and I will. As you cannot physically harm me, I have no reciprocal requirement."
She detected a subtle emphasis on the word physically.
"Humor me."
"Banana."
He knows she doesn't like bananas. So, either it's a thoughtful choice or a mocking one. His facial expression is surprisingly neutral for a naked man. And yet, she can't help feeling there's something provocative beneath the surface. A challenge she'll have to nip in the bud if she's going to pull this off.
"Banana it is. Go sit on the bed – on the edge of the bed."
He complies immediately. Sits precisely on the edge of the bed, spine straight, feet planted on the floor, hands resting on his thighs and a spectacular erect penis there, almost flush with his stomach, waving heavily with each breath in and out. She'd forgotten how fascinated she'd been by it once upon a time. Gulps too loudly, notes a certain smugness in his demeanor.
Nope. No sir.
She fetches a scentless body oil from her bathroom. "Hold out your hands. Palms up." She drizzles a little oil over the surface. Not sure how much is enough so adds a little more.
"Okay. Get busy."
A tiny sigh of annoyance.
Right. Specifics.
"Pleasure yourself."
He shakes his head ever so slightly. Either he's not getting it or he's testing her by refusing.
"Masturbate until you orgasm."
From the slump of his shoulders, it's clear he's not pleased with this directive. "Banana."
"Problem?"
"Self-stimulation has already proven ineffective. I would not be here if I—" He cuts the statement short, aware he's implied his "apology" was a ruse. Looks her pointedly in the eye, wraps his fingers around his cock and starts pulling. It's so perfunctory she almost laughs.
"Would you like me to help you with that?"
His sulky obedience is immediately replaced with a relieved, "Yes."
"Too bad. Guess you'll have to use your imagination."
"You know I don't have any," he says through gritted teeth.
She picks up the book she'd been reading before he showed up, sits down, crosses her legs, and proceeds to ignore him. Or, tries. But the longer she sits there the harder it gets to ignore the sounds. The embarrassing, uncomfortable, thoroughly raunchy slick of the oil and the wet rhythmic thwap thwap thwap thwap of his surly wanking.
Her pelvic floor starts doing kegels of its own accord. She uncrosses her legs. Recrosses them, right over left this time, just to hear the hitch in his breathing. She puts the book down. Leans forward, foot jouncing, elbow on her knee, chin in hand. "Tell you what," she says. "How about I provide you a visual aid."
