You sit naked in the chair and stare up at me in my black pencil skirt and fitted white button-down blouse. Your eyes drop down to the 6-inch black stilettos and silk-stocking-clad legs.
“You’re not allowed to touch your cock. I don’t even want to see you start to reach for it.”
I lean over, letting you gaze down my blouse while I wrap my lubed fingers around your rigid prick. After just a few slow strokes, my hand slips away and you gasp. Your hand twitches.
“Don’t do it. Don’t you dare reach for it,” I whisper next to your ear as I slowly run a single slick finger over the head of your cock and down the shaft.
That single finger continues to slide up and down your cock, teasing it, tormenting you. Your hands are just inches from it and you haven’t cum in weeks. You’re sure if you just grabbed and jerked it, you’d be able to cum in seconds. You ache for sweet relief.
But you resist. You fight that urge with every ounce of self-control you can muster, just to please me. Because if you do as your told, I might keep touching you and even though you know I will relentlessly tease you, my touch is exquisite. You’ll do anything to get it, even give up that orgasm you crave more than almost everything.
Everything, that is, except…