You belong to him.
I already know that you’ll dispute that assertion, but before you speak, consider the logic. It’s unassailable. I am here, and he is there. The geometry binding our invisible triumvirate is undeniable. The triangle is isosceles in form, and I am the point that’s ten thousand miles distant from the base that the two of you share.
Yes: you belong to him.
So yield to that knowledge, and satiate the hunger that’s gnawed at your belly since your first meeting. It’s time to draw a veil over all the flirtation, the coquettishness. Don’t waste seconds that you can saturate with sensuality and sensation. Draw him in. Intoxicate him with the taste of your full mouth. Meld your lips with his, and guide his hands to your impudent breasts as your heart begins to race. Meet his loins with your own, and relish the hardness you have wrought. Sway back and forth against his maleness, until he can’t stop himself from cupping your taut derriere and pulling you as close as he possibly can.
Can you feel his hands upon you, moulding your flesh to his powerful grip, heating your skin, igniting the nerve endings that lie beneath? Feel his fingers moving deftly to the buttons of your blouse, to the fastenings of your skirt, releasing them with practiced ease, guiding them from your shoulders, from your hips. Just let it happen. Surrender, and glory in the realisation that you are almost naked, save for the scant cotton and lace of your lingerie.
Will your capitulation be complete, I wonder? Will you allow yourself to be guided back against the double bed, watching and waiting as he divests himself of his own clothes, impatient for him to come to you, naked and hard, his hands reaching out to remove your brassiere and panties? Will you permit him to splay your thighs, to fit himself between them as he kisses you, caresses you, makes you come and then claims your cunt ... or will you reject such passivity, stand your ground, eager and proud? Will you remove his clothes for yourself, your excitement growing with every second that passes, with every garment that falls? Will your liquid blue gaze hold his eyes as you strip him, as you render him naked, as you finally reach for his hardness? Will you shiver with anticipation as you entwine your slender fingers about him?
Will your sex quiver expectantly, a soft torrent of nectar slickening the silk for the new invader?
I think it will.
I think it will.
Active and passive: the two natures of a sensual woman. When that choice finishes spinning in your gleaming eyes, which side will be facing up? Which woman will he taste, I wonder?
Not that it really matters.
Either way, he will win gloriously.